Woe is me

Broke my favorite bowl tonight. Sat on the kitchen floor and wept hot, salty tears.

Didn't feel any better.

This is what PMS does to you. I probably would have cried anyway because I loved this Thing as much as any girl could love a Thing, but PMS makes this minor accident into a Monstrous Tragedy. It makes you wake up and look at your beloved with spite and bile. It fills you with unutterable woe, turning a long to-do list into a dark tunnel of despair. It makes me want to skip the writing group I have never been to because I have nothing prepared. It makes me see my child as an equal adversary, and I find myself arguing with him like I would a grown-up or like I am a child. It's like low-blood sugar hungry-angry* that persists for days on end and cannot be ameliorated with a granola bar.

Do I glue the bowl, and put stuff in it, this making it a reminder of my stupid klutziness, or do I throw it away? Do I bury it in the back yard complete with prepared words and black garb?

I may never eat cereal again.