I love that feeling.

Today (my day off, so to speak) was going to be spent sleeping, but since sleeping is all that I've done the entire weekend, I've decided that today will be a productive day. My goals:

1) Wash my clothes.

2) Fold my clothes.

3) Put my clothes away.

(For anyone who hasn't caught on yet, those three tasks which are generally viewed as equal steps of the laundering process are not necessarily related in my terms and do not generally follow one another in any specific order. The folding and the putting away rarely even take place.)

4) Wash the sheets.

5) Put them back on the bed.

(Once again, things that seem like they should go hand in hand must be listed separately because I am a lazy piece of shit.)

6) Clean my room.

7) Physically liquidate the spiders in the corners of the room.

8) Write the Shakespeare paper that is already two or three days late. (I'm blaming that one on Bridget)

9) Write the paper on the Communist Manifesto that was supposed to be due today.

10) Finish my half of the lab report for Physics.

11) Gorge on Easter dinner leftovers.

12) Restrain myself from eating too much of my younger siblings Easter candy.

13) Try to catch the new Tegan and Sara video.

Obviously things get less productive as the list continues. I actually have to drag my ass to school to pick up some shit so that I can get my homework done. [growl] I am so fucking sick of school I . . . I . . . I . . . can't even put my disgust into words.

Bridget told me that she didn't want high school to end and that she was absolutely certain that she would cry during graduation and that she's afraid to leave town. What the fuck? Why is it that the only one who gets to leave doesn't want to? I think this fucking school and all of the idiots within its prison walls can kiss my ass. Good riddance. I don't think that I have ever been so happy to be done with something in my life.

And the "greatest" part about it is that in three or four years, I'll be right back there to do my student teaching bullshit. Hopefully since I'll be a bit removed and there for a totally different purpose, I won't spend the entire time feeling like I need to beat my head against the goddamn wall.

I snapped during dinner last night and told my father to "suck my dick." It slipped, or it was provoked, I'm not sure. Either way, it wasn't good and I feel bad about it. My brother was being an idiot and I kept telling him to calm the fuck down and he wouldn't. So finally I told him that he had no idea how close I was to killing someone and that he had better shut the fuck up or I would kick his ass. (That really isn't unusual during one of our family dinners. Someone generally gets the "I'll kick your ass" threat and it doesn't always come from me.) At that point, my dad said to my brother, "It's at this point during the month when we men have to really watch our step in this house." To which I replied "Fuck you." (Once again, not unusual.) At which point my dad turned to my brother laughing and said, "See what I mean?" And so, at a loss for all other words and feeling incredibly violent I burned him with the fiercest death stare I could muster and let it fly: "Oh suck my dick."

Yeah, he didn't really know what to say either.

It's not that hard. He knows that there is nothing that I hate more than the PMS comments and the very least that he could do is respect that. It's a nice, neat way of sweeping unpleasant displays of female emotion under the rug and that's exactly what he was doing. No, Dad, I'm not legitimately pissed off because you're emotionally unstable and this entire family is dysfunctional and needy and I resent being here. I'm not legitimately pissed off because you keep trying to make me wallow in your self-pity. I'm not legitimately pissed off because I don't know who the fuck you are anymore or why the hell it is that you can't get your shit together. You're right. I'm just hormonal. It's just that time of the month when I'm neither ovulating nor menstruating, but I still have PMS. It's a good thing that you're a big, bad, hormone-free man who is certainly never moody or irrational.

I hate my dad right now. And quite frankly, I was closer to kicking his ass than I was to taking out my brother.

Lately my dad has been alternating between the times when he decides to act like a hyperactive ten year old and when he sits around and does nothing but whine. He has not stable, middle ground. And everytime I try to point out one of his flaws, he has some elaborate way of putting it someone else and making 5,000 excuses for himself because he's never done anything wrong. He's just the victim. And I bought that shit for years, but I don't anymore. And I am really fucking sick of it. I'm not here to cater to his self-imposed misery.

He is more moody and irrational everyday than most women are before they start bleeding.

My uncle makes the PMS comments all the time too. Fucker. I hate that man. I'm surprised that I even used the word uncle, because I generally refer to him as my aunt's husband. The husband that she needs to leave. I keep trying to explain to all these idiot men who think they have the whole world figured out that I don't even get PMS, but since they don't even know what the fuck PMS really is (beyond the fact that it makes for a really good excuse) they think it's an inherent thing for every woman.

Of course, it doesn't help when you have girls like Erica who do nothing but bitch and moan when they're bleeding and refuse to eat, or move for that matter, and just sit around and mope. Take some fucking ibuprofen. Jesus Christ. It's not that hard and it's not like it's just going to disappear so you better fucking learn to deal with it. I have a hard time sympathizing with period whiners. Tampons and ibuprofen. Sounds pretty fucking simple to me. Stop bringing the rest of us down.

"It ain't no hassle, it ain't no mess/ Right now it's the only power that I possess."

- The ever lovely Ani D. from "Blood in the Boardroom"

I woke up this morning at seven, roused by a dream that I had about Bridget and now I can't remember anything about it other than the fact that it made me hurt a little bit right in the center of my chest. So I think it's safe to say that in the dream, she wasn't loving me. Whatever.

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