Temper, temper

I am not in a mood to be antagonised today.

I have been in an absolutely foul mood since Sunday for a variety of reasons, chief being a bad bout of PMS which has utterly messed up my hormones and turned my state of mind upside down. In fact, I've rarely had PMS so bad. Some people may beg to differ and insist that I'm temperamental most of the time anyway, but besides the haywire temperament this month's PMS has brought with it the full works.

I went to Hanabi at Odeon Towers with Jessie and our colleague C on Sunday, and had a fabulous buffet where we gorged ourselves on wonderfully fresh sashimi, tender morsels of beef grilled to perfection, succulent salmon steaks and a lot more besides. We literally ate ourselves silly that day. But the next day I woke up feeling bloated and out of sorts and decided to weigh myself.

I'd put on 2 kg. *crash bang boom*

I was horrified. Don't ask me why, since my mood was already foul and I could feel that my temper was getting unstable, but it never occurred to me to blame the weight gain and bloating on PMS. I just thought I was putting back all the weight I'd painstakingly lost and decided to do something very stupid, despite sniffling all day in the office and feeling the unmistakeable signs of a flu coming on.

I went jogging in the rain that night. *crash bang boom*

And obviously, I woke up sick the next day and ended up being on MC for 2 days. Believe me, being ill and PMS-ing at the same time is not a good combination. Half the time you want to kill someone, while the other half is spent fantasising about various ways to kill yourself.

Things did not get better today when I dragged my doped-up, drowsy arse back to the office and found my email inbox stuffed with 53 unread mails. To add on to my frustrations, our office's resident Mr. Incompetent (who shall remain unnamed) fucked up - and I mean literally fucked up - one of my cases, which was only rectified when I went straight to the big boss whom Mr. Incompetent is terrified of and whose ass he licks every hour.

It almost, but thankfully not quite, caused problems between me and my buddy colleague R as R thought at first that it was my fault, until we figured out that the problem was caused by a new staff who was a little confused about protocol and which was exacerbated by Mr. Incompetent sitting around on his ass not doing anything to fix the mistake for a month. Apparently he thinks R is psychic because he didn't give R any instructions to process what I needed; he assumed R somehow read my mind, got wind of the case and went to fix it.

My foul mood did not improve when D said to me, "Sheena, you're damn slow and bimbotic today."

Bimbotic?! I wanted to scream at the creep. I am probably one of the smartest, most intellectual, well-spoken, eloquent, and most intelligent specimen of the genus female this arse would ever have the good fortune to know, and he calls me bimbotic! Jesus, I'm doped up on cough and flu medicine and I admit have slightly slower reflexes and limited brain power, but still, I am still intellectually superior to that bozo!

And I am most certainly not a bimbo!

I turned and gave him a look that, if looks could kill, would have vapourised him into a cold mist by now and said tartly, "D, I am not in a mood to be antagonised today."

I swear, he took 2 steps back before gulping and nodding, which made me feel a little better about my disgusting day.

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Everything pisses me off now. Including, and especially, Newcastle.

The whole damn managerial merry-go-round at that club has degenerated into a farcical circus. Sacking Sam Allardyce, whom in my opinion is a decent manager, 21 games into the season was shocking in itself. It took Sir Alex Ferguson 3 years to win anything at Manchester United, and look where the club is now thanks to the board's patience. The whole sacking of Allardyce, and the entire crazy plucking of names out of a hat to fill the hot seat (all sorts of names were thrown out, from Alan Shearer to Gerard Houllier to Jose Mourinho, who probably laughed himself into a haemorrhage at the very thought of managing a club like Newcastle), made the club into a great big joke.

And now they have brought back the same man who walked out on the club 11 years ago because of his frustration at blowing a 12-point lead and losing the title to Man Utd. And this same man is being hailed as a Messiah by the Toon Army.

Seriously, unlike Jesus, I doubt Kevin Keegan can pull off much of a miracle, at least not at this stage of the season. And in the words of the man himself, I'd "love it, bloody love it" if we beat the shit out of them again, just to show them that chopping and changing managers every half a season isn't going to do a destabilised club any good.

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Do I have a huge neon sign on my forehead that blazes: "Only for fun/tug-of-war/cold storage"? The last time I looked in the mirror, the answer was no.

So why in the name of fuck am I being treated like a fun toy who is only good enough to be used as a weapon in a tug-of-war, or to be put aside in cold storage until whoever it is that stuffed me away has played enough and decided that I am the one he wants after all?

Creep No. 1, make up your damn mind about me. I am too young to be put into cold storage and too pissed off to put up with any more of your mind games. And since you either have no intention of doing anything about me, or are too stupid to know what to do about me, let me tell you the first thing you should be doing: do not get pissed off when you find out I'm going out with another guy.

Creeps No. 2 and 3, duke it out among yourselves first if you want, but don't embarrass yourselves by fighting in front of me. I am turned off enough to walk away from both of you.

Creep No. 4, I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but when will you get it into your head that I am not a fucking rebound and that I'm sick and tired of hearing about your ex-girlfriend?

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Another shitty thing about PMS, besides the wild mood swings and the bloating, is that I am hungry. Constantly.

This obviously has worked wonders for my diet and exercise routine which I have been sweating buckets over.

I'm not only hungry all the time, I'm craving comfort food like rich, creamy pastas, cheese-oozing pizzas, bread slathered with Nutella, and for some odd reason, rice topped with an entire can of baked beans.

Sometimes I'm so hungry, I feel like I could eat the entire list of food above in one sitting. Trust me, it takes every ounce of whatever willpower I have (already pared to an all-time low because of my bad mood) to meekly stick to my yong tau foo or fishball noodles during lunchtime instead of ordering chicken pie, croissants, garlic beef and fried fish with rice, and beef stew, and scarfing it all down.

The only thing holding me back is imagining the horrified look on D's face as I stuff my fat face full to the brim. He may be Creep No. 1, in more ways than one, but he's good for some things.

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School is starting next week and I have a grand total of 11 essays to pia for this semester. Joy and glory.

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I am going to sit and stew and sulk and pout for the next one week until my period comes and my PMS eases up. In the meantime, I will be going around constantly with what R and C call my "ham bao" (Cantonese for crybaby) face. Put up with it, dolts.

If anything makes me feel better, it's that my ham bao face looks cute, and sounds cute too.

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In honour of my foul mood, I just wrote a poem (aha! Haven't seen my poems up on my blog for ages, have you? I think the last time I put my poems up on my blog was like way back in 2004). This poem is probably the darkest, creepiest, most depressing, and most morbid I've written in a long, long while. I used to think one of my other poems, Her Long Wait, was depressing and dark and morbid (go rummage through my archives for it yourself; I am in too foul a mood to bother searching), but boy, this one took my foul mood and depressed thoughts and turned it into stark tangible reality.

To illustrate, the name of the poem is Bleeding Blood. Morbid enough for you? Good.

I'm not posting it on my blog, for fear of people laughing at it. No, serious! I am not in a mood to be antagonised. Least of all by idiots who will laugh at the idea of foul-mouthed, uncouth me penning poems when I'm feeling down (which I really do have a habit of doing; it's a throwback to my Literature days in JC), and then to make things worse, laugh at my poem.

And it will probably give you graphic nightmares, so in the interest of all, I'm keeping it close to my chest and displaying only upon request. So there, put up with it. *ham bao face*