My glorious 20s have thus far taught me that the best way to win, tax-free, in any predicament, is to blame it all on PMS.
The rest is just commentary.
If everyone knew how to properly execute this golden excuse there wouldn’t be any more detention, marital strife, or Nicholas Sparks novels. Unfortunately this arbitration technique must be broken down into detail, and I guess I’ll be the martyr to painstakingly do it.
How to apply “I’m sorry, I’m PMS-ing” to get out of any scenario:
-Your boyfriend misses your call. You proceed to get both angry and irate simultaneously, which builds into a tsunami of rage. He gets out of the shower to call you back and you unleash the wrath of hell on him, calling him a cheating, selfish, dickface a$$hole. He explains that he was just taking a sh*t. You let out a soft sob, and meekly ask him to pick up tampons on his way over. The entire thing is shelved.
-Your mom comes into town. You haven’t seen her in nearly 5 years since you moved 3,000 miles away, soon after depleting her savings to send you to school. She comments on the dust mites in your apartment, and you let loose a 2500-word stream of consciousness about how your inadequate childhood has brought you to this exact point in time, to your inability to let anyone close to your traumatized heart. Your mom takes a moment, looks around to check if anyone else witnessed the overacting, then politely comments on how hurt she is, and how confused she feels about your tantrum. You heave a heavy sigh, ask her if she has any Motrin, and burst into tears. Mom nods with empathy and hands you a $20.
-Your boss walks into your 10 x 10 cubicle and asks for the overdue annual review. You look up, having been buried deep in bitch work for what seems like 30 years. His voice sounding like Fran Drescher being devoured by a pterodactyl. You reply with a very nasty I don’t have it. I don’t. I also don’t know who could finish up an annual review this quickly, without going insane from the boredom endured in the process. My people survived the Holocaust goddamit! Your boss stares at you, confused, lost, and mostly surprised at your nonsensical rationale. You ask him if there is any chocolate on the premises, and assume the fetal position. Your boss pats you on the back, and gives you a 30-day extension.
Even though PMS sucks when it’s actually happening, using your uterus as an excuse is a magical hall pass to being a raging bitch.
So next time you experience a difficult situation, don’t apologize, accept responsibility for your actions, or admit fault — just blame it on PMS.