Hor-moans

In the words of the legendary Tammy Wynette “sometimes it’s hard to be a woman” and those times are normally brought about by a cataclysmic collision of hormones, emotions and misbehaving boyshapes. On the whole, the two chaps I live with (the Good Doctor is exempt from this petit rant) are pretty good, sure they don’t really “get” my girlie obsession with shoes, handbags or anything sparkly and they thought that my very beautiful “last days of disco” esque sunglasses make me look like a mole but compared to some chaps out there they are positively dreamy however just like all good things there are times when I want to murder them and make things out of their carcasses. Anyone fancy a computer geek skin handbag? Or a physics geek skin bedside lamp? I’ll even inject them with Botox like they do with those super expensive Zagliani python bags. It’s a bit of a cop out to blame my hormones for my hor-moans but that’s my story and I am sticking to it. Tonight’s misdemeanour? Being a pair of crapbags and sodding off for a night on the beers leaving me home alone on a Friday night like chopped liver. Before they left I made sure they knew that they were on my “lump of coal” list by stomping about, calling them crapbags and generally acting like a 4 year old smacked up on E numbers. Yes ladies and gents I really am that mature…

In an effort to “learn from my experiences” (a phrase I always hear in my head as being said in some weird faux Yankee middle management Lloyd Grossman style drawl) I had to do some introspection last attempted when I was incarcerated a the hands of the Priory. No, not the Priory of Scion, the actual coke snorting, tequila slammering, unsuitable man shagging, talk about your feeeeeelings LongTallAlly, rehab hospital. So why did I turn into a soggy eyed banshee in need of a good slap? I’ve recently (since losing a whole human persons worth of weight) discovered that after years of turning down social invitations for fear of being singled out as the fatty or being embroiled in a “Pull a Pig” competition, that I want to go out into town! I know I’ll never be a bar hopping dolly bird who goes clacking off to town every weekend come rain or shine in a peeny little skirt and no coat because I’m happiest in flats and don’t do “high maintenance” glamour but it would still be awesome to get out a bit more.
Once I’d hopped off my broom and put it back in the cupboard ready for next time I go hormonally intergalactic I did have the good grace to apologise rather sheepishly tail tucked firmly between my legs to the crapbags, ahem, I mean boys.

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