Every month I have an “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret moment”, in which I’m able to discern that I haven’t gone completely batty, but was solely on the verge of starting my period. I verbally refer to it as “lady time”. You would assume that by my age I’d be able to figure out the pattern, but I inevitably end up having a meltdown that looks like something from the show “My Super Sweet Sixteen” and contemplate abandoning this humor writing thing I do to write bad poetry about my feelings and listen to Ani DiFranco, while cutting my own hair.
On my commute to work this morning I started crying, at first because I was anxious and Monday mornings in general are lacking in charisma, but it evolved into blubbering, because I didn’t even know why I was really weeping in the first place. There’s nothing sadder than not knowing why you’re sad, because you…
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