(no subject)

You know those days. Those days when you wake up, and you're tired and irritable and you didn't sleep well, and your stomach feels like someone's been driving foot-long iron nails through your skin and right into your lower back, and it hurts to move, and you don't want to see anyone or have to be even the vaguest bit pleasant to anyone, and then you walk out of the apartment and the construction workers stop working to stare at any bit of skin showing, and all you can think of is that most males deserve a good swift kick in the balls Every. Single. Month, simply because they don't have to put up with this profound indignity, and because they think it's cooler to send a guy on the moon than it is to find something that'll stop menstruation until it becomes somewhat useful (like, oh say, when we turn 30 and think we might eventually want to spawn)? Yeah. Well. I'm so there.

On the plus side, I made peach pie, and it smells absolutely wonderful. Has a side effect of making me slightly less homicidal, which, yay.