Dear Raging Hormones,
I understand that you are circulating my body for a very good reason. I understand that without you, my little schmooker wouldn't grow right and my body wouldn't be able to cope with her inside me.
But for the love of all things holy, would you mind settling down just a bit?
Because of you, I want to scream at things. Because of you, I want to chop people's heads off on a regular basis. Because of you, I want to cry about every tiny bothersome thing, and it's beginning to get just the slightest bit ridiculous.
Today, you nearly made me shout obscenities at a group of Fifth Year girls standing outside the disabled toilet. It wasn't their fault, assumably, that there were several schoolbags blocking the door, meaning that the school's disabled children wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting to the toilet if they needed it, but because they were the only people near the said bags, I wanted to shout my head off at them for not caring about other people, including their very own peers, and disobeying rules like 'Do not block the door with your bags' or even 'Do not leave your bags lying in the hall during break times'.
I also had absolutely zero interest in the fact that a pretty flower was sent to one of the girls in the office, and when she came in, excited about receiving them, I barely looked at her. Who cares about your dumb flowers? Who cares about 'Kenny' or whatever his name is. NOT ME.
Or rather, NOT MY HORMONES.
And because of you, I found myself crying in the nurse's station as I took a short rest during the day because I was so tired and probably should've gotten my blood tested for anemia so now I'm probably gonna die.
And then, you, in conjunction with the Royal Mail, had to totally screw up my afternoon, causing me to have to repackage my parcels TWICE and then in the car as well because one parcel was over 2kg and what's the big freaking deal, hmm? But I nearly threw the boxes of Christmas presents at the mail guy for telling it me it was going to be £50 to ship unless I repackaged them (again) into two separate packages. Gah!
So, dear hormones that are protecting my child and body, as much as I am indebited to you for all the work you are doing to keep me fit, I'd appreciate if you'd also take a moment to consider my sanity. And while you're at it, maybe you could lay off the tiredness?
And if you happen to see your friend, the Uterus, could you ask her to please stop contracting, and if you see your other friend, the Vagina, could you ask her to please stop with the whole making-me-waddle thing? It was cute at first; it's not cute anymore.