Identity Crisis & Girl Parts Suck.

Food:

  • Honeynut Cheerios w/ 1% milk, Coffee w/ creamer
  • Apple, Greek yogurt w/ fruit and granola
  • Natural peanut butter, simply fruit cherry jelly on wheat sammie, milk, tangelo, banana
  • 1% cottage cheese, triscuits w/ salmon and reduced fat cream cheese
  • Organic baby lettuces salad with honey mustard, some leftover casserole/quinoa, and a blueberry pomegranate seltzer water mocktail.  That’s right: no alcohol for this PMS’er.

Exercise:

  • Begrudgingly walked Reilly a mile or so
  • Practice

Almost didn’t go to practice last night.  Turns out it would have been a good skip night.  No trainer and no one showed up late.  Ugh.  Tia took charge, and that was great, but there were just too many cooks in the kitchen.  Plus people (me included) explaining stuff who weren’t qualified to be explaining it.  That’s irritating.  But when they then take the extra step and try to correct me…  *shudders.*  If it’s a discussion of “I thought we were supposed to x, y, z?” That’s one thing.  When it’s “you’re not ____ing” (& it’s clear they have no business bossing)  Rage.  Serious Hulk Menace.  There’s a reason I rock green.  So practice was alright.  I am glad I went b/c if I hadn’t, I’d have sat on my ass.

Girl parts.  They suck.  Fuck.   As TBT has gone on, my digestive issues have resolved themselves, and I’m not even taking the pills the doctor gave me.  The healthy food is not only helping me slim down a bit, I feel more energized at practice, and I don’t have constant diarrhea.  (Sorry girls.)  Enter the week of EPiC rage.  *creepy creeky door opening sound effect.*  I am seriously a raging bitch.  I can feel the lightning bolts escaping my eyes.  The steam pouring from my ears.  But I can’t contain the Hulk Menace.  It comes out.  RAWWWR. Driving is interesting.  Why does everyone drive shittier on Sundays and Rage Week?  I mean seriously.  I’m on the highway and there are cars in front of me in all three lanes going 50mph.  Really?  Aside from the monster-attacks, I also am having digestive issues.  My tummy hurts and I’m sick of it.

As if I’m being somehow cruelly tested, on top of hyper-sensitivity to annoyances and an upset stomach…  my skates are literally in the snail mail.  If I were a Hood, that would make sense.  I am not a Hood.  I am a Pummeler.  Go USPS.  Let’s go Postal.  So why the fuck is the mail version of the USPS taking so fucking long with my fucking skates.  FUCK.  They arrived, from Australia, in Canada, on Friday. They were mounted and mailed the same day (9-14.) Thank you, Rollergirl.ca, for understanding the importance of a speedy turnover.  They are  being shipped via “Expedited USA.”  Canada Mail got them to San Fran by 9-15, where the USPS took over, and… … … … … nothing happened.  No updates.  No skates.  w. t. FUCK.  So.  I called them.  You wanna talk about a crazy fucked up automated teller system.  Literally none of the options applied to me.  And when I pressed “0” a hundred times, it hung up on me.  Did the same thing when I yelled “OPERATOR!!!” at it 50x.  I tried sending an email.  You must select from like five drop down menus before you can type something, and then they want your address.  I’m not giving them my address with a complaint.  Then they’ll fuck up my mail all the damn time.  Newman.  Damn.  Then I tried calling the Castle Rock branch.  Stupid number was out of service.  M’er F’er.  I temporarily gave up to attend practice and sleep.

I woke up this morning to see they have been processed through and left Denver.  And I feel nothing.  No joy.  Just numbness.  This tells me Rage Week is nearing it’s culmination.  Which should be good, but it just means I’ll have worse diarrhea and to top it off my vagina will start vomiting blood and mucus.  (So glad you’re reading this, eh?) Also, because I have a chhfdsdfs-ectomy next week Friday, I can’t wear tampons.  Fucking awesome.  I get to rock a diaper.  Yay.

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