Mother Syndrome ugly attacks

One morning you wake up and revolt, abdominal tension, pain, painful, generalized bad mood ... How can I boot to walk, thinking they do not want to be here but you do not want to be anywhere else. The sounds bother you, the light bothers you, you yourself uncomfortable. Look at the walls of your room and you're thinking what kind of bullshit reasoning supine puddles you the day you decided to paint it that color. And those pillows? Do you kidding? If you do not make them uglier ...

You walk into the bathroom and the ratios of hysteria blow you shoot to fill the entire halogen ceiling fallen rubble. You only see dark circles, curly hair, gray skin and a big red pimple like a chicken's head, located equidistant between the eyes. Weighing cabrearte mourn but prefer that it is much more dignified and socially acceptable.

The shower does not improve the situation one iota, not even your hair, which once seemed a brush and now an accumulation of algae that will drip without grace no shoulders. Maybe if you had not been thirty-two minutes in the shower with the mask on, thinking about what you are holding it tight desgraciadita tó , now have your hair more body and you a little more zest for life.

Dressing is an ordeal. When you go for the tenth set on the floor, you go for white pants year that make you cough a cartridge such as melons and add a similar shirt that transforms you mysteriously faded melons in Paraguay. Result. You get to mourn. Now it is.

In this manner the landing salts, giving body and soul to the devil in order to not find any neighbor, when you land on bass and opens the door EVB (The neighbor fucking sexy) Embarrassed, the cervix and accelerate lean to Zinedine Zidane , as if to ram the EVB chest, but in full view you break your feet and you realize just how long have you been chipped nails and how much you have grown hair on the legs from the last time I looked at the. With both absorption stumble and fall. It was predictable in that pose.

It takes just ten minutes to find your parking space within your own building. Leaving you give a blow to the wheel drive or files on the sidewalk, which will most readily caught. Change the way to work twenty-seven times the station because you do not like any of the songs they make. As you get bored, call Husband and argue with him. For whatever reason, it is not fussy and plan to get crazy looking for a reason. On the radio sounds a little Mana, and although the song is terrifying, to you it is the hair stands on end as if the steering arms give cramp. And you cry. A lot.

You get to gigs with mascara and a huge win that pot will fall directly on the occiput. In the path from the parking to the door of the building reproduces the conversation mentally weak and quietly, keep your head from the ambulance . Juan, please call my husband and tell him I love him and get close to that step three-hour meeting to which I had sent for to you do not feel like shit. Thank you. The dramatic vein that comes over you now in full swing, yes, so run, run to catch you.

The morning passes slowly without a single positive point to mention that, so instead of eating with some friends at a nice restaurant and enjoy life, you decide autoflagelarte by buying a sandwich at the bar downstairs to eat cabreadísima on the computer. As everyone has gone to eat, call Husband and argue with him.

The evening does not improve. The legs are swollen and you gut hurts so bad you think you're going to give birth to twins in front of the photocopier in three, two, one ... You hit the fourth dose of ibuprofen a day at the risk of your teammates you enter in Project Man. Your ovaries will dominate the cuerpontero and you do not feel like nothin more than to die!

At six decide to go home as mourners crying because one of your teammates you have looked bad for the aisle or not you have copied in an email, which means he hates you and against your person conspires to make the rest of world hates you too deeply. If anyone asks, never explain the reason for your tears because it will feel with certain mental retardation. And in the office with those things have to be very eyes.

On the way home arguing with three cars, two motorcycles and a bystander who dares to cross a zebra crossing to the wild disrupting the tranquility of your ride. You take out the head out the window and very dignified woman told him that his time lying in that bed-sharing love with his best friend. The scene is observed from afar by a Municipal knows not whether to stop or send you exorcise.

When your kids come home in the park with Lanana but instead of going through there, as would the good mother, decides to go home to continue drinking or mourning with premeditation macaroni with sausage left over from yesterday's dinner. You feel very guilty for not having gone to the park but skip the scheme is a degree ranking "feelies blamed" so you sit quietly on the couch to slap up bath time. That moment, once idyllic and full of pampering mother-son, it is impossible to cope with this kidney pain, fluid retention and is this monumental anger against humanity, so hipogritos hurricane growls and spears, while your kids will stare and think ¿... Mother, are you there? ...

Husband gets half an hour after you and even go stealth to make no noise to bother you, you detect and argue with him.

At ten p.m. think you've had enough emotional crisis for a day and you get under the covers in the fetal position, remembering the taste of Filipinos as you saw Candy Candy. You cry thinking about what happened to Miss Penny and Anthony and Archibald and Little Annie and immediately fall asleep hoping tomorrow hormones let you go back to being a person and not an angry version of caffeine and past Mss. Hyde.

Honestly, folks, I think we should validate Lasmadres this Premenstrual Syndrome would not have to suffer anymore ever all the days of our lives. Obviously based on contractions, pushing, scissors, varicose veins, mastitis, stretch marks and stitches, we would have won handsomely. That's enough of a joke.