Emotional Rollercoaster

I'm on it. It's brutal and relentless. Relentless in its brutality to be more precise. This has got to be the longest bout of PMS I've ever had. My ex-boyfriend who I'll see in London this weekend has been privy to the emotional outbursts and both of us have been praying for its end. Not since a pregnancy scare in college have I been more obsessed with starting. For the boy readers, I'm sorry for the TMI but keep reading and soon you'll be reveling in my misery. Or not. SEE IF I FUCKING CARE YOU INSENSITIVE PRICKS! OK, see what I mean? My ex does. In an email yesterday he likened the wait to "watching for smoke at the Vatican." Seriously.

For those of you blessed with the disposition or chemical make-up that insulates you from this nightmare, let me spell it out for you. IT SUCKS. I am nothing short of a complete basket case. Last week, I broke down in tears to Vani when she called before drinks in the West Village. "I shouldn't be getting ready to go out," I wailed, "I should be tucking my kids in!" The sweater that represents my emotional equilibrium has been slowly unravelling since then.

More than ever, perception is reality, and I have no perspective right now. Before my roommate left for London I yelled at her for fast forwarding the DVR too much. "It's a commercial," she reasoned. "I LIKE that fucking commercial!" Needless to say, she couldn't wait to get on the plane. Last night, I wept, WEPT as I watched one reality show after another. First as Jordin sang "This is my Now" which I rewound so I could cry again- all aboard the crazy train! Then, I bawled when I watched the Dancing With Stars finale as they replayed the waltz Laila Ali dedicated to her father. OK, those are arguably sentimental examples but here's one that's not: The Lot. It's the new reality show were budding filmmakers get their shot at a job at DreamWorks. This was the pilot episode. When a young Muslim filmmaker choked during his first pitch to Hollywood elite and cried, so did yours truly.

Are you bored? Tough shit, there's more. Tonight at dinner, I got choked up again as I told my friend who is NOT a fan of American Idol about Jordin's song. To make matters worse, I've got a looming deadline to judge I don't know how many fucking entries for the New York Press Club awards. And one of the categories I'm judging are the News Specials. I wailed, no I'm not exaggerating, as I watched a story about Christmas in Iraq and another entry on The Spirit of New York. The former is self-explanatory- soldiers away from families. The latter was a series of reports about the five year anniversary of 9/11. Children who lost fathers and parents who lost children triggered a deluge of tears. I'm exhausted. I'm an emotionally drained histrionic woman who needs a straight jacket or that new pill the FDA just approved. Or maybe I'll just let the Methodists kill me (reference to pic Sanky sent).I'm going to cry myself to sleep now for no particular reason.

Speechless

I don't have time. No time to pee, no time for lunch. Plus, I have the tell tale signs of a horrid sinus infection because I've allowed my allergies to wreak havoc. But I have to make a record of this.

Have you ever gotten so mad that the ability to articulate obscenities eludes you? My friend Kelley once called someone a "shit ball" which amused me to no end. But I think that was just topped by my boss who was so consumed with hatred for a PR manager, that her face contorted in hate as she attempted to express herself. After sending a giant attachment of pointless "message points" and having us embark on a script outline, she sent us everything we needed in one succinct document. She called me into her office. "This, this FUCK BITCH just sent what you needed!" I'm still laughing.