The force of my pre-menstrual rage could burn holes through walls and rend the flesh from your body. This morning I yelled at Madison, Mick Jagger’s voice, and stomped my feet like a petulant brat because my favorite hair-dryer is broken and I don’t like the back-up.

My unwarranted rage has no direction and is looking for a hapless victim. I stomped into work, frowny face in full force, and immediately put the headphones on. I dialed up The Lemonheads’ “Confetti” with the small hope that it would help alleviate some of this burn. So far it’s not working. I’m afraid only a bloody sacrifice in the form of human testes will cure me.