Treacle

PMS or post-menstrual syndrome? Well, it’s the other P for me - pre. Yeah, a week before you get the trickle of stickiness between your thighs or the matted touch to your vagina, you get the hints of an impending a well, well ‘spent’ days.

A battle on the premises of five minutes, a battle fought with renewed resistance every five minutes, I sleep on, a true controller of senses, sphincter and vagina muscles tucked in. I put the mute on busses rolling by; I merge shades of my sheet to blot out the sun; I put the stopper on the torrential tap thundering down plastic buckets down the corridor; I place a non-resonant glass in between me and my roomy who’s blow-drying her hair; I squiggle around and curl up like a foetus to win the biggest battle- the urge to pee and drain myself.

But like rodents, which make their way into the teeniest place inconspicuously and rampage you, my nose begins to itch. Somewhere I think we are predestined to do the things we do. Fate does play a role. Our genes have evolved to synthesize an accurate human being- my hand shoots up and scratches my nose. Very robotic I must say!

Now I’m plagued by conscience- yield to the warmness of the itch. No! Restrain! Restrain! Aah but Mephistopheles doth thwart me-*scratch scratch* the trapdoor opens and I slither into a runny nose.

Rudolph the red nose reindeer aint had no fun in a long while. Go figure!

The itch works its way into my heart and my head, disorienting me. Sneezes that garble my curses; the tingling sensation all over my face, which makes me erupt volcanic white foam with no effect on my teeth; the itch in my scalp leaves my fingers sebum-greased and faint hopes of no lice and no dandruff.

It seeps into my murky blues. To be precise I blend in with the gray of the drasted skies pinching me with drafts. I think it’s the cold but my legs go rigid and ache with every step. Visuals of nerves turning blue accost me and I stare blank into the white board with red veined eyes. Cold blasts nudge me. Ouch! My nipples perk. Yikes! Sleazy guys eyes will be frozen to one spot. The cold air seems to bloat my boobs. Every brush against them makes me wince. Purgatory- get teased and released. My day is damned!

Those are what you call symptoms. But there’s one more thing - the knife just aint plunged, it’s twisted. PMS makes you a sadistic, masochistic depressant.