A woman's life is a function of time

The enemy lies within. Specifically,Premenstrual Syndrome. You are content and almost victorious about the three weeks of rational,lucrative behaviour,and then comes week 4,vociferously demanding an entire chinese all-you-can-eat just so that the world adds up to some kind of meaning. You know exactly where to tell your dietetic holiness to go. You can see,feel,the tips of your toes and everything above it bloat with the kind of fluid that inhabits the stomachs of chicken carcasses,making it impossible to feel like you are movable. It is a fretful time when endocrinology conspires with biology and borrows shamelessly from history-both personal and evolutionary. Sometimes,if you are careful enough,you can almost see the droplets of progesterone clouding your eyesight and general judgement. The only salvation,indeed the goal,appears to be stability,in all probability to keep the chicken fluid from bursting out.

You are certain that all emotions can be suitably expressed with feral noises rather than words. You want to breastfeed a Kwashiorkered child from Tanzania ,then an even more deprived fully grown man from not that far away. You swear off hair removal for the rest of your life based on metaphysical reasonings,and take cathartic pleasure in revenge and organize related monologues. You crave large chunks of any dessert mushed with lemon juice and topped with dead,raw fish,and later fantasize about violent mutilation of several women. When you set out and get up to perform these acts,you burst into tears from the weight of the effort. Small children cower and wobble away stealthily upon your sight. Personal hygiene takes a backseat.

The rest of the three weeks are spent in recuperation and repair,and most of all,dread,because you are aware of the method of its unbureaucratic regularity,and because you cannot run away.

status-dramatic,pessimistic hyperbolic animal.