How Miss Britt Copes

OK, so, moving on…

…and more specifically, I am.  “How?” you may ask…

How Miss Britt Gets Over…Anything, Really

Step 1 – Immediately go out and buy Stuff:

Anything really, it doesn’t matter.  Sunday I spent about $400 between Menard’s and Wal-Mart.  Somewhere between the chandelier, sandpaper, tampons and the greatest fucking lipstick in the entire world… I found my shell beginning to crack.

Step 2 – Did I mention the greatest fucking lipstick in the entire world?

Yeah.  Really.  I have spent YEARS searching for lipstick that stays on past my first morning smoke.  I’ve tried all the fancy schmancy shit and nothing has worked.  Until now.  I even tried taking a picture of my lips last night when I realized that they were STILL beautimous – but, well, they may have been beautimous but apparently they aren’t photoblog-worthy beautimous.  So.  Anyway…
Step 3 – “Of course you can give me a foot massage”

Yeah, like any girl in her right mind is going to turn that down.  Plus, I mean, my shell had been cracked already and he was hanging my new chandelier, and I was already a little giddy about the whole glorious lips thing.  And it was the best damn pedicure I’ve ever gotten – free or otherwise.

Step 4 – A heartfelt “You’re my everything, baby”

*sigh* OK.  Hmm.  When you say it like that, all sincere and genuine and yet still somehow grown up and mature and not all creepy teenage boy… well, mmm, eh, what was I mad about again?

Step 5 – (fellas, plug your ears… or uh… close your eyes if you get all wierd about periods and whatnot)  Yeah.  It finally started.

Uh huh.  All that other shit aside, nothing takes away the angry haze like the END of PMS.

(Which reminds me, I need a kick ass word to describe it like Garbage Week.  I hate it when the good pseudonyms are fucking taken.)

Anyway… yeah… so… it is maybe a tiny bit possible that what would have usually inspired a ticked off “look” and a “you’re fucking kidding me, right? are you out of your damn mind?”… well, when fueled by the fires of hell that are PMS, umm… maybe could have lead to a more “intense” response.  I mean, I was still ticked and definitely earned the apology I received – but one retarded ass mistake does not change everything I know to be true about a man.  Well, unless you’ve got PMS.

So anyway, I’m good.  My chandelier is wonderful, my lips are luciously tinted, and my husband is probably wondering how in the hell he managed to find himself married to such an instable, mood swinging psycho – but right now he’s too scared to wonder aloud.

Ah… peace.

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