When PMS and trauma collide.

I promise that I shall deliver a packet of filth, debauchery and kinky sex-joy to you over the weekend. But for now, I inflict this...

I woke up at 7am to the sounds of building work. It had been a sleepless night, punctuated with dreams so weird and draining that even I could gain no joy from them. I eventually realised that I have a case of the monthly suicides. Thankfully, I do not get them every month. Some months are more potent than others. Sadly, it is more difficult to ride them out when already dealing with emotional turbulence.

I got up and decided to cart myself round to Alistair's early. I had reservations, because last night I left there on a "Oh, the futility" low. But then I realised that he would be at work, and she may very well be out on errands. Yes, I would be alone. I would get writings of essays done. The kind that I should be doing now. Hah! Foolish child, the universe laughs at you.

I arrived, climbed the stairs, and at the top was Alistair. He looked like someone had shot his puppy. Hmmm... actually, he is not that much of an animal person. He looked like he had just found out that his life has been a lie, and that in fact he is working class. Now, obviously, I am a bit sensitive and fragile right now. I don't get the angries, just the suicides. He was making breakfast, and it took him a while to think to offer me any. I asked him what was wrong, and he said "Life," which is his euphemism for "The ex and I have had another almighty dispute, and I am now languishing in despair... Why won't she love me and treat me right. If I just keep on scampering around at her feet, doing my best to dodge the kicks, she will love me eventually." It transpired that he had gone to bed late again, due to the fact that she refuses to go to bed early, and he refuses to go to bed without her. This was worsened by said almighty dispute before they hit the covers. As he was cooking, he phoned upstairs (two floors up) to offer her breakfast. I almost sicked up. I didn't ask what it was about, but I am sure it was one of the standards.

I felt my mood plummet further, so I decided to get the fuck out of there. There was an almost tangible storm cloud hovering above the place, she would be up soon, and I did not want to be around. I told him I would finish my coffee and go. He kept repeating that there was no need, and getting more and more tense. Though he was doing his utmost to restrain it, he seemed to be getting cross. Not in that scary grrrr kind of way, he never does that. He is more of a foot-stamping hmph prissy tantrum kind of guy. He kept muttering that nobody understands what he says. Essentially, she has upset him, and I was getting the fall-out in relation to this. I calmly informed him that as they had been fighting, they could do with the day to themselves, and of course, more muttering ensued about her not spending any time with him.

Sweet fucking bejeezus. Idiot boy. I know it is not part of "the game" to admit this, but what am I, scotch mist? I always make time for him, I always make him feel loved, I always try to make it better when he is sad. We both think it is a good thing to go to bed together and snuggle. I don't insult him, for example, calling him fat (which she does, and he really is not... I mean he is beautiful, and this is not a love is blind thing, many women are of my opinion.) They say that bad boys always get the girl, well it works both ways. Play the game, Maisie.

I am so fed up, I am inviting you, dear reader to suggest the next course of action. In fact, lets do that for every new entry. It will be like the SIMS, only even more perverse than the time when you bricked your character up in a windowless room until they shat themselves and died of starvation.