Well stop right there because YOU SHOULD CARE. And if you don't I will stab you with this shiv I have fashioned out of a tampon and make you listen to the Mamma Mia soundtrack on repeat until you scream bloody mercy, holy mother of god and all that is musical. Stop! You will beg, Fine! I will rub your feet and feed you Honey Smacks and sit on the floor so you can have the whole couch to yourself! And did I mention how fetching you look in that stained chenille bathrobe? When belted it does wonders for your waist.
Yup, I'm pretty damn sure that's what the blogisphere will say when they hear that I have PMS. Because they care. Because you care. Because this is my blog and if I thought for one second that nobody cared that I am on the verge of shedding my uterine lining then I would weep big racking sobs of despair, or worse, silent snively pathetic whimpers of solitude. Or snap at someone à la Jeff Gillooly in love. And then I would eat some string cheese because, you know, I have PMS.
And then? After I had eaten the contents of the fridge, picked at my pores in a magnifying mirror, tweezed my eyebrows and read Us Weekly? Then I would check out this website-- Detouching 10: Removing the Retouching from Airbrushed Celebs. The perfect cure for the common PMS. If ever this blog was in doubt of being chickcentric, this post settled the question. Off to eat the heads off of some chocolate-covered crickets. Enjoy!