Grumpy Old Men

The worst part about this whole PMS process (for me) is the part when I get so depressed I could vomit. Suddenly I'm on this nauseating boat ride for hours...days....that viciously rocks me into a delirious frenzy, only to leave me wasted: ship-wrecked on a deserted island where there is no iron, no chocolate, and no love. Usually, I scoff at the cliche notion of writing anything that could be considered even remotely cult female (spare me the vagina monologues please). However, under today's trying circumstances, my monologue goes more like this: you can blow me, I'm writing about this shit.

This rant is more than just a symptom of erratic hormones. It's a selfish blog, functioning as relief for my currently chaotic mental temperament that can't seem to get a clear thought out in one piece. Fucking focus! If I could somehow master this inner bitch I could probably write a better-selling novel. Unfortunately, due to the increasingly dramatic seasickness, I will throw up on my blog spot instead.

Worse than a grumpy young woman in the midst of her cycle...are the tragically jaded older men she chooses to hang out with. There once was a time when I completely adored 30-something guys. They were like really cool cowboys: curiously intoxicating with their faded denim, Marlboro smokes, and tall tales of a lifetime on the range. They enticingly held an album of bad habits I had never heard of before, worked with a far more extensive back stock of historical reference than their twenty-something competitors, and sported the sobering realism to go with it all. It was sexy, and I was hooked.

Now, as I creep toward 30 myself, their tall tales are reading more like sad stories. Pathetic stories told by broken-down donkeys that used to be race-horses: chewing hay and remembering the good old days when they were actually datable, lovable, and romantically inspired. It seems their dysfunctional hearts are suffering from too many years of the rugged lifestyle, and their realism reeks like a bad past...rotting in the garbage. I'm starting to question if these refined, seasoned, worldly fellows aren't much more than discount antique dudes, who are in desperate need of big fat doses of Viagra for their souls.

It's too bad really. Somewhere along the relationship time-line, feelings have become prohibited to the brink of extinction (a problem that I believe to be an unfortunate side-effect of the grossly epidemic hipster movement), and nobody dares to give a shit. Nobody except the grumpy young women who are left to attempt the bold task of piecing the world back together. We do our yoga, we write our blogs, fuck we even compost...in order to "find ourselves" and make life a safe, emotionally sound, drama-free environment where love is welcome and real. Then some misfit cowboy comes along, shits on our little parade of hopeful possibility, and reminds us once again...that it's not cool to care.

Perhaps, in an effort to stop the cycle of flakiness, I should give up one of my own bad habits: attractive ex-wranglers who've lost their mojo for life. It's enough to put up with myself...my grumbling, whiny, irritable self for a whole miserable week and then bleed painfully. Just the thought of tolerating mouthfuls of dusty drama dished by burned-out storytellers is simply too much to stomach for the afflicted female, with her own rock star fairy-tale to live through, survive, and be jaded over in my 30s.

Maybe I will just write about cows.