It’s not PMS, it’s your f*****g face

We women are bloody funny. Actually, bloody every month and just sporadically funny. Even when women are being funny it's more a situational comedy-like funny than laugh-out-loud funny. Am I making sense? Of course not, that's also because I am a woman. We say one thing, believe another and could be thinking something totally different.
The politically correct term for it is multi-tasking. Right. Multi-tasking my arse. It can be downright painful I tell you, this ability (or handicap) of thinking three things at a time. Look what it did to Virginia Woolf. While it could cut down output levels -- think of a woman making a PowerPoint presentation while wondering what's for dinner and how she has to send a birthday card and looking at her chipped nail-polish as she types -- it also causes serious damage elsewhere. It makes women COMPLICATED.

Is it any wonder then that two XX chromosomes make a girl and an X-Y chromosome make a boy? Male chromosome = Y = WHY! And female is two crosses. Why am I going on about multitasking, genes and bloody months? Because either or all of the three are currently playing havoc with MANY really nice women/girls/chicks I personally know... All three combined never let us be at peace.

Like period cramps. Unlike a football injury, or a thumb-ache due to too much X-Box-ing or a backache due to sitting on the couch/bed watching TV or a car/bike accident, women don't have to DO anything for that pain. It also makes you moody as hell, which in turn negates any justifiable moodiness or other feelings you might have. She is angry with the boss? PMS. Crying in a movie? PMS. Doesn’t like her boyfriend sharing moments with his Ex? PMS. Doesn’t want to pay tax? PMS. No matter what the reason for a woman EMOTING, it’s become fashionable to say, “Ah, must be PMS.” No you fuck, it’s not PMS; it’s your fucking face. . (For the smart arses: Am not PMS-ing)

Then there’s not knowing what we really want OR if we get what we really want; we doubt it or our luck. Like first we wonder about whether we will meet Him. Then we wonder if He will love us, marry us. Then we marry Him and wonder if He will cheat on us. And if in the stages between meeting and marrying, He goes and dumps us; you’re looking at a lifetime of complicatedness. No matter HOW big a jerk a woman dated, somewhere deep down she will always wonder: Maybe it was my fault?

Like that Jocelyn Wildenstein who went in for drastic facial plastic surgery because she thought her husband was losing interest in her. She lost the husband, her marriage, her fucking face and is now the object of global ridicule. With due respect to every woman who EVER wondered about her man losing interest in her – shall remind myself of this as well – if you have THAT many doubts, don’t lose your face or your money, lose the guy. Yes you might be bitter and lonely for the rest of your life; you won’t be butt ugly.

If the bastard did not stand by you, HE didn’t have a spine. If he slept around, it was because HE could not keep his cock in his pants and NOT because you could not hold on to him (and he will have herpes sooner or later, let’s pray). If he does not like your cooking, let him stay with his mother. If he likes longer legs, let’s hope he finds those legs and then she cleans him out. And if one (two, three, four) boyfriend dumped you, does not mean that every man will. Just incase you DO have a good man in your life, stop blaming him for the other jerks you’ve known. It’s not easy for a man to be nice – nasty's in their nature – so when he's being good, appreciate it!

And since this is threatening to be a rather long post, am stopping here. Oh yes, DON’T read articles/ researches that say men like long legs. Or big boobs. Or low waist-to-hip ratio. There are equal and corresponding numbers of articles that will tell you that women DON’T like man-boobs, skinny thighs, hairy belly buttons or big paunches. And no, James ‘Toni Soprano’ Gandolfini is NO example. It’s a freaking TV show.

This poem is dedicated to all the women I know who for reasons best known to them – and at times to me – are constantly and WRONGFULLY doubting themselves.

Do you really love me Darling?
Am I a passing fad, just another fling?
A drunken fuck, or a moment's thing?

Don't judge me by swollen eyes, the runny nose
I look real hot with makeup and expensive clothes.

Gravity and wrinkles might slightly mar the view
But at least you'd be certain I won't run out on you.

I could be rude, might have a sharp tongue
Twas the wine I say; am not always high strung.

Don't think my cleavage means a lack of inhibition
I gotta keep up honey, there's young competition.

I don't have long legs or taut cheeks like plum
But gimme some credit, there's a spring in my bum.

And no I am not always into superficial looks,
I know current affairs and I know my books.

I can bake a cake and do a rare steak
And be ready in a moment, for you to take.

It's a lil daunting, to think am always on a test.
But baby till you love me, I'll always best the rest.

I know this poem sounds somewhat insecure,
It's just that being a woman, I am not always so sure.

So I constantly compare and end up sounding frantic
Not completely my fault, self-doubt is fucking genetic.