Horrid day. Late to head out ’cause of wardrobe dysfunction. No time for new outfit. Ill-fitting tights prevent me from walking like a normal person and from thinking of anything other than ill-fitting tights. Remind me how unacceptable my-… overweightness… has become. Never cease to. Bathroom visit at every part of my morning route. Late to work, disgusted look from supposed superior. Ill-fitting tights keep movements limited throughout the day and force waddling at every bathroom visit to pull them up. Hole in ill-fitting tights, as if to taunt, “U mad, bro?” Period starts two hours before end of work. More physical and mental discomfort. Some abdominal pain and light-headedness. Need to press on. New task at hand. Vague instructions as usual and burdening pressure. Finally two hours. Finally home. Nobody. Relax for few, attend to social media. Mom arrives. Greet her. Proceed to tell her about shit morning. Want sympathy. Seek warmth. Not enough. Disparaging looks at part about tardiness. Clarifying (“…boss arrived later…”). Disparaging. Justifying. Disparaging. Defending. Disparaging. Frustration. Frustration. Anger. Anger. Anger. Anger. Anger. Anger. Despair. Anger. Despair. Anger. Despair. Anger. Despair. Anger. Anger. Anger. Anger. Anger.
Despair. (Dehydration. Exhaustion.)
harass me 
Whooooo dear. Periods are the worst!
(I don’t see how this is not “good language”. It definitely gets the point across, which is what most good language does).
Parents do tend to focus on the things that don’t matter to you. I sometimes get frustrated at how my parents might miss the whole point of my venting.
That’s what ice cream and really bad chick flicks are for. And blankets.
Haha, I agree. Ice cream, chick flicks, blankets.