However, I am writing a book. And this book has many chapters, all of which begin with a specific episode of PMS. So I think its best to get going on my PMS Diaries section, and I can't think of a better way to do so than to report the events of yesterday.

The day started the way all my days do, with Murph trying to swallow my face. I sleep like the dead and dread to awaken, but she's quite aware that biting that my nose will get me going; her doggy frenching is to me what Folger's Crystals are to you. Her new doggy diapers are a genuine revelation, except for those few moments in the morning when Mommy wakes up and Murphy wants kibble. Maxie will politely sigh in my ear when she's hungry, but Murph doesn't have the patience. So, slobber, nibble, slop, Mommy wake up and feed me!...that's my alarm clock.

I was half alive, sort of sitting up when I heard the gravelly sound of lamb and rice nuggets being shaken into bowls, or more specifically, hand-painted star-shaped doggy bowls. The dogs made a break for the kibble. I passed out once more, upon impact with the pillow I'm sure. Damn thyroid.

You see, my ambiguously categorized ex-boyfriend/Doggy Daddy/Internet Celebrislut, Tucker, is crashing at my place while he negotiates moving from Chicago to [undisclosed location]. His tour of American frathouses, the bottoms of pint glasses and the wonderful things one can find between co-ed thighs finished early, and he had no place to stay in the interim. So when he arrived, road-weary at my doorstep in the middle of the night, I took him in, made him a bed and washed the hops from his clothes. As he is (deadbeat) Doggy Daddy, my mutts are in heaven, and as I don't like to get up in the morning, or ever, I am in heaven too.

I finally awaken. This isn't optional, actually, because there are two tiny man hands tickling my ribs and puppy teeth locked onto my ear while a border collie alternately nips and licks my feet--the licking part far more torturous than the biting. I force myself into my running clothes. If I don't get my motor going now, I'll be tired all day. I am extremely grumpy about my thyroid, so much so that I kick the wall with a rubbery sneaker sole. The wall crumbles off where I kicked it. A little pile of leaden paint dust is made on the floor, and must be cleaned up before puppy eats it and becomes even more retarded than she already is.

It is hot outside. 93 degrees according to the Washington Mutual electronic sign, and this really sucks. I am listening to my Ipod while I run, scrolling through songs because they all really suck too. I stop at a David Gray song because I find it to be superior to all the other sucky upbeat songs on my playlist. While he sings to me about the world being a cruel and loveless place, I think only of coffee. I cannot wait to drink some coffee. I consider turning around a mile early so that I can go to Starbucks and get some god damned coffee. It dawns on me, like puppy spit.

I have PMS.

I ring the buzzer to my building, and instead of promptly buzzing me in, Tucker decides to fuck with me. I have PMS, so this is not a very smart thing to do.

Tucker: "Our Bunny quota is met for the year. We don't need any more Bunnies."
Me: "Just ring me in, fucker."

On my way up the stairwell, I am bombarded by two black dogs, one in diapers. They lick the salt off my calves and ultimately trip me three times. I am not in a good enough mood to fall down the stairs and laugh it off. I decide to yell at Tucker for letting them out.

Tucker: [laughing] "Bunny has PMS!"

After showering, and ingesting a venti coffee, I am feeling much better. It is time to call BunnySis and ask if I may borrow her truck. My friend EarthMuffin has given me a real, bonafide couch, and all I have to do is go pick it up. I dial BunnySis' number...

Me: "Hi."
BunnySis: [snorting, crying sounds] "My movers still aren't here!"

BunnySis hired drunken monkeys to move her belongings from Florida to Chicago. They are three weeks past the promised delivery date because they lost her items somewhere in Kentucky. The office loses her address every other day, not every day, because they don't always take her calls. It is important to mention that my sister considers her shoes and wardrobe to be more precious than all the gold in the Vatican.

Me: "Well, where the hell are they?"
Bunnysis: [snort] "They're down the street! The moving company wouldn't rent a smaller truck to drive my stuff into Chicago, so they have this big old tractor trailer, and it won't fit under the El train. People called the cops, and the driver called me up and he was crying. He quit! My stuff is stuck under the El and there's nobody to deliver it!"
Me: "The driver quit?"
Bunnysis: "Yes! He was bawling on the phone, something about working three days with no rest, and not even getting to eat or change his clothes. He saw somebody on a motorcycle crash and die, and the company didn't even give him a day off. He quit and now my stuff's just sitting there under the El! What am I going to do? Ahawhawhawhawhaw..." Snorting, choking crying.
Me: "Just calm down."
Bunnysis: "This is a CRISIS!"
Me: "No. It's not a crisis. It's FUCKING SHOES."
Click. Call ended.

A terse answer it was. I know I should have been more sympathetic, but I just didn't have the patience.

-

While driving my sister's truck to EarthMuffin's home, it occurred to me that I should get rid of all my possessions. In hindsight, this is a rash thought, but it came about like so:

It seemed sad to me that BunnySis could be so devastated by her belongings being out of her control or possibly damaged. Did BunnySis own her things, or did BunnySis' things own her? I suggested that acquiring a couch was a bad idea, to which Tucker replied, "Shut your damn PMSing mouth. I'm tired of sitting on that pee-stained futon."

EarthMuffin's couch is nice and light. While Tucker and I carry it down the stairs and to BunnySis' truck, I decide to cry about being lied to and then used for sex by one of my friends. Once I start crying I can't stop.

Me: "I'm a CUMDUMPSTER!"
Tucker: "No you're not, Bunny. You don't ever have sex. You're being silly."
Me: "He was 'posed to be my friend! But [sniff sniff] he lied to me!"
Tucker: "Yes, Bunny. Most boys will say just about anything to have sex with girls they like."
Me: "But [sniff sniff] whyyyyyy?"
Tucker: "Because boys are very mean."
Me: "I haaaaaaate them all!"
Tucker: [laughing] "Silly Bunny."

I cry so long and so hard that I could not be plied with coffee. Not even precious coffee will stop me.

-

The couch fits nicely in my normally empty living room, though my snouts have no idea what it is or what it is used for. They try to jump onto the cushions but are scolded. Maxie pouts. Murph moves on to a rawhide. My phone rings...BunnySis.

Me: "Hi."
BunnySis: "Oh my god, what am I going to do? The driver decided not to quit, but now the truck won't fit on my street, and the only place they can park it is out in front of the Catholic church, and all the church mommies are threatening to call the cops if the truck doesn't move."
Me: "Tell the snotty Catholic mommies to go ahead and call the cops, because the CPD will show up and do nothing. You don't have to own a BMW to park in front of a church."
Bunnysis: "Oh. I suppose you're right."
Me: "Damn straight. Punch'em in their tits for spreading orthodoxy while you're at it."

Maybe bitchiness can be useful.

-

I lounge on my bonafide couch. Tucker snickers and clicks away at his laptop in a corner. I ask him what he is writing about, and he responds, "It's a story about last week when I fucked an amputee." He giggles with delight while he says this. Sex with an amputee has been a fantasy of his for a long time, and I find this to be just as strange as his other fantasy, to fuck a midget. He shows me a picture he took of the amputee, and she is gorgeous. I consider rethinking my own fetishes.

It is only eight o'clock, but I am lethargic because when I have PMS I have no extra energy to spend on trifles. All my energy must be directed toward bitchiness. I do, however, find the spacious, belonging-free atmosphere of my apartment enlightening. Who needs possessions? Not I.

But then my phone rings...BunnySis.

BunnySis: "Okay, we're all unloaded over here. Give us a few minutes, and then meet us in the alleyway behind your apartment."
Me: "Huh? Wha?"
BunnySis: "We have to deliver all the furniture you left behind in Tampa when you moved to Chicago."
Me: "Huh?"

-

It is now several hours later. I am lounging on my bonafide couch again, but this time I am covered in sweat and grit. Random pieces of forgotten furniture perch all around me. I cannot play with my dogs, take a piss or get a glass of water without banging my appendages on dinged up pieces of Bamboo Company Mahogany I don't want any longer. My vision of a Spartan lifestyle has vanished. It has been tossed into the same dumpster my legless apothecary table resides in, yet another uncomfortable relic from my yesteryear.

I rinse the grit off my body, and it is while I am doing this that Tucker calls from the other room, "Bunny! Want to go see 'March of the Penguins?' It's about animals."

I figure, why not? It's certainly better than banging into furniture and crying about sex.

I know nothing about 'March of the Penguins." But I soon learn that it is a movie about one of the only living species on the continent of Antarctica, the Emperor Penguin, and its breeding habits. As Tucker and I are the only people in the theater, and we are watching a movie about birds fucking, I figure that this will be a boring picture. I am very wrong.

The movie begins with shots of the Antarctic landscape. It is harsh and white, lit constantly because it is summer. Outcrops of ice jut up from the water in every direction, and the camera exhausts my attention with shots of the different formations this ice makes on the landscape, the kind of shots only Ansel Adams can make interesting.

Morgan Freeman narrates about the Emperor Penguin in his refined tones, the penguins this, the penguins that...and just as I am about to fall asleep on Celebrislut's shoulder, an Emperor Penguin rockets from a hole in the ice. He lands belly side down and slides ten feet, his tummy fattened with krill. He stands up, flaps his flippers a bit to get the water off, and then Morgan Freeman says, "This is a story about love."

Oh, I am rapt.

One by one, the Emperor Penguins pop from the ice and start their march. These are the male penguins, and they are marching to their women who wait at the breeding ground. I find it amusing, because while humans lie their way into sex, Emperor Penguins nobly march seventy miles across barren ice in subzero temperatures to prove themselves worthy of it. I decide that Female penguins are much smarter than I am. They don't just wait at the water's edge to mate, believing the male penguin when he says, "Yeah, baby...I marched seventy miles." They know the proof is in the pudding.

When the male penguins reach the breeding ground, I begin to think that 'March of the Penguins' is perhaps the greatest movie of the year. Morgan Freeman's voice is now sexy as the male penguins file around the females and flirt, which they express by flapping their flippers (startlingly like horny men in bars). The women are undaunted. They don't just give out their penguin pussy to any old male with a slew of lies to tell. They are more selective.

But once the penguins have paired up, the music changes to a lilting flute. The couples nuzzle each other's necks and cheeks with their beaks. They lovingly stroke each other as if human and in love, and I am in tears at the sight of it. Morgan Freeman says "Emperor Penguins are monogamous." I lose my shit. Such noble creatures, these penguins. They don't just drop a load and leave the next morning, and say they're going to call but never do. I AM A CUMDUMPSTER!

An indeterminate amount of time passes, and now it is time for the female to hatch her egg. This egg is quite large, and it emerges from beneath the loose flap of skin that hangs above the female's claws. Morgan Freeman explains that the female is now exhausted, and must pass the egg to the male for safe keeping so that she can march her way to the sea to feed on krill and produce milk for the soon to be hatched chick. Yes, that's right. The male penguin nobly holds the egg between his claws and belly, keeping it warm and safe through the torrent of snow that winter brings. All so that his bitch can eat. Fuck men. Fuck'em all.

The passing of the egg from the female to male is brutal. They have but a few seconds to lodge the egg beneath the male's belly, or it will freeze in the subzero temperatures. I can barely see the screen through my fingers. I want to jump through it to Antarctica and shove every penguin egg beneath every father. Alas, I cannot. Many baby eggs freeze, their parents looking on, exhausted and distraught. I cry deeply for the frozen penguin fetuses. 'March of the Penguins' is the best movie of the decade.

Time passes. The chicks hatch beneath their father's bellies. They are adorable. I beg Tucker to loan me money so that I may buy one--surely you can buy a baby penguin on eBay. He tells me I am "insane." Whatever.

The mothers make their triumphant return to the breeding ground. There are fewer mommies because some have perished in the jaws of seals, but I can't go into that at this time. I am repressing memory of these scenes. The now-starved father passes the baby chick to his penguin mate. She safely stores the baby beneath her belly, and as his child cries out, the loving father memorizes the sound of its voice so that they may be reunited when he returns. He has time for a quick nuzzle to his mate, and then he is off to march the seventy miles again to feed on krill. What noble creature. A noble, noble, honest, promise-keeping creature.

A storm blows over the breeding ground. I bury my face in Tucker's arm, his sleeve now wet with tears. "THE FIRST DEAD BABY CHICKY AND I AM LEAVING THIS FUCKING THEATER!" He thinks this is very funny, and tells me that all the baby penguins die at the end. I yell at him and blow my nose in his sleeve.

[Somewhere in here, a chick dies in the storm and the mother cries in agony, but I don't remember seeing it or anything. I refuse to believe it even happened].

The chicks grow steadily as the parents take turns making trips to the sea. They wait for the weather to clear before setting off, as a family, to the water's edge where the chicks will test their feathers in the ocean for the first time. The story ends with shots of the awkward chicks learning to swim. Morgan Freeman tells us all that chicks will mature and feed for several years, but on the fifth year, they will burst ashore and begin their own seventy-mile journey to the breeding ground. My eyes are literally burning with tears. I tell Tucker that 'March of the Penguins' is inarguably the best movie ever made. I ask him why penguins get love, but I don't even get a phone call.

Tucker: "Silly Bunny, I can't wait for you to get your period."
Me: "Go to hell."