It's my hut. Get out.

I just ate an entire bay leaf. Without chewing it. I can feel it lodged in my throat. I didn’t do this on a dare or anything; I was just stuffing ross fil forn into my mouth at my desk on rapid speed and missed that it was in there. I’m a bit all over the place at the moment.
This is my first week back at work after the Christmas break so I still have holiday brain. I went on a cruise, like the 75 year old woman I am rapidly becoming and the boat was a hotbed of disease and subsequently, I came away with a cold that still hasn’t abated as well as an addiction to smoked salmon.
Also, it’s my moon time, so to speak. You know… Tom is here and Auntie Flo is visiting and they’ve taken over the house and gotten the painters in. The river is running red and I’m riding the cotton pony. I’m bleeding out of my lady bits for all those still a bit confused.
I know a lot of ladies have told a lot of stories about this, and I know a lot of guys have covered their ears and gone “LA LA LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I know also, that 90% of guys reading this have already ripped their computers off their desks and thrown them out a window, but for those still with me, thanks.
I know it’s not a commonly touted symptom of making Draculas teabag, but it makes me mushy brained. I have something called secondary dysmenorrhea. That’s a real thing by the way; you can look it up, probably not on Google images though. It makes me more tired and confused than normal. Yesterday, it made me try to dig out my uterus with a spoon. It makes me into the kind of person that eats whole bay leaves and cries at ads for potato chips. The pain it causes is only marginally diminished by the fast inhalation of heavy pain killers and chocolate covered pretzels. I tried to make a good decision today and eat something that wasn’t bad for me, but still tasted like cake. I had a Yoplait Formé. It’s fat free yoghurt. The label promised me it would taste like classic cheese cake. It fucking lies. It’s a little pot of lies and disappointment. Doesn’t it know that it can’t lie to me like that? Especially not when I’m so fragile!
A lot of feminists would get on my case if anyone other than my Mum read this blog, (Hi Mum.) but you know what I’d like to see a return of? Menstrual huts. Maybe not for all women, but for women like me? I would be all over that. I am a sad sorry excuse for a person at this time. I have been known to vomit from pain. I cry and I roll around and swear and kick my feet and blame everyone for everything. I work from home and write all emails on my phone from a bed on the floor that I have constructed from a futon mattress and multiple blankets. I want to go to a little hut and do all of this in peace without feeling bad about it. Put in a TV, a well-stocked fridge and every episode of How I Met Your Mother then leave me the fuck alone. Sorry, can’t go to work, I’m in my hut. Sorry, can’t cook dinner, I’m in my hut. Sorry, I can’t attend your gala dinner event celebrating the centenary of your grandmother inventing a new way to make black pudding; I’m in my fucking hut. It doesn’t even have to be a real hut, I’m not fussy. My house would do.
I’d knock myself out with drugs and nap with the dogs, using their tiny puppy bellies as a heat pack. I’d settle for people not asking me questions at this time at the very least. SO MANY QUESTIONS! How are you? How about this weather? How was your weekend? Leave me alone! I want to curl into a ball and whimper in peace while I eat uncooked ramen noodles in the dark and lament why Dylan Moran isn’t really drinking anymore.
You know what, I can’t blog. I’m going to my hut.