My period, that lovely guy, comes typically in five-week cycles each alternating month. To keep things interesting. Which just means that on the five-week months, I have a whole extra seven days to feel like the bloated version of the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters.

Last night, I was destroying the kitchen in search of just little morsel that might soothe my internal hormonal beast. The rampage apparently turned cacophonous, as The Sister came down to check on me (and refill her glass from our Monday night wine).

“Dude, you ok?

“Yes. No. Do you want some chocolate? TOO bad. It is all gone. Every single, Halloween-aged piece. Gone.”

“I just went grocery shopping – why don’t you eat some hummus? Or I made some chicken for dinner?”

She was offering HEALTHY SNACKS and actual MEALS? Does she not know anything about bingeing? “That is not helpful. If you were a good sister, you wouldn’t secretly judge that I just ate an entire box of Poptarts, instead you would tell me where you hid the GD Oreos.”

“Um, yeah, so … on the plus side, if you don’t get your period, at least your fear of breaking the newborn baby won’t come into fruition. That thing has gotta be at least 12 pounds by now.”

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