For lunch, I ate half a small chicken right off the bone. The lady behind the counter tried to hand me a plastic knife and fork, which I'm pretty sure other people would have thought necessary, considering all the little ribs and legs sticking out, but I refused. I shook my head no. I am very hungry, I said. She looked confused, but how could she not? I don't look brutish. She had no idea.
I took the chicken plus two potatoes and broccoli smothered in cheese back to my cubicle, salted them liberally, and waited until they had cooled down somewhat. Then, I grabbed that carcass with both hands and pulled the meat from it in large chunks. Then, I grabbed the broccoli and potatoes with my hands and ate them, enjoying the sensation of gooey cheese sauce congealing under my fingernails. I wiped my fingers around the inside of the take-out box to gather the extra bits of drying cheese and grease and sucked the oily globs from my fingertips.
I felt like an animal and behaved like one. With extra salt. In my cubicle. It was good.
That is, it was good until I noticed that I had spread grease and cheese all over the mouse and the arms of my desk chair. I am Numero Uno when it comes to class.
None of that beats the fact that I am bloating out of a pair of pants whose zipper won't stay up. I don't how many of co-workers have had the opportunity to see my mint-green, cotton knickers, but I do hope that they have all managed to effectively block it from their memories.
Tomorrow, this aforementioned PMS will have the great pleasure of being accompanied by both my period AND a soul-quivering, sleep-depleting, cervix-torturing colposcopy.
Gloria hallelujah jubilee.