So I am PMSing badly. Like BADLY. So badly, I am using the word “like” like a Kardashian, on purpose. IT’S CALLED ARTISTIC LICENSE, YALL.
Not only have I become slightly crazy, but I am more bloated than a whale, which is rather problematic considering I need to make weight for my fight in 18 hours. Of course, I’ve been talking about this extensively with Coach and anyone else who will listen to me (will 4lbs of water retention be offset by 1lb of intense blood flow which should begin anytime now. You thought the Red Wedding on GOT was intense? HA HA, my uterus thinks that was a cute scene. BLOOD EVERYWHERE!!) #femaleboxerproblems
Worse than the physical consequences of PMSing are the emotional and mental ones. The countdown to my fight is on, and what kind of music am I listening to? A lot of Taylor Swift. Some Diana Krall (seriously, though, have y’all ever heard this cover of hers? Makes me weep, even when I am not psycho). Not exactly the kind of music that primes a person to fight. More like the kind of music that makes me wanna hug my opponent and commiserate about how all men are stupid and true love is a myth. That is the type of wordy discussion that is easy with mouthguards, fo sho.
I suppose that if I can face that I am doomed to a life of loneliness and broken-heartedness, the possibility of getting a few punches in the face or a concussion really ain’t that bad.
Conclusion: a PMSing boxer is the scariest kind. Dead inside, and fearless.
In other news: it is Coach‘s birthday today! Here is the post that I wrote for his bday last year. One year later, and my love and appreciation for that man is exponentially greater. I will show him I care by only mentioning my period once a day during this boxing tournament. Restraint = love.
Off to listen to Bad Blood. Gotta channel all that anger.
Discovering ratchet 
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