Ladies and gentleman, I come before you, a freak of nature.
I have the rarest kind of PMS right now. No, not cleaning PMS–that’s pretty common. Not inspired creative genius PMS–that’s exceedingly rare, but it’s happened a time or two, and I would give my liver to know how to tap it on command.
No, today I have…giddy PMS.
I have done enough drugs to recognize chemical euphoria when it hits me, and right about the moment where I was playing NWN2 and I clapped my hands together and squealed like a schoolgirl because a giant magical spider had appeared in the basement of my keep–it hit me. I am absurdly cheerful. I am delerious with joy. I giggle wildly at inappropriate things. I wander by James, who is trying to play Company of Heroes in peace, and tackle him with the smooching and the giggling and the singing of nonsensical verse. He bears up under this well. It’s probably better than the not-infrequent cleaning jag PMS, which usually drives him out of the house in terror.
It almost certainly won’t last, but hey, I’ll take idiot cheer while I can get it.