You finally go see Juno, which you’ve been wanting to see for ages, and you nearly become unhinged when the dude sitting in the row behind you says (in a normal talking voice) “worst movie ever “—during the final scene.

Like literally unhinged. Okay, not literally, cuz I do not as yet come equipped with hinges, but whatever. You feel me. As it was, I whipped my head around and used one of my dormant superpowers to bore an imaginary hole through his skull. I was thiiiiiiiiis close to saying:

The only one who gives a shit what you think is that cunt of a fake-and-bake girlfriend you have there, so pipe down, Mimsy.

But before I could get the words out, my friend stepped in. He diffused the tension by snorting loudly and putting his hand (firmly) on my arm. The moment was lost, so I did what anyone in my position would have done. I settled back down and began plotting my revenge on the humanity that spawned that fuckert (and those not unlike him) … to be executed at a later date.

I totally get that it’s the PMS. For five or so days a month, it makes me want to harm people with very little provocation, bang on the trunks of cars that cut me off in the crosswalk, write scathing letters to the editor about the improper use of apostrophes to pluralize “the 80s” and, generally, resemble a woman with much more street-fighting experience than I actually possess.

I’m not one of those chicks who will rip you a new one if you innocently ask whether my behavior is possibly being affected by the imminent arrival of my period, though. Well, not if you wait until day three, anyway, or say it while folding my laundry. I mean, you’ve got a 64% chance of walking away from that scenario unscathed is what I’m saying, which I think you’ll agree is well above the national average.