Excuse me, Might I Drool Here Briefly?

I would just like to say that Orlando Bloom is as cute as a button. Or even, say, a flopsy-forward-eared bunny. I just want to pinch his little cheeks and make unintelligible "boogowoogobobumumu" noises. I can't help it: he was once my favourite elf. Did you see all that arrow-slinging? Top-notch. I want a little Orlando to keep in my handbag: I'd feed him nuts and popcorn and buy designer teensy outfits for him. But also I'd like a full-sized version too. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Woof!

My hormones are all raging today. Goodness.

15-year-olds, dude.

Stomach empty, brain wired and woozy, ready for the day's programme to be over, I directed the scholars (or do we call them learners now, I'm never sure) towards the hall.

"Through the door, go stand in your groups. Through the door, stand in your groups. Stand in your groups, once you're through the door. Door, through, groups, stand". I can handle this. Then one of the little hormone factories, who's been giving me the crazy-eye all morning, makes his move. I can see what's coming: not the exact wording, but the general gist.

"Miss", he starts, sweeping his eyes up and down me as if he's being subtle about it "miss...I like your pants".

You must surely kid me. This is testing my sanity.

"Okay, well, thanks for that. Now, through the door, and stand with your group." you smug little bastard. I need some lunch.

Anyway, so the group activity goes as the group activities go. The boys and girls self-segregate, as if they could catch gender like a communicable disease. Ah, the universal truths of hormonal discourse. Then crazy-eye and a couple of his posse get kicked out for being little pricks. They scurry towards the door, thinking, perhaps, that they were free to bask in the sunshine. Not on my watch. If I'm not having fun, neither are you.

Closing the door behind me, I find them in the corridor. "Boys." They wheel around, surprised by my arrival, but pleased nonetheless. Until I break the news to them: there are no free rides* in this vale of tears!**"Boys... [herewith following a brief speech in which they were crapped upon from a godllike height, ending with] AND I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH DISRESPECT"***.

They looked a little sad as they traipsed into the museum. Good. GOOD! HOW D'YOU LIKE THEM PANTS, HUH?

*or lapdances, depending on who you're talking to.
**in this case, the corridor
***this was said in the tone of voice that implies emasculation and possibly worse. Ladies, I think you will know what I mean.

" I will rip his head off and crap down his neck"

I am horribly premenstrual at the moment. I know this because everything makes me a) horrbly depressed, b) intensely, insanely enraged and c) weepy. Usually simultaneously. so it doesn't take much to send me off the deep end. say, being cut off at the post office. or some shithead humorless little teenager joining a group that i moderate and calling me stupid and pointless because god forbid I should joke about him being underage. man. teenagers take themselves so goddamn seriously. it's moments like that that make me wonder if I was like that. I see them in bars and clubs and stores and outside colleges and they are all hairstyles and pose. I'm totally generalising. But, frickit, hormones!!!!!! I can generalise, or i can smash things, and that won't go down too well. And, you know, I'm sure he's a perfectly nice little boy once you get to know him, and I'm sure we just got off on the wrong foot. but, dammit, HORMONES!!!!! totally wrong time of month!!!!!!

and who calls a moderator stupid anyway? I could totally block his ass! or replace it with a note reading "post removed due to high levels of being a TOOL!"I could also say something about people WhO tYPe iN mIxed CaPS but that would be too easy. Also I already said it a while ago.

Sigh. the worst part is is that as annoyed and infuriated and psychotically homicidal as I now feel, I also feel guilty for a) hurting his feelings and b) venting my spleen online. I feel like I should take the moral high road. Because, you know, I'm an Adult. Yeah. Its one of the things you must accept in exchange for being able to drink whatever you want, getting to eat candy for breakfast, and not having to have sex in cars.

Hmm. I fell a little better. Still kinda want to make with stabby-stabby inna throatsicle.

edit: I just realised that when I have PMS, I totally turn Klingon. That is kind of awesome.