Pmsing Quotes

If they keep crashing stuff into the moon, the moon's gonna get pissed off, and the tides'll change, and all the women'll start PMS-ing together. Then you guys are going to fucking regret it.

Hey, Cormac. You ever have to deal with a PMSing werewolf?

So, Cormac, have you ever dealt with a PMSing werewolf?' No.' Well, it's a real bitch...

...she often had a temper that made a PMS-ing harpy going into nicotine withdrawal look like a chubby fuzzy bunny that burped daisies and shot rainbows out its ass.

PMSing-which I personally thought could be better identified as 'the one time of the month when women saw shit clearly.

Be as pissed off as you want to be. Don’t hold back because you think it’s unladylike or some such nonsense. We shouldn’t be shamed out of our anger. We should be using it. Using it to make change in our own lives, and using it to make change in the lives around us. (I know, I’m cheesy.) So the next time someone calls you emotional, or asks if you’re PMSing, call them on their bullshit.

Elizabeth, in your own misguided, crazy, PMSing-woman way, I think you’ve been trying to be nice.” My mouth fell open. “Hey!” “You’re just not very good at being nice. It’s not a strength of yours.” “I can’t believe you just said that.” “You should work on it. You should compliment me more, tell me I look pretty.” I hit him on the shoulder even as I laughed. “You’re an idiot.” “And you’re beautiful.

Why are you looking at me I'm chocolate cake and you're PMSing?

A true friend loves you when you are being kind and when you are PMS-ing all over the place. They may not love what you are doing, or the dragon you are manifesting, but they love you. They know who the true you is, and even in the midst of your living as an imposter to your very self, a friend calls you up and out. A friend sees who you are meant to be and beckons you to rise to the higher version of yourself.

You can’t ever say a woman is PMSing,” Max said knowledgeably. “You can’t ever mention her period has anything to do with her emotions, even if she’s taking a hacksaw to everything. You have to be supportive and stuff and say things like ‘that sounds really hard’ and ‘yes, dear, she probably does deserve to die, more candy?

Women fight differently from men. You couldn’t get me to hurt a woman’s breasts for anything. I know how tender my own are when I’m PMSing. Besides, we feed babies with them.

The hormonal interplay inside a woman’s head creates her reality. Her hormones tell her day to day what’s important. They mold her desires and values.

Well, remember when your husband died and you disappeared for a year and then came back, but were super depressed and you started banging an asshole who turned out to not be an asshole but just a dude who was hurt because his wife and son died? And then you two like kind of fell into a weird sexlationship where you pretended you were both someone else but then one day you were like, ‘But I want you to be you and me to be me,’ so you fell in love. And then you found out that your husband was involved in his family’s deaths, and then shit got weird and the dude left town, but for some reason thought it was okay to keep leaving you Post-It notes that just left you even more confused and hurt and totally, ‘Oh my gosh, it feels like I’m PMSing for four weeks out of every month and I can’t even eat any more ice cream because my hot tears melt it every time I cry into the Ben and Jerry’s.’ Do you remember all of that?

You’re supposed to not be real!” she whispered in a long exhaled desperate sigh. “Well, by human standards, neither are you. You should know better to believe in stories. What? Mama not teach you right?” “I’m not doing any harm.” “Bull. You’re in my town. And you’re not registered. This is mainly light fae territory, and all fae that want to walk freely, need passes. I see no chains dangling from you neck and heard no word of you. No feeding here without permission.” “I’m hungry.” “You’re PMS-ing.” “How…?” “I’m a Scorpion, bitch. Now, keep your teeth and your tail away to yourself.

Oh, come on!”She kicked uselessly at the air. “Lemme go!”“You’re emotionally distraught and I’m not going to let you put yourself in danger.”“False. I’m only ever emotionally distraught when I’m pms-ing and simultaneously watching kitten and puppy videos.”Clementine arched her foot out, trying to make contact with the wall and keep him from dragging her away from the door. “And, seriously. Sword. I have a sword. And I’m the boss. So you’re going to let me go, I’m going to go dispatch of the exhole,

They make these jokes because Andreano has found in his neuroimaging studies that during the mid-luteal phase (the second half of the menstrual cycle after ovulation), we have higher levels of emotional arousal and more connectivity between emotion and memory. This finding is far more complicated than just “Bitches be PMSing!” This connectivity means that if we are unlucky enough to be abused during this time period, those abuses can lodge more deeply in our memories and become encoded in our brains. These memories are also more likely to encourage a negative memory bias, a tendency to return to these negative memories more than positive ones. Bottom line: We are more vulnerable to developing PTSD or depression if we experience trauma during a certain point in our cycles.

Well, am I wrong? You must be PMSing, cause baby, you’re raging harder than a Karen asking for the manager at TJ Maxx.

RACH, DO YOU REALLY NEED THIS MANY SHOES?” I watched as she unpacked the third box in our closet just inside the bathroom and wondered how any person could ever have a need for that many pairs of shoes. Her hand stopped midway to the shelf with another pair, and her bright blue glare turned on me. I took a step back. “Are you actually asking me that right now?” “Say no,” my dad whispered from behind me. “Course he wasn’t, Rachel. He’s just mad that he won’t have anywhere to put his sparkly hooker heels.” Rachel laughed and went back to putting her dozens of shoes away. “No worries about that one, Rich. I put them up already, they even have their own little place away from everything so they don’t get ruined.” My mom pushed through Dad and me to get into the closet with an armful of clothes to hang up. “Really, Logan. Give the girl a break. I have more shoes than this.” “Oh, Marcy! I forgot to tell you—” “Is this gonna be a long story?” Dad drawled, cutting Rachel off. “Actually, it is,” she snapped right back with a playful smirk. “So get comfy!” As soon as she launched into her story about whatever the hell those two always talked excitedly about, my dad turned and gave me a shove into the large bathroom. “Have I taught you nothing when it comes to women?” he asked softly. “What? That’s a shit ton of shoes!” I hissed and looked back to see her pull more out. I swear to Christ this last box was like Mary Poppins’s purse. It was a never-ending pit of shoes. “Okay, we’re gonna do this quick and easy. One, your woman can never have too many shoes, clothes, purses, or jewelry. Two, it doesn’t matter if you know you’re right—because God knows your mother is wrong about . . . well . . . just about everything—but it doesn’t matter. They are always right. Just say a simple ‘Yes, sweetheart, I’m sorry I’m a dumbass’ and you’ll be fine. Three, them asking if they look okay is a trick question. Because, let’s face it, even if we think it’s the ugliest shirt we’ve ever seen, it’s probably in style and we wouldn’t know either way. So they always look amazing, remember that word.” I laughed. Rachel could wear a sack and I would think she looked amazing. Or she could wear nothing . . . I preferred her in nothing. I cleared my throat and had to look away from Rachel when I started picturing her naked. “Four, and probably the most important if you want to keep your manhood, do not ever ask if she is PMS-ing. No matter what. Might as well dig your own grave if you do that.” Too late. I was always asking Rach if that was why she was in a bad mood. And if I was right, there was no way in hell I was going to tell her I was in the wrong. She could bitch about it if she wanted, but I wasn’t going to go easy on her for the sake of getting out of an argument. Arguing with her was one of my favorite things. Nodding, I slapped my dad’s shoulder and smiled. “Thanks, Dad, I’ll remember all that.

Avery dragged his body up to the front of class as Daniel took a seat in one of the abandoned chairs in the back of the class. Avery was a bigger kid, and the idea of hearing him read flash fiction would have made me smirk last week. But today, my eyes were puffy and I was PMSing and just all around annoyed. Avery

Why are you such an ass?” she grunted when I turned back toward the living room. “All I want is to be alone right now!” “Ah, my little Sour Patch. We’re going to have to work on that if you want to get married. Because after we are, you can’t just walk out on a fight.” “I didn’t know we were fighting,” she grumbled. “We weren’t until you started PMS-ing on me.” “I am not PMS-ing! Put me down!” “Gladly.” I let her slide down and pushed her so she was lying down on the couch and crawled on top of her, caging her in. “Talk.” Her blue eyes were on fire as they narrowed at me, and I watched as her jaw locked while she took deep breaths in through her nose. My girl was about to explode, and as much as I loved her when she was pissed off, I needed to know what had just happened. “Drop the attitude, Sour Patch, and talk to me.

I lay down beside him and stared directly into the sun. He turned on his side and propped his head on his elbow. “You’ll go blind doing that,” he said in a low voice. “Leave me alone.” “Why are you in such a bad mood? You PMSing?” “What do you know about it?” “A lot.” “I doubt that, and even if I were, it’s beyond rude to talk to me about it.” I hadn’t started my period yet, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

The “Period Brain” Puberty marks the onset of the menstrual cycle, which can profoundly alter the circuitry of a teen girl’s brain, impacting the way she thinks, feels, and acts on a monthly basis. The notion that a woman’s cycle can befuddle her brain is a main staple of popular culture. Dismissive and often derogatory statements like “She must be PMS-ing” are by now part of the everyday vernacular. As unsympathetic as these expressions can be, many women do experience a vulnerable side during their period. But while that’s made it into society’s wry water-cooler rhetoric, the flip side has not.

If you were a woman, I’d say you’re PMS’ing, but you’re not. So I’m not sure how to categorize this behavior.