OK, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m speaking metaphorically here, about slipping the bonds of spiritual and emotional captivity. That wet sloggy feeling I’ve been having, due almost entirely to my whoremones. I feel as though I’ve been shipwrecked on Skull Island from the latest remake of King Kong – or the Pacific Northwest, they look a lot alike this time of year.

Eventually I return to my sunnier self who regains an interest in conversation outside of monosyllabic grunts. I stop eating in a manner that more closely resembles a rabid monkey who has discovered, after being locked in a cage foodless for a week, a cache of potato chips, bon bons and layer cake whose icing has been applied with a mason’s trowel. I can restrain myself from rolling my eyes at the foolish and irritating things people say, such as Can I take you to lunch? or I love you Mom.

Those whores can moan – um I mean sing. They rap to me about my imminent firing for being the worst employee ever. Complete with driving beats, misogynistic lyrics and crotch grabbing. They warble endlessly about the wonders of sugar, or fat or salt as a food group. They perform an aria of exquisite beauty about the lack of affection and proper respect I receive from my progeny. Carmen would be proud.

As if all of this bounty wasn’t reward enough my face begins to pump out enough oil to rival all of OPEC. I woke this morning to a chin which more resembles a high school freshman classmate who had the nickname Pizza Face.

As suddenly as it comes, it goes. The clouds break, my children love me again. I’m no longer a workplace pariah. I deal with wrinkles instead of wrinkles AND pimples and I stop looking like Gollum over my 50 lb sack of chocolate chips, whispering My Precious…

They are coming back next month whether I invite them or not. The good news is I’ve survived my week of whoremone hell without happy pills and lived to tell the tale.

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