PMS.

Saturday night.

Lying in bed with a hot water bottle. 'Payphone' by Maroon 5 is blasting on repeat.

I'm upset at life for no fricking reason other than that I'm high-strung on PMS. So here I am, blogging, because I have plenty of emotions at this moment and need to get them the fuck out of me.

Adam Levine is crooning away. He's singing to me. I'm totally feeling you there, brother.

"I'm at a payphone trying to call home
All of my change I spent on you
Where have the times gone, baby it's all wrong
Where are the plans we made for two?

Yeah, I, I know it's hard to remember,
The people we used to be...
It's even harder to picture,
That you're not here next to me."

Except I'm not Adam Levine in this song. I'm the chick that songs like this are written about. You would be singing this to me right now.

"You say it's too late to make it,
But is it too late to try?
And in our time that you wasted
All of our bridges burned down

I've wasted my nights,
You turned out the lights
Now I'm paralyzed,
Still stuck in that time,
When we called it love,
But even the sun sets in paradise"

I never want to break your heart.

"I'm at a payphone trying to call home
All of my change I spent on you
Where have the times gone, baby it's all wrong
Where are the plans we made for two?

If "Happy Ever Afters" did exist,
I would still be holding you like this
All those fairy tales are full of shit
One more fucking love song, I'll be sick.
Now I'm at a payphone..."

Now it's Transatlanticism by Death Cab For Cutie on repeat. A whole new level of depression.