I don’t often get angry, as in really furious. I just don’t. I get sassy, frustrated, peeved, irritated. In those moments, I prattle on, some might say incessantly, touching on each bothersome detail until I’ve vented sufficiently. I cover that spectrum with some regularity. I can name two times in the past six months at which I was actually angry, red-faced, filled with rage, and once I had the wherewithal to bottle it relatively effectively. For me, bottling involves stuffing and stewing and swearing, wishing I could share my feelings and knowing that it probably isn’t wise. I made it through both episodes relatively intact, nail marks on my own skin rather than someone else’s.

Today I am furious. Irate. Livid. It’s coming out in anger at the guy living downstairs, who knows better than to leave his dog out by herself early in the morning, because as one might expect a dog to, she howls loudly as each pedestrian passes by. It’s coming out in anger at Weight Watchers, because I want more than a bowl of soup for dinner, because if I had my infuriated way I’d down a large pizza with spinach and ricotta. Anger with my body, because if I wasn’t so caffeine sensitive, I’d wash it down with a 2-liter of Diet Coke over ice. Did I mention the guys working on renovations in the building? Keep your power tools on your side of the hall. Large corporate clothing entity? When I mail you an item for exchange I expect you to mail me something back. It’s sort of a deal we have.

It’s best that I cage myself now and try to find something that won’t bear the brunt of my misdirected anger, something pleasing like studying the insane length of the cats’ whiskers, or something completely innocuous, like beige.

Nope. Not even beige is going to cut it.