Diary of a Mad, Cashew Woman

I don't mean mad in the charming sense that British people use it-- I mean, literally mad.   To properly illustrate my rage, I'll allude to a film.  In a pivotal scene in "Never Been Kissed" unlucky in love Josie, nicknamed, "Josie Grossie" in her awkward highschool days screams to the heavens, "I'm not JOSIE GROSSIE anymore!" Got that?   Ok, MY rage is not liberting and coming to grips with highschool demons--I'm just screaming, "GOD FUCKING DAMNIT" because the cat knocked over the packet of Good 'n Plenty's and I really wanted some but even I'm above eating it off a cat-hair coated carpet.   That's the kind of mad I've been lately.

Luckily, there have been ample outlets for me to display my rage.   Yesterday for a work fund-raiser,  I was invited to participate in a full-contact game of blindfolded musical chairs.  In the game, participants are blindfolded and one less chair than the number of players are scattered randomly around a room.  Every player has to grope blindfolded for a chair and then the player left without a chair is eliminated.  With my rage and anger and possibily, I don't know, a little testosterone I was primed for action.  I kicked off my high heels and did the MC Hammer shuffle all around the room, keeping low, agile like a panther or some similar graceful jungle cat.  And then someone got in my way.  What was my reaction?  Did I try to avoid them?   No, I straight up made a blindfolded attempt at close-lining them which thankfully was unsuccessful, because I don't know if I could have played it off as an accident.  What is wrong with me?

I also recently have been having very eloquent and angry conversations with myself, directed at people who piss me off.   That co-worker who snapped at me today?   Well I gave her a twenty minute piece of my mind, except she wasn't there--I was just talking to myself furiously in my car.   So furiously, I'm sure that passersby thought I was having a bluetooth conversation with a tax collector or something.   Thank God for bluetooths by the way, without them how would I play off the frequent instances during which I talk to myself in public? 

I don't know where all this rage is coming from, but I kind of dig it.   While cursing profusely this morning I jumpstarted my car in five inch heels after leaving the lights on all night even after my mother explicitedly reminded me to turn them off.   Ok, so it was stupid--but you have to admit there's something sexy about a mad woman in heels doing mechanical work.  Oh you don't admit that?   Well fuck you, nobody hit your buzzer. 

...Let's see how long this lasts.