I got pissed off today and needed to throw something or break something. Then I remembered Iím one-handed now, and I got even more frustrated. I look silly trying to throw left-handed. (For that matter, I look sort of foolish throwing right-handed, but donít tell anybody.)
Because my landlord never fixed my door assembly, I couldnít even slam the door. That would have been a mildly satisfying gesture, slamming the door in the face of the fates who decided to jackknife a tanker truck on the blind curve on my street, just at the time I was coming home from the post office.
Why must everything happen to me?!?
Anyway, I got over it. And I know what youíre thinking. Anticlimactic denouement, right? But in a way, thatís the best part of the story. I didnít break or throw anything because I couldnít, so there was nothing to regret later when the feeling passed. I still have marks on the walls from the old days when I let things get to me and could do something about it. It never helped, and it just got worse later when I realized what Iíd done.