Mireille the Maleficent
I haven't been this angry ... since, oh ... my last marriage.
I'm trying to dilute this emotion by bleeding it off into a blogpost.
After all, what can be more confidential -- more private -- than sending a missile out into the cybersphere where my four or five readers can see how absolutely pissed I am.
No, I won't say about what. No, I won't say at whom. I am only going to try to describe what I'm feeling. So that I can stop feeling it. Because I know it's destructive. And I'm beginning to get an inkling that it's unreasonable. Which is NOT what I want to hear at this point.
It seems to center around my heart. A constrictive feeling in the musculature around my heart. And, also, my lips are tight. My whole face feels tight. My whole body feels stiff. This is what anger does, it must cut off bloodflow to whole scenic vistas of your body.
And this is after I tried to loosen up by taking Bucky on the Bataan Death March around the neighborhood. At least he pooped.
After I have issued the requisite verbal thunderbolts, there is something about being this angry that makes me question every relationship I own. A deeply wounded paranoia settles down around me and I hunker down into my silent, don't-touch-me foxhole, ready for a long siege.
This cannot be good for me. And it certainly isn't good for who I'm mad at.
Today's fragrance: [WHAT.] Montale Ginger Musk and I think babelfish says it all: "One surprising departure of semi-sparkling ginger associated blackberry and the white musk on red fruit bottom." Oh, hell. And Suki was right: it won't come off.