I am so full of repressed anger that I can’t even sputter for fear of exploding.
Within an hour of filling the birdfeeders with the mid-range priced seed, I see four squirrels dumping out the feeders to get the choice sunflower seeds. The feeders are just about empty and all the seeds are on the ground, in the snow.
I have named the squirrels. One is Andrea. The other three are attorneys.
Why can’t I channel this outrage, this rage into my writing?
Instead, I’m sure that in a very short time, I shall explode into a million pieces and though many will be touched by a flake of me, none will remember or care.