I felt good yesterday. A little off in the morning, but nothing a shopping trip, a delicious pot of chili and a brownie couldn't cure. Add a hilarious movie and some quality knitting time to that scenario and I'd call yesterday a great day.
Today, I want to stomp on the heads of little animals.
How does a body make such a radical change overnight? Today hasn't been bad. Traffic was good, I drove the nice car to work, and I even had enough sleep. Other than my crappy job (which always brings me down a bit, but shouldn't make me overly angry at the world), there's been nothing about today that has made me want cause harm to others.
And yet I've been on the verge of yelling twice, and I sort of flipped out already this morning. I do not yell. Yelling is not me. But today, I am monster woman. I am swamp thing come up from the depths to devour young teenagers and spit out their remains on my ever-growing bone-pile.
Thus, I am convinced that hormones are the ones screwing with my brain cells. And dealing with hormones doesn't leave much of a solution as to how to fix things (other than locking yourself in a room away from sharp objects). Mother Nature? What purpose do these ridiculous body chemicals serve? Does me turning into a giant Biatch somehow help out the circle of life? I really don't believe that was what Elton John was singing about.
Well, in honor of today's bitchiness, here is some Haikuesdayness:
i'm having trouble
making my Mind write poems
too full to extract
CLA-RAP. Loud noises
frighten my insides, but my
heart grows furious
And just to spice things up, I found this poem while browsing around The Daily Poem.I thought it was pretty appropriate to include with this bad day post.
How to Make Armor
by Jennifer K. Sweeney
Wear your bones like cold-rolled
steel, skin hammered
in brigandine sheets.
Pound leather and shadow
to a stiff segmentata.
Clad in devices,
night will rise like a wound,
duty bronzed to paldrons
hulking your shoulders.
When your bad decisions are fused
with chain mail and you're dueling
in the silence of thieves,
go at the world in stone.
Fear is a long-revered tradition.
In the carbon-dark, language
is harnessed in its helm
as "order" from the Latin ordo
means closed circle.
protected as a priest's halberd
wielding against a cauldron
Or lie naked in the dandelions,
pained with sensation.
-Over and Out-