I’ve been throwing temper tantrums all day. Surreptitiously. So surreptitiously, in fact, that I’m pretty sure no one has had any clue that I’m throwing them.

For example: the weather. It makes me angry.

The icy cold hit me in the face when I turned the corner close to work. Oh, I remember you, knives in my cheeks. I remember you too well.

I had sworn that corner off – at least, at this time of year. I said never again. And yet, here I am and here it is, just like last year, and the year before that.

It infuriates me, blinds me with rage (and snowflakes).

This morning I tried to get my heart in gear and just appreciate the beauty of the snow flying sideways against blue. But I couldn’t quite overcome my irritation that my toes were cold, the train was taking too long to get there, and the blue was just a stupid billboard advertising things I can’t afford.

I want to go out and take the ugliest photos of snow I possibly can.

I’m that mad.

I’m so mad, I’m going to forget about class-planning and bill-paying, and I’m going to curl up in my warm wool blanket and look for jobs in the south of France.

I’m going to make hot chocolate.

I’m going to put on my softest, warmest pjs and listen to music.

I’m seething.

So mad that I might even take a long hot shower before I do any of the above.

Take that, cold. Take that, world.

That’s what I call a tantrum.


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