You know what really grinds my gears? I’m getting heated just thinking about it. My blood boils with the heat of a thousand red suns. I’m full of uncontrollable, undeniable, uncomfortable, unimaginable, unintelligible, unceasing, uncanny, unbreakable, unquenched, unsophisticated, unincorporated rage.
I am a quantum superstring of vibrating rage. I am a post-event-horizon singularity of distemper. I am a seething vortex of ire, all storm, no eye. There is no safe harbor from my unceasing conflagration of wrath. It pervades my being; it has become my essence. I have become an infinitely dense point of fiery vexation, of incendiary umbrage. Light itself cannot escape the gravity of my logarithmically imploding hatred for the mortal world. My fury predates the Big Bang and will be the only lingering trace of human existence after the entire universe collapses.
Actually, everything about my life drives me up the wall. So many things get under my skin I should probably see a dermatologist immediately. Thinking about how bothered I am ruffles my feathers even more – do you ever just sit and seethe about the sheer number of things you’re pissed about? In fact, once I start myself on a downward spiraling whirlpool of aggression, I lose sight of the original target of my anger, which ticks me off even more. On my best days, I contemplate the sheer number of things I need to be angry about, a quantity which itself sparks incendiary fission reactions of unmitigated, colossal, killer Kung Fury. There’s just not enough time in the day for me to express to you how angry I am. Every time I fly off the handle, I get even more enraged by the fact that the handle’s broken now. Oh, I should stop being such a pessimist? Hard for the glass to be half-full when I smashed it against the wall half an hour ago.