The need to write something down is pulling itself from the tips of my fingers into my keyboard.  The springs under each key bouncing back with a pop that says, push me down again... again... again!  Children on a trampoline, bouncing and laughing.

But I am not laughing.  I am actually angry today.  A sullen, dark anger that has been building for several weeks and finally exploded out of me in a volcanic rush of acidic remarks and sulfuric tears. It's still rumbling inside of me, an ulcerated stomach with no promise of relief from a magic purple pill. 

There are several things about anger that I understand now.  I understand why red is an angry color.  The backs of my eyelids are prominently red from exhaustion. Anger makes me tired.  I understand why anger is bad for my health.  My back is in knots and my head is throbbing in time with my accelerated pulse.

What I don't understand is why I can't let it go.  I want to.  I really do.  I don't like feeling like this. But I can't.  It's like it's attached itself to my insides and is driving me in close marching formation toward the battlefield, and all I want to do is trip over my fallen comrades, cry for a little while, and look up and see the sunlight breaking through the clouds with a wry, wistful smile of wonder and healing on my face.

Yeah.  It so doesn't work that way.  So today I'm dealing with anger with too many adjectives and a hope that my poor keyboard recovers from the forceful strokes of my belligerent fingers.