I have an unusual kind of temper. Little things will send me into a cursing, maniacal rage, while things that should make me blood-boilingly angry make me quiet and patient and determined.
Last night, the meal I was cooking dripped oil onto the bottom of the oven and filled the house up with smoke, and I wasn’t mildly annoyed about having to open the windows and fan it out, I was livid. How dare the pan drip oil? How dare that oil burn and smoke? How dare such things impede my dinner?
(I had to stop and clean the oven midway through cooking and, somehow, the meal came out better than if I had simply cooked it normally. Still angry about it, though.)
People who don’t know me well tend to think that I’m quiet and nice and never swear. In fact, I’m chatty, I enjoy swearing enough to blister your ears, and I’m at least ninety percent powered by rage. I’m a volatile mixture in a misleading package, and my god do I have emotions to spare.
So, here’s a drabble.