Recipe for Irrational Ire

You could key my car and I’d be super pissed.

You could open-mouthed cough near me in the same aisle of Walmart and I might very well throw a box of toothpaste at your head.

You could hurt my loved ones and, in my pain and rage, I would become an avenging angel of destruction, dedicating my existence to ending your existence, Chucky Bronson-style.

However, all of those forms of anger are faint and distant glimmers compared to the white hot supernova of fury that instantaneously floods my being each and every time I catch my earbud wire on the drawer knob by the kitchen sink.

You have no idea.

(The perils of allowing your wireless earbuds to run out of juice before you’ve had your coffee.)

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