Hormones, low blood sugar, general bitchiness

I don't care what you call it. I'm trying to paint chairs on our balcony and our neighbor is cooking curdled cow shit with a side of dumpster spices. Holding your nose and painting is not fun. Actually, the painting I've been sick of - the spices that were scraped from the bottom of a dead rhino's bung hole are just the cherry on top. Or maybe it's just today. The child in front of me in line at Wal-Mart kept banging his foot into my cart and ignored my glare until finally I hissed, "QUIT!" And not quietly in that way where you can say later, "well I tried to stop him but I guess no one heard me," No, his mother turned around and said, "are you kicking her buggy?" Yes, your ingrate-child is. And I like kids. No, I love them. But not this one. Get your spoiled, slimy little foot off my cart and your insolent eyes back in your head you little brat. Today my meanness and bad mood are allowing me the kind of bravery I don't usually have. The kind of bravery I could not find when I was 12 and would not tell the hairdresser that the perm chemicals were burning my neck out of embarassment. I just sat there. And I think perhaps that is why shy people end up with some crazy angry side. I'm not shy anymore, and I don't consider myself particularly angry either. But sometimes, sometimes those years of just being polite bubble up and I want to scream, TURN YOUR OVEN OFF AND THROW THAT STANK FOOD OUT THE WINDOW BEFORE I VOMIT INTO A BAG AND PLACE IT LOVINGLY ON YOUR DOOR MAT. please.