My Wednesday

I’m so filled with white hot rage, that the door to my writer’s room opened on my exhale.

I saw a mother pushing a baby in a stroller, and I pegged my mobile phone at her. (The baby that is.)

When I stood in the middle of the street and stomped my foot, screaming, the bitumen cracked – and hot lava oozed out dissolving my feet. But I didn’t notice, because my white hot rage was hotter than the burning lava, and the smell of my feet melting only gave me slight relief.

I’ve never been this angry before. I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve already eaten and I don’t feel like crying. Burping might help.

Am I about to get my period? Or maybe I’ve finally arrived. Maybe I’ve suddenly become . . . a true New Yorker.