Oh, it’s a battle, people. A constant battle. A battle for me to keep this thing called “anger” in check. To “manage” it, so to speak. To temper the temper, when, really, I’d rather be tempted by tempura. But I try. I really do. And not in some sort of namby-pamby, flitty-twitty New Age way, such as creating a special little feng-shui corner in my apartment designated just for the purpose of wearing loose-fitting all-cotton clothing while assuming a yoga pose and om-ing and/or chanting with tiny musical bells gently affixed to my fingers and tits. No, I take out much of my aggression while doing insane hills on the treadmill at the gym until I’m not quite sure if I’m merely dripping sweat or leaking brain-fluid.
However, despite my aversion to a certain variety of New Age approach, I must confess to trying to open my mind somewhat to the possibility that punching brick walls and bashing people’s heads in with old-fashioned maces might not be the best way to let off steam when a treadmill is nowhere to be found. And so it was with heavy heart that I decided to try something I found on a certain blog devoted to “happiness” (I won’t link to it, because I am not that kind of girl) and also hawked on Oprah. (Yes, I record the show. Yes, I do. And I have no idea why, since 99.9267561% [yes, that is an accurate quantification, gauged with scientific apparatus] of the time I delete it without watching.)
The experiment involved a thickish band of orange rubber (not quite one of those wretched “cause” bracelets) that I would wear on my right wrist in order to remind me to stop being such a bitch, thus cleverly dubbed the “(anti-)bitch bracelet”. The idea was not that I would snap myself with it every time I felt particularly petulant or petty — physical pain is not a deterrent for a seasoned masochist such as I — but that I would just look at it and be reminded. You know me. I’m all about the subtlety.
I am pleased to report that this worked for about two weeks. Well, I mean, it worked insofar as not expressing the bitchiness. No, instead of letting it out into the open, to run amok through the streets of Manhattan, it remained pushed down inside my viscera, where it churned with such wicked desperation that it turned into butter, which then seeped out my pores along with the sweat and brain-fluid, consequently attracting way too many lobster-tails, popcorn, and Parker House rolls, none of which I took to very kindly.
But then a funny thing happened. Rather than remove the orange band myself, it burst free from my wrist of its own accord. I suppose that, just like in a game of “chicken”, one of us had to snap first. One day, without any fanfare or warning, I found it on the floor, flailing, flopping, and gasping, “Enough already. Enough. FUCK YOU FUCK FUCK YOU YOU YOU FUCK!!!!!
So now I’m back in the bitter, sadistic saddle again, where I belong. And I couldn’t be happier if I tried.

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