I need new socks.

Again. I just bought some, maybe a year and a half ago. Now I need more. What the hell?

Someday, some woman is going to tattoo a warning to other women, on my forehead, while I sleep. Some other day, someone is going to explain to me why it is I don't do everyone a bloody favor and stay single.

Strangely enough, while whining, complaining, and cruel mood swings are in my nature, giving up isn't. Wheee! Another troubled relationship. It must be a year evenly divisible by one.

But you know what, screw that. There's always enough anger to go around. I don't need to be mad at myself: that's taken care of, and all I'll do when I get mad at myself is shut myself off from the world outside, as if the world outside has wronged me somehow, say something cold-hearted to end the whole situation, and move on, and maybe a couple years later really truly understand what I was feeling and, maybe, though not likely, understand what I could have done differently.

No, what's done is done. Putting on anger like a suit of really uncomfortable and silly-looking armor will not unring any of the several bells that have been rung. Relax, unclench, engage, be open. I will do this differently.