caustic angst

There is a point and time in what I imagine is most, if not very nearly every person's life, when they once-and-for-all stand up abruptly at their labor-worn desk, pushing back their rickety chair onto the floor with a loud crash, or clunk, and slam their fist, either to their desk or somewhere relatively close by onto the surface of another object (which very well may be a fellow employee), and with this violence action, declare audibly their disgust for their life in general. For me, thankfully, this has not yet happened to me. Mostly because I do not have a labor-worn desk, a rickety chair, or any employees. Such is the life of an angsty teen. Oh, my browser's auto correct function doesn't like angsty, so let's try the word caustic.


Okay, I'm not as bad as to be considered highly acidic, but for the sake of word choice, it's somewhat applicable. But whatever, I really don't feel like finishing this rant right now.

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Cough it up on the rug!