Continuing my simmering bad mood

Okay, I tried to get my mind off of it; I really did. And I went out to do something productive in hopes of making the house more inviting and cheerful.

Said in a grumbling hiss and then transcribed here:

I’ll tell you what I found – sticky, gooey, dirt-embedded previous attempts at improvement smeared on floors, counters, sofas, under tables and splatted on cabinets and walls and doors.

And asked rhetorically in a sharp, clipped monotone of total disgust through clinched teeth:

And why is this? I’ll tell you why. I live with complete . . . (here there was sputtering spasms of word searching).

I could not find the right one, although I tried out several.  So right now I am sitting here with my face screwed up in the angry AmeliaJake Venomous Furor.

I know, I know, I know, I know . . . I know all of the rise above this attitudes I should be adopting.  I know I should think it through when it comes to possible reactions and blood pressure spikes.

Good-natured people can’t understand that intellectual thinking does not sway my gut at all. It is a steaming locomotive of a drive determined to burst forth and

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