*supermad.

I have developed a disturbing level of hostility lately, a spittin' sparks approach to disappointment that has begun to surprise even me. Granted, I haven't smacked anybody or run my car into anything (purposefully), but I'm not an angry person as a rule, so it's a change of pace that I find myself muttering obscenities under my breath at gape-mouthed, dopey bank tellers or assuming a cringe-worthy decibel level at the splendid folks at Southeast Toyota Finance. (I repeat, splendid.)

Those moments of hapless fury start to wear on a person who wants nothing more than a plate of French fries and stretchy pants and possibly to be someone's pampered spouse. I understand that those first two might preclude the latter.

In other words, I'm in the market for a hero. He has to be strong but sensitive.



Kind to puppies.



Discombobulated by the out-of-doors.



Dreadfully earnest.



With a flair for creative revenge.



Happy Friday, everyone! Don't worry, you're safe from my ire—I still love you. Just don't ask me for money. I don't have any, and that seems to be where the trouble starts.