CYMBAL CRASHING TERRITORY

I am delighted to inform you that I no longer identify as a Gentle Simmerer.

Yes, I have finally bubbled over!

You wouldn’t know it;

On the outside I’m still calm, even-tempered little-old-me.

Nevertheless, too many bubbles of exasperation have flipped overboard

And from now on I’m ready to leave the gunk where it flops,

To simply snarl and walk out, no craps given.

No, I am not what highfalutin morons might call a hot mess.

I am beyond the drum-roll

And have entered full-on cymbal crashing territory,

A place I feel warrants a rite of passage,

Something to commemorate years of wading

Through a flabbergast of

Dismissers,

Gaslighters,

Nutcases,

And Crooks.

Funny how it took one last jaded eyeroll from a Man in a White Coat seated on

The Important Side of the Desk

For my lid to slip off,

For me to sit forward, eyes narrowed and slam down my fist.

CRASH!

Of course, a barrage of denials burst from his lips,

Yet his Oops button lit right up.

I may get a tattoo!