The wind knocked over my Red Bull can.

It spilled on my script notes.

I had a fuckin' paroxysm.

It only spilled on a few pages of notes. These notes were typed. These notes were saved on my computer. These notes could be replaced by pressing Ctrl+P.

But I took the can and whipped it around my head until the remaining Red Bull was marinating me, my chair, the sliding glass door, and some palm trees.

And I grabbed the notes--both the wet pages and the dry--and flung them into the pool.

And I crushed the can against a wall, and then I crushed it width-ways.

And this tantrum was directed at the wind.

The fucking wind.

I'm in therapy, and I exercise, and I meditate, and I keep myself very well occupied. I don't quite know how to cope with wanting to beat up a meteorological force.

If you have any ideas, you can find me taunting Poseidon's bullshit son, Aeolus.