Moodiness

Dispositional Update: My humors have taken a swing from the Melancholic to the Choleric. Just plain old ill-tempered-ness and impatience with, frankly, everything and everyone, who are, of course, in conspiracy against me--or so the voices in my head (who all sound strangely like my third-grade French instructor who introduced me to the concept of inappropriate touching) tell me. But really, what I'm ticked off at, is the mood itself. Choler? Again??? When, I ask you, do I get to be Sanguine? Never? Really? Well, could I at least be Phlegmatic? They seem nice and relaxed! No? So I'm stuck between Dreamy Depressive Philosophical Bleak Bergman-esque Imaginative Untethered Whiny Narcissistic Self-Pitying Gloom and Angry Irritable Impulsive Knee-Jerk-ish Cranky Obnoxious Tempermental Snarling? These are my choices? Feeling like an extroverted jerk or an introverted jerk? Crap. Somebody pass me a jar of leeches--I need to draw out the black bile and the spleen, but leave the blood, OK, guys? I need that stuff.

But as it is, I find myself, as I listen to Sense and Sensibility on CD during my lengthy commutes, barking at Marianne to snap the hell out of it and grow the hell up--yes, Willoughby is a duplicitous prick, of course he is, he's your first boyfriend--all first boyfriends are duplicitous pricks! Just suck it up and get over it--and stop reading so much damn poetry! And as for you, Elinor: you know, 'stoic forbearance' is nice up to a point, but after about twelve chapters, I think we all feel the desire to force your head into a bucket of water until the bubbles stop, you god-d***ed saint.

Hmm. Come to think of it--that may be why I'm in this mood. Damn you, Austen!