“I want to punch him in the fucking face!” you’re screaming, as you angrily turn the keys in your car. You fume the whole drive, hate singing along to Taylor Swift’s Mean and gorging on a bag of Funyuns that has been sitting in your backseat for two weeks. The stale crunch clashes with Taylor’s spirited solo, and you slam both hands on your steering wheel in rage.
You get home, throw open your car door, and rush into the house. You stomp past your mother who just stares after you, mouth slightly open, a look of empathy mixed with annoyance on her face.
You slam your bedroom door, and dive for your computer. Your first instinct is to tear him apart on Twitter and Facebook, and your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing up an awesomely spiteful status update about that time he accidentally hit himself in the face…
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