I genuinely don't know what to do with myself after today, or maybe I do know and I just don't like the answer. It’s... a lot. And I’m just trying to make sense of it all, because this isn't the first time I've felt like this, but it’s the first time it’s been this intense, you know? Like, actually *scared* of myself, which sounds dramatic, I know, but it's the truth. I just moved back here after college, and everyone was like "oh, you'll love it, it's so peaceful," and it is, I guess, but peaceful can also mean stifling, especially when you're the new librarian and everyone knows your grandma and they all watched you grow up and they think they know everything about you. They don't. So I was at work, just a normal Tuesday, which is usually pretty quiet anyway. Mrs. Henderson was checking out a stack of those historical romances, the kind with the half-naked guys on the cover, and she was going on about her prize-winning petunias for what felt like an eternity. And I was just smiling, nodding, doing the whole "oh, really?" thing, because that's what you do here. You smile. You nod. You pretend to care about petunias when your brain is screaming to be let out. And then, out of nowhere, it happened. Not out loud, thank god, but it was so real, like a sudden jolt, that I actually flinched. I just suddenly imagined myself shouting at her, at Mrs. Henderson, a string of the most genuinely horrible, offensive things I could possibly think of. Like, just unleashing this torrent of insults about her taste in books, about her ridiculous petunias, about how her husband probably faked his own death just to get away from her incessant chatter. And I swear, for a second, I could feel the words in my throat, almost *taste* them. It was so vivid, so visceral, that I felt a cold sweat break out, and I had to really clench my jaw to keep my face from betraying me. I mean, where did that even come from? She’s a sweet old lady! The sheer force of that imagined outburst left me shaken. I just kept scanning her books, my hands actually trembling a little bit, and I remember thinking, "Is this what it feels like to just… snap?" Because it wasn't just a fleeting thought; it was a full-blown, rage-filled fantasy, and it felt GOOD, which is the terrifying part. Like a pressure valve releasing, but in the most destructive way possible. I just wanted to scream, to lash out at something, ANYTHING, and it just happened to be Mrs. Henderson and her damn petunias. I just wanted to make some noise, some actual noise, that wasn't just the rustling of pages or the hushed whispers of people pretending to be interested in the local history section. I just wanted to feel something real, something that wasn't polite and agreeable and bland. I guess it's been building for a while, this feeling of being trapped, of always having to be "the nice librarian" or "the smart kid who came back." My ex, Mark, he always used to say I was too passive, that I let people walk all over me, and I always brushed it off because he was kind of dramatic, but now I'm starting to wonder if he had a point. I mean, I don't want to be a horrible person, but the thought of just letting loose, just for a second, it was… tempting. And now I’m sitting here, staring at my phone, hours later, and that feeling is still buzzing under my skin, like a low hum of pure, unadulterated FURY. And I don’t know what to do with it. What if it happens again? What if next time it’s not just in my head?