Sometimes when I get really irritated, I find myself gloating over the feeling like a pet. It’s my special little trophy, this inflamed outrage. I stroke it and hold it close like a shivering lap dog, passing it around to baffled friends who feign interest and kiss it on its little wet nose just to make me happy. My irritation loves the attention, and I reward it with scraps from the table and intimate murmurings of approval.

Oh, my beloved indignation. Why does it feel so good to hold on to you? Negativity begets negativity, and I can only imagine what celebrations of my own petty annoyance will cause. Rainclouds that cling to my head like a crown of thorns? Perhaps cockroaches that crawl under my feet? But oh, my little widdums. How can I let the irritation run free? It might get lost or run over by an inattentive driver. Who will pick up after my indignation? Who will make sure it’s fed appropriately? Who am I without my whimpering irritation to define me? I am the owner of a carefully bred annoyance. I can’t let it go. No, I think I’ll hold on to it. Yes, and dress it up in a new little sweater. Perhaps a rhinestone barrette to hold its annoying little fur out of its annoying little eyes.

Aside: if I ever get a canine, I’m totally naming it “Indognation.”