Heatwave

Oh My God.
I am so mad I feel like I will combust in ten seconds. I feel like a ticking time bomb. No, I feel like a shaken pop can with an infinite amount of pressure building up inside of it, waiting, just waiting, for some idiot to open it. Only I will not erupt, or actually I will erupt, only not in sickly sweet carbonated liquid, but in screams and tears and misplaced punches. I feel like a damn has burst inside of me. I feel like fire, like a fever, only I'm not sick with the flu, I'm sick with rage.
I don't know how else to describe how I feel other than I feel like the color red, like a bad fight, or, or, like when they don't have the jeans you wanted in your size. (Yes, I know how materialistic that sounded).
And I don't want to say why I'm so mad, other than how much I hate it when I am made helpless and when I am talked down to and made to look like a fool and I can't do anything about it but fight back tears and wallow in the melted puddle, in the sole remnants of my own self worth.

Calm down, J, seriously, just chill.

Bite me. I'm 16 years young and I'm having a good-day-turned-bad-night.
I think I'm entitled to a little melodrama.