That thing happened to me today where I got so mad at something that I yelled an unsavory word inside my car, very loud.  I had driven to Middlebrook Pike, a part of town I only visit on special occasions like a high school graduation, a homeschool band concert, or when it’s time to get lost.  (If I get lost anywhere in Knoxville, it’s going to be on Middlebrook Pike, without question, always.) Before this, I had been driving around in the hot sun with no air conditioning and a muffler that sounds like a cement-mixer full of marbles and anger, and worrying a little about money and whether I’m screwing my future self over big time.  And also whether I’m getting fat.

Anyway, I was on Middlebrook today because I’m rebinding someone’s Bible who lives out there, and my Google directions utterly failed me.  After driving up and down a three-mile stretch of Middlebrook for about twenty minutes, I figured out that I was way the hell down here when I was supposed to be way the hell down there.  This is why there was a Pilot and a Burger King, not a Pilot and a McDonald’s.  Thank God because I was getting VERY tired of driving past the Xpedx and the huge ominous white chemical-company silos.  So I hit the gas and pass the walk-in clinic, and am suddenly driving away from businesses into churchland, and by churchland I mean that there were suddenly huge churches and huger parking lots on both sides of the road.  Feeling of uncertainty rises, as familiar to me as the feeling of sweat trickling down my forehead, and I yell.

I say all this to inform you (especially those of you whose eyes shine with delight when you find that this three-word phrase has a one-word simile, i.e., that there’s a much shorter and more specific way to say something) that there’s a name for this.  I found out what it’s called via a blog that Katie J sent me (please read entire blog — is hilarious), and here’s a link to the post that clears everything up so nicely.   And it has incredible illustrations & diagrams, which might be the most awesome bit of the whole business.  It’s called the “Sneaky Hate Spiral.”  I’ll leave all spiritual observations for another day, when the effects of the sneaky hate have worn off.  For now, I’m going to have some rice pudding and look at a wedding magazine that mistakenly arrived in our mailbox today.

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