When actually faced with any justifiable reason to be mad, though, I crack. I talk to everyone who’s not involved until I’m so separated from my anger I feel like I’m a spectator. First, I might take it out on the wrong person. Like, say, in a Taco Bell parking lot during a torrential rainstorm.
Then I might drown myself in coffee or tequila (depending on the day of the week) while I try to rationalize, try to remove the emotion, try to see their side. With coffee, I’ll end up with a few nights of insomnia, with tequila a few regrettable make-out sessions and the awkward aftertaste of drunken slumber because it’s a maze, working backwards through someone else’s thoughts. I always expect to uncover some kind of evil, some kind of deep-seated malice, but usually what I find is simply human. A petty little mistake too proud to apologize for or too ashamed to admit to.
Then all that rage, those, “you couldn’t be more selfish”s and these, “look at me when I’m lecturing you”s don’t seem as useful or poignant as they did in fiction.