I was just angry, now I'm just angry with myself. Why do I feel most compelled to write when I'm upset? I'll see something, I'll hear or experience something, and it might have a chance to filter through before I am consumed by a desire to put my little fingers to work on the keyboard... or it might not.

Right now, I'm dealing with crappy neighbors. No, nothing new, but events seem to come in waves. And the past couple of weeks have been a bit rough. I mean, one guy thought he could park his four-door extended cab long bed pick up with a trailer in our front yard. Yep. Really. In our front yard. This in addition to the menacing stares, mind you. And later, muttered curse words. Grrrrrrr.

I always tell Connor that no person can make him feel a certain way, that only he is in charge of his emotions. But darn it, it sure is easier said than done. I catch myself thinking, "They make me so mad!" And then I realize I'm only letting myself become angry. And then I realize I want to write (probably because I'm angry) and then before I know it, I'm angry because I'm writing because I'm angry. I'm feeling the If You Give a Pig a Pancake motif at work here, but my version is not nearly as cute or entertaining. My next post will not be a rant. Promise.