I'm afraid I'm turning mean. Going bad. Becoming a raging snotball. Maybe it's a temporary, stress-related disorder, but lately I've been so hyper-aware and hyper-sensitive, I feel like I've been PMS-ing for a couple of months straight. I've always been a really friendly, amiable girl. In fact, I'm generally well-liked, popular, even. But I won't be keeping the Miss Congeniality crown for long, unless I figure out what's going on.

I've always had a bit of a dual personality thing going on. The dominant one is my pleasant, kindly, good-humored, fun-loving demeanor. The side that everyone knows and likes, because it buys everyone drinks when it's drunk. But there is another, much less sociable side, which has only been known to a few ex-boyfriends, my mother, and a couple of hapless cashiers here and there over the years. This is the cruel, exacting, demanding, complete BITCH side of me. And I have a feeling that it's been down so long, it's coming back with a vengeance.

Since I haven't had a target, I mean, boyfriend, for a while, I haven't had an outlet for my aggression. I've been deprived not only of sex, but of the other only good reason to have a guy around, which is being able to pick fights and get the bile out of my system and into theirs. I have no one whom I can just be arbitrarily nasty to. My mother is far enough away, so we actually have a pretty copacetic relationship nowadays. My best friend just doesn't do anything to piss me off, so I can't turn the screws on her. And I have such a crappy car, that I can't even exorcise my demons through random acts of road rage anymore.

I'm left with heading to the mall when I need to vent. When I'm in a really bad mood, I go shopping. The act of buying stuff I really don't need only pacifies me momentarily. What really makes me feel like myself again, is getting into confrontations over the customer service counter. I throw the receipt away as I enter the store, just to see what happens when I try to return something. This simple act ensures that I will find some kind of argument, which is the only thing on my mind. Do I really need the $5.99 in cash? No. Do I really need to make some seventeen year old girl tear up when she calls the manager? You bet. Victory is mine!

If I don't have anything to return, I head straight to Victoria's Secret. I have been addicted to their brand of pantyhose for about a decade, and over the years, I have been the victim of unparalleled levels of pathetically poor service. It's like, whenever I enter one of their stores, no matter where it is, everyone disappears, except the new girl who can't remember how to swipe a credit card. I think I'm the universal symbol for competent cashier break time, which would really piss me off, except that it guarantees me the opportunity to willfully eviscerate the remaining clerk. I've had some of my finest fits of pique in their pink boutiques. The company could probably edit together a couple of hours of my Miss Misery routine and sell it to Fox as one of those real life drama shows: "When Customers Go Bad-- Jen Lane in Clackamas Town Center!”

Nothing helps me find my balance more than traveling. Not the seeing of new places, or relaxing by the pool, but the boundless opportunities to fly into indignant rages over reservations, seat assignments and in-flight service. I don't really have to go anywhere to find satisfaction, since I find a great deal of release in just raking over the telephone reservations clerks. If booking the flight isn't too problematic, and I'm on the warpath, I'll start talking about getting a special meal. Suddenly, I'm a kosher-only macrobiotic on a special diet of kale and sunflower seeds. Isn't there any way you can accomodate my needs? I'M PAYING GOOD MONEY AND I'M A FREQUENT FLIER! I WANT MILES! And your ass in a sling. Don't you dare reach for that good-bye button.

Taking the bus gets my rocks off, too. Of course, it's not the NYC Subway, which is the anti-socialite's wet dream come true. If you can't fight there, you can't fight anywhere. But there's enough assholes to go around even here in Pleasantville. If I get on at rush hour, I know I'll be able to berate some seat-hogging stranger into submission for letting their bags sit comfortably while little old lady me straphangs. If I get lucky, there'll will be some drum beating Jerry's kid with an even poorer sense of rhythm than I. Now, I don't usually raise my voice when I'm in confrontational mode, but with the noisy hippies I'll make an exception, especially since I know I'm doing it not just for me, but for commuters everywhere. I WILL FIND A WAY TO CRAM THAT BONGO UP YOUR ASS IF YOU DO NOT STOP RIGHT NOW. Hippies should be seen and not heard.

Most of my raging is confined to my internal demesnes. I do a lot of yelling and shouting through closed lips. I can spend weeks with an internal soundtrack of looped together vindictives, epithets and curses turned up to eleven in my head. I do find this a little disturbing, because like Holden Caulfield, I'd like to wipe all the FUCK YOUs, if not off the walls of the world, then at least off the walls of my brain. If I'm worked up enough to share my hate with someone, I'd rather not resort to banality. I'm not always emotionally prepared to make a scene, no matter how emotionally disturbed I may be. Plus, while I do come up with some good zingers, it's usually not until the would-be recipient has long moved out of range. This is an endless source of frustration to me, which of course compounds my misery. So, to last night's jerk who refused me the only empty seat at the bar, saying "I'm guarding my personal space”, let me tell you YOUR PERSONALITY DOES THAT FOR YOU. At least, it works for me.