agitation is physical

I'm having one of those days where agitation grips me around the chest like a vice, makes me angry with everything, makes me want to clear the table with one sweep of my arm, makes me want to plant my fist into the center of my keyboard like a giant bulb into the soft dirt of a garden because my computer is going too slow. Agitation makes riding my bike in front of a TriMet bus seem like the most relaxing thing I could do.

I'm at the coffeeshop, trying to study, gripped by this agitation, and there's this guy here who has easily become a target for all my misplaced loathing. He's been on my radar since I first walked in (two hours ago) just because he's mildly creepy looking and he's been staring out the window (directly over my head) the whole time I've been here. He's got a curly, man-bob haircut, which, by itself is creepy, and I've been imagining only the worst of him since I first saw him. All the creepiness was ratcheted up about 1,000 notches just now when I finally noticed the paperback book he's been holding up prominently while he stares wistfully out the window. The book, which he's holding so everyone can see it, is called "Your Sexual Self" -- the title written in sweeping, water-color script, a book that seems clearly intended for new agey women.

Grody. Now he seems to be looking at me a lot rather than over my head out the window. Grody, grody, grody. It's as though the book is some kind of advertisement. It would be one thing if he was just deeply engrossed in the book (putting the "gross" back in "engrossed") -- but no, he's holding it up and staring into space, like he's waiting for some likeminded individual to come along and bite the bait.

I want to kick him in the face. But I won't. I'll just sit here and feel agitated and try not to punch my computer.