Petulant #4

I am throwing a tantrum. Full on. Flat on my stomache, face down, fists balled, arms and legs flailing, screaming at the top of my lungs. And I am absolutely refusing to move.

And I know there is a paternal figure waiting patiently for me to stop so he can tell me that I can't have what I want right now, but it's not the end of the world; however, I am not done screaming and flailing. I am not quite done being mad about the fact that I can't have exactly what I want, in the manner that I want it, right this very second. I'm angry about the fact that I know that this tantrum is fruitless and won't get me anywhere, but it's cathartic and I'll continue until it is out of my system.

Just so you know.