As I was trudging up my curvy driveway with my heavy backpack, I was still thinking in Haiku and contemplating what I was going to write for this paper without giving myself away too easily. I could not wait to get into my house at last, relax on my comfy couch, and watch some good old TV before doing my homework. I put my hand on the screen door handle and pulled downward. It was locked. I knew that the door inside, of which I had the key, was locked also. I was helpless. As my anger was steadily rising like a mountain ready to erupt, profanity flowed easily through my lips. I went around to the back of my house to check if any of the doors were open. They were not. In the past when this had happened, I climbed through the 1970s windows you could easily open from the outside. Ever since last December, though, when we put in new windows you cannot open from the outside, I knew I could never do that again.
Now I stood there, knowing that I would have to endure the long wait outside for an hour and a half with the TV just a pane of glass away. On a rash whim, I decided to ring my mom at work and yell at her for making a stupid mistake. This was my point of explosion. I took all my anger of the situation out on her because I knew it was her fault; she had done the same thing before. My mom’s reaction was not what I wanted. She reacted calmly and did not become defensive; probably because of her work with angry parents. This just frustrated me even more. There was steam coming from my ears. This was making up for all the times where I wanted to yell at my mom for various other reasons but felt too guilty. I was good, though, and refrained myself from swearing, which is what I usually do when I get mad. It was terribly tough, but I managed.
After I was finished, I angrily hung up the phone, still enraged and annoyed. I was going to have to wait for an hour and a half, which seemed like forever. I did not have very much homework I could do while I was waiting, seeing as most of my books were in the house—not that I would have done it. Hot tears of frustration and anger streamed down my face, like hot lava flowing down a mountain, as I pondered about what I could be doing if I were inside. I finally took a deep breath and tried to focus on making flash cards, a fairly easy mental task. I wished I could listen to angry music to help calm me down, but that was also inside, along with food and a bathroom, both of which I needed terribly at the moment.
I wanted everything to go my way, not caring what sacrifices other people had to make for that to happen. In the end, my mom hurried home and let me in, after I had calmed down, making me feel guilty because she had to get off early from work just to open the door. I felt ashamed that I had let my emotions get in the way of my actions. I knew I should have called her after I had cooled off, but I could not help it; I wanted sweet revenge.