I am angry at the world. The slightly thing inflames me, fills me with dark rage, and the very sight of my sister leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. She is irritable as well; and I need to get away. I hate it when she mumbles. I hate it when she refuses to speak to me simply because she is mad.
TALK, GET IT OUT, DON'T JUST FREAKING STAY QUIET AND KEEP WHAT'S MAKING YOU MAD INSIDE. IF I'M IRRITATING YOU, DON'T JUST STICK UP YOUR NOSE AND SNIFF.
FREAKING TALK.
I hate it when she bosses me around. "At two-thirty let me back on." I wonder what would happen if I refused? Had I said no instead of simply asking if she could manage a please, what would happen?
Perhaps she would yell. I should prefer that; her sulking and pouting gets beneath my nerves. This is stale poison and I am slowly rotting. That's why I needed to write, you understand, to cleanse myself of the poison and the dark thoughts. Writing is water flushing out the vile, choking madness. Slowly, slowly, my rage ebbs for now, as words appear in print on this screen. This will do.
I apologise for not telling this to MMC. I simply needed to wax poetic instead of ranting, which in this case would have spread the poison.