Relax...

I've been told I need to relax more.  I don't see why.  Just because I'm a tightly wound bundle of anger and paranoia pounded together into one very, very small woman and the only accurate depiction of me is a mousetrap (Get it?  Cause of 'Kitty.'  Man, I slay me sometimes. Ha, ha, ha) straining under tension, I think I have to relax more...


RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE.

And it's not like I'm particularily angry at the moment; in fact for all intents and purposes I'm rather calm as I sit here and type this.  There's just the easily drifting background level of anger and frustration present in my mind that I use to keep myself from passing out completely, or going into a coma from which I would never return.  Which wouldn't be fun, obviously; how would I make fun of people or plan for the Zombie Apocalypse if I were in a coma?  It would be just like 28 Days Later, but significantly less fun as I am not Cillian Murphy.

Perhaps I need a vacation. Something nice, with a beach and some sort of brightly colored but dangerously illegal drink in my hand and palm trees and no hurricanes. Oh to go on a vacation... And then if there are zombies, I'll have extra reason to pay some sort of horrible god-like retibution upon their rotting bodies: THEY RUINED MY DAMN TRIP.