the placid surface of Io

I can get so bloody angry sometimes; it just doesn't seem rational. Though things are too busy for interruptions, I'm glad that I'm jetting next week because I really do need to get away; various aspects of my current state are driving me insane and I'm great at bottling it up for inopportune moments, like when I really need to concentrate. But where the hell is a person supposed vent anyway? My closest friend and confidante has become distant from me these last weeks, for reasons I'm not privy to, and the only person I feel safe enough to talk about anything with in person I can't let loose upon because simply being around him diffuses every painful sentiment in my being. I need to find a punch-bag; I've been one since the first time anybody thought of me as trustworthy, but there's no one around for me to take anything out on. For someone with such a wonderful group of friends, I feel distinctly ill-served in this department, but not through any shortcoming of those I love; it's my own doing; I just don't want to, can't, unload on these people who would verily take all that I could throw at them. I wouldn't even know where to start. What a pain in the head. I'm going to go work in the basement. I need to castrate some flowers. This is me, directionless, but I have a scalpel and ultra-fine surgical forceps. Steer well clear. Britain is angry.