Rolling anxiety attacks like waves.

When this tide has come entirely in, my chest will tear open, and a small excitable dog will leap out. It will be all like, "no, this is a terrible metaphor."

I would like to be Pamela Winchell.

When she gets upset she can hit things with an ax, or ban practices and persons which offend her. That would be perfect.

Stop talking about the Republicans in my presence. I no longer have a futon beneath which to hide; and my quilt is too thin. Additionally, I am unconvinced that I could even get close enough to the capitol to set fire to myself in such location. The gleam in my eye would make my intentions all too clear.