E.F.I.

That stands for Eternally Frustrated Individual. That's me. That was also me, yours truly, that came up with that snappy little acronym. What a genius. I know. Patting myself on the back as I write. Maybe I should start a club and see what other frustrated souls I can meet. Maybe that would be too depressing. There would be too much pent up agitation and the room would blow.

Tyler Allan Pierce = TAP = Terribly Agitated Person.

I wish I wasn't this impatient. I wish I had more tolerance. I wish upon a star. I wish I could release the stress as it climbs into my shoulders and neck and the steam starts to billow out of my nostrils. It's never a pretty sight. But it always happens. Then I need to go away for a while and be a recluse and then come out again when the monsters have gone away.

Today, the monsters were tearing away at my insides. I couldn't escape a conversation I was having in 3rd grade English that was becoming increasingly frustrating every minute. Most conversations here are in remedial English and that has been a recent source of ire for me. What do I expect? Shit, if I spoke Vietnamese, I'd be speaking like I was in pre-school. And that's definitely an overstatement.

So, maybe by writing this, I will recognize my assholiness in conversing with both friends and strangers and give myself more tolerance. I know I have to speak slowly. I know I might have to repeat myself. Maybe even a third or fourth time. I know I don't need to get mad. But I do. I need to respect these people for making an attempt to even converse with me and pack it in when my internal temperature begins to rise. Take a time out. A deep breath. Or go hibernate. And stay in my cave until I'm ready to rejoin the rest of humanity with tolerance and compasison. I might never come out!