I've determined this. It's ok to be angry. As much as my southern pleasantries engrained in me fight against it, it's absolutely fine to be mad. Or sad. Or even rageful.
So I'm mad.
I'm mad at everything and nothing. I'm mad at silly things like my closet and my nail polish. I'm mad that my refrigerator is always empty even though I actually prefer it that way. I'm mad that my Pandora station is bad today. I'm mad that someone in my office has that "ding-ding" text signal that belongs to some of the kryptonite on my phone. I'm mad that I wore tights today when it's 70+ degrees outside and the perfect day to finally wear these:
I'm angry at boys for being dumb. And I'm also angry at the boys who aren't dumb because then I can't blame everything on "boys are dumb". I'm angry that friends move. I'm angry that I can't take everyone I care about on vacation with me. I'm angry that a Reese egg is so good, yet so bad. I'm angry that it's that time of year when everyone everywhere is pregnant.
I'm furious that I can't fix things. I'm furious that people I care about are going through things beyond their control. I'm furious at people I've never met for not thinking major decisions through before affecting other people's lives. I'm furious that people hide things like anger and sadness because "everything happens for a reason" or "God's in control". Even if those statements are real and true, those hidden nuggets are valid.
All that to say... it's also ok that I'm mad. It's ok to be angry. And it's just fine to be furious. Without these rageful feelings, I wouldn't realize how much I cared about these same things. I might take someone for granted without feeling such livid irritation on their behalf. I wouldn't know how important things are to me.
So again, I say, I'm mad. And I'm ok with that.