inside_of_sixty_seconds raze you get to a point where the sickening sound of everything that's somehow failed to kill you has battered your brain past the point of reason. three four-seat cessnas and seven wide-body jets have threatened to rip the roof off of your house inside of sixty seconds. the children behind you are in their fifth hour of unrestrained screaming. every dog in the world is barking out their boredom for you to hear. you need to hit something. so you slam your open hand into the blue top of a tupperware container that's closed but not quite airtight. palm punching plastic. there's no catharsis in it. just a sore wrist that won't be cured with a kiss. the fridge door crashing into the cubital tunnel that runs through your right arm is little more than an afterthought. you swear about it anyway. 260719 what's it to you? who go blather from