Flashback to me, pregnant with Hank, walking along the street with Bryan — host-gift wine bottle in hand. I notice an angry man up the street, weaving and yelling in our path. In the time it takes to blink, my brain flashes to me smashing the bottom of the wine bottle on a nearby lamppost, and assuming a fight stance while bellowing profanities.
Whoa. That’s new.
I think the ready-to-gut-offenders adrenaline will fade once I give birth, but not so. This afternoon at the cafe, someone hovers suspiciously over my bag. Cut to mental image of him grabbing my bag, and me leaping over the table to tackle him and claw at his eyes.
What the hell.
When did I become some Clockwork Orange version of Ally McBeal? If I ever decide to take up caffeine again, you might need to alert someone — lest I fly at Bryan in a blind rage when he tries to take a bite off my plate without asking first.