“You have a temper.” She repeats, thinking that my silence meant that I did not hear what she had said.

“So..?” I scoffed with all the arrogance I could muster, which was not hard considering how much of a megalomaniac I am. “Everyone has a temper.”

“That might be true.” She smiles at me, fronting an exterior of calm and maturity, as if she was mocking my obvious agitation with an air of contrived professionalism. At that moment, I wanted to reach over her desk, throttle her mindlessly and wipe that patronizing grin off her face. But before I can do this, she delivers another blow to my ego by finishing off with a very sly.. “But not everyone has a problem with theirs.”

I grit my teeth at this and look away again. I could feel the heat creep up my neck and pool near my face; and judging from the speed at which blood rushed up to my head, I wasn’t that surprised that I could hear my own beating heart thumping furiously inside my ears. My entire face must be as bloody red as my eyesight. Yes, I think this is my temper at the brink of rearing its ugly head. How.. ironic. And impeccably timed as always.

“You have a very serious problem.” She continues gravely, barely paying attention to the fact that I was breathing loud and hard through my nostrils like a raging bull. “One that I think will affect you for years if not properly addressed.”

This lady better be ready for an impressive display of that temper she insists that I have a problem with – cause right now, I’m having a hard time reigning it in. Anger was the first among my many defense mechanisms; my volatile temper was my first line of protection whenever I felt myself threatened in any way. And it, coupled with pride and denial, made a very formidable team – a very destructive one to boot. My ginormous pride was taking a hit from a woman that I barely knew – and needless to say, I wasn’t taking it very well. If I wanted to hear my flaws and imperfections recited out loud, I would’ve sat through yet another one of my dad’s angry and disappointed long distance phone calls. You know, those cross country scoldings he gives me whenever he was forced to pay an obscene amount of money to hush victims of my immature and juvenile delinquent ways? I get those a lot – well, maybe once or twice a month at least. It’s the only time we talk to each other these days; dysfunctional as it was, those draining phone calls were our only means of communication as father and daughter. Our sad little bonding time, they were. Maybe that’s why I do the destructive things I do – to give my father a reason to give his neglected daughter some attention, no matter how twisted the whole set-up seemed to be.