If I started screaming, I wonder if anyone would walk over and offer me a cookie.

Things are so much easier when you're six. Because when you're 24, screaming gets you nowhere. At least, nowhere any good.
Someone should have told Howard Dean that.

My problem is that I know it all too well, and without an alternative out, I'm sitting here, figuratively twiddling my thumbs, hoping something falls from a plane and hits me.

Maybe then no one would mind the screaming.