Organization is the Key

I have an official "Shit List." A friend of mine gave it to me, as a method for dealing with what she lovingly (?) refers to as my "rage disorder."
The Shit List is a fill-in-the-blank sort of memo pad, its purpose etched out in massive block letters across the top. The color scheme on this little stationary gem is brown on tan. Cute, right?
Aaaaanyways, the Shit List helps the confused and angry spell out a special little haiku of hatred for any occasion. Anything you might need to know when stoking a good, strong, ridiculous grudge is laid out: "offender," "violation," "severity," "plan of attack," along with the minutiae of where and when someone dared to offend you -- so it will be easier to track them down and punish them. There's even a check-box for pay-back, so that, with all the justice you're handing out, you can remember who you've already gotten and avoid double-dipping with the long arm of righteousness.
This thing is a God-send.
I'm angry at someone pretty much every hour on the hour -- a veritable weather channel update of rage. Before I received this miraculous gift, however, I was not organized with my hating. I'd be doing really well, focusing my death-ray glare on talks-too-loudly-in-public guy, and then, without warning, lady who can't walk in a straight line EVEN THOUGH THERE ARE LINES BUILT INTO THE SIDEWALK would steal all my precious precious anger forces.

Irrational rage is hard to keep up, people! And woe betide the crooked walker (or loud talker, or person taking up too much space on the subway) who would unwittingly (everything they do is unwitting, the jerks) turn my wrath upon him. Back in the good old days of unfocused, under-organized, manic anger, the poor sap would have received the double whammy of me being angry for whatever he was doing, as well as my anger at being distracted before I could show my full disgust at the previous unwitting jerk.

No longer.

Not only does this list allow me to be more efficient in my hating -- producing a single, laser-like beam of incensed-ness with each new entry on the list, it also keeps the fires of my displeasure burning longer.

Before, I would have been angry at the girl wearing a Fashion Institute hoodie (rather akin to wearing a PETA-brand dalmation puppy coat, only much worse-looking) for only the brief moments that we passed on the street. If I had thought hard enough and hadn't been distracted by my commute home (the subway being a traveling gypsy caravan of ire-inducements), I might have been able to let my anger steep for the next hour or so, but eventually, she, like so many others before, would have shuffled from my mind and gone on her ignorant, hoodie-swathed way.

Would have, but with the List, no one is safe.

Hoodie girl is just the first entry. Now, when I feel that horrible cold blankness in my heart that comes after an extended period without the warmth of pure outrage to power me, I need only glance at the little brown notepad siting on my desk: "Offender: Girl on Street [stranger]; Violation: Wearing FIT hoodie; Plan of Attack: angry bafflement," to return focus and meaning to my life.
It's almost enough to make me smile.