Sweeping agitation

Nothing infuriates me more than an arrogant woman.

A woman whose mindfully self-ingratiating and woefully inept of detaching herself from her own gains.

Those of us around her–the many–are tools, wielded by her guile to only propel her further along the “yellow brick” road.

Arrogance sours me. It’s both emetic and odorous; it’s after-taste biting, and God awful.

Arrogance lacks a presage, but instead is more of a mood–a temperament. It can be shown in both men and women; in art and landscape, in prose and performance.

Arrogance is dramatic.

A woman’s arrogance is worse of all, for it is wrapped in logic.


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