Desperation tastes like relighting a cigarette butt you found in an ashtray because you can’t afford a fresh pack of smokes. Stress smells like the sweat that pours from your armpits down your flank while you’re waiting to talk to your boss about your recent attitude toward him doubling your workload. Frustration feels like spending the last of your cigarette money on deodorant only to find out you’re now allergic to the brand you’ve been using since you hit puberty. Rage looks like your boss’ red cheeks after you tell him where he can shove the extra duties he’s piled on top of you. Contentment sounds like you slamming his office door, like your tires barking as you peel away from the employee’s parking lot, like freedom.
Desperation tastes like alcohol purchased with panhandled change. Stress smells like gun bluing. Frustration feels like cold steel on your tongue. Rage looks your eyes reflected in the mirror over the sink. Contentment sounds like gunfire.