The Crowbar was a large bar, as bars go. Square footage in exact numbers is not important. All you need to know is that it was of a size that when you hurled a shot glass at the long brick wall that ran on the eastern side of the room from where you stood by the bar on the the west side of the room, the glassware would take a satisfyingly long flight before its explosive and cathartic termination upon said brick wall.

I don't know who it was who first realized the glory that was pouring a shot of whiskey, knocking it back, then Sandy-Koufax-ing the empty glass across the room into the brick. But there was no better way to release, in one simple act, the built up anger and frustration and downright murderousness that would sometimes result from a particularly ugly Saturday night shift. Or a fight with your boyfriend/girlfriend. Or the boss being a jerk. Or some personal failure that affirms, yet again, that you are a waste of skin who should really just give up on doing anything worthwhile ever. (Not that any of us are familiar with that situation. Very often.)

I am not an angry person in general, but I do have a history of a mercurial temper, which resulted in the sacrifice of many shot glasses during my eight years bartending at Crowbar. As I've gotten older, that temper has calmed to a sulky moodiness that sometimes possesses me. But every now and then, in the face of some frustration that is either significant or paltry, that temper comes back, and I find myself hosting an unfamiliar and ranging anger.

The source(s) of my current bout with anger are not important, and in a week's time, more or less, my ire will likely subside entirely (due largely to the fact that this time next week I'll be sitting on a Caribbean beach drinking tequila). However, in this functional adult world I live in, there is a lack of effective outlets for a little harmless destruction. Mature people simply do not throw glassware at walls to make themselves feel better.

Do they?

There are lots of things I do regularly to relieve stress and anxiety. I write. I go running. I focus on my work. I visit with friends. I have sex as often as a single gal can manage to do so without compromising her exacting standards. I spend quality time with Netflix and home-cooked meals featuring carbohydrates. I do yoga. I meditate. Surely these activities—all well-documented by science and stuff to, through the magic of neurochemistry, improve your well-being, happiness, etc.—work for anger too, right?

They might help. Or they might merely distract. Despite these and other efforts, I have still been ending my days lying in bed sleepless and seething, my mind eating itself as I think horribly angry thoughts and then concentrate very hard on not thinking horribly angry thoughts, and when I fail at that, I just start thinking horribly angry thoughts about myself being so horribly angry about shit that I really have no use in being horribly angry about. I think the technical term for this is "vicious cycle."

But it occurred to me last night, that what I wanted, more than anything, was to stand 25 feet away from a brick wall, while holding a shot glass full of Jim Beam. A small intoxicating infusion followed by high-velocity/small-scale destruction and the explosion of tiny shards of glass sparkling on the floor. In my mind, it was the cure to all that ails me, and so simple.

Is it mature? No. Constructive? Quite the opposite. Will it actually make me feel any better? Meh. Probably not in a sustained way. But still. I'm just saying, a supply of sacrificial shot glasses, a bottle of bourbon, and a brick wall would be nice things to have handy sometimes.