Okay Zuko, deep breaths, just like Dr. Jeong-Jeong said. Count back from—
The car in front of him slams on their breaks, causing Zuko to slam on his breaks as well, and the stress ball flies right out of his hand into the windshield before rolling down into the passenger seat.
"FUCK!" He smashes his hand on the horn. "Learn how to FUCKING DRIVE you ASS hole!"
He gives the horn 3 more bursts of pressure for good measure. Okay, maybe four.
Rush hour is not a good time of day for Zuko. Maybe I should reschedule his anger management sessions… Of course, if it were up to Zuko, he wouldn't be in anger management classes at all. He doesn't need help with his anger issues— he handles his anger just fine (he ignores the dent in the roof of his car from where he punches it repeatedly during his morning commute). He does his best to keep his eyes above his dash while he fishes for the emoji stress ball from where it's fallen under the passenger seat. Not that he really needs to keep his eyes on the road right now, since some fucking idiot had decided to jump the curb into the HOV lane without looking to see if anyone had been barreling right towards them. Everyone is unharmed, which is great, because it means that Zuko can justify his anger without feeling guilty. Now, instead of the commute home taking him 20 minutes like it usually does— even in bumper to bumper traffic— he's been sitting in the same spot for 15, and probably won't be getting home for another thirty.
"Fucking finally." The little foamy stress ball is back in his right hand where it belongs, and he squeezes it furiously in an ill attempt to calm himself down. He goes through at least three of these stupid little things a week. Although he does have to admit that sometimes it just devolves into him picking the damn thing apart while trying not to bite his nails. At least—
"OH my fucking god, fucking go!" The driver in front of him must be asleep, but at the violent honking of Zuko's car's horn, the car finally starts to roll forward.
Of course, at this point, the police are forcing people to merge into two lanes down from four, and Zuko knows how pea-brained people are when it comes to merging. He feels the emoji face crack on the stress ball as he tries to keep calm while slowly— so fucking slowly— passing by the cops. There's no need for them to see him red-faced and screaming at the dumb-ass honda civic with the no-doubt illegal exhaust in front of him, driven by someone who clearly doesn't understand how to operate a manual transmission in heavy traffic. The cops are the reason he's in this situation in the first place. Well, in the situation where he has to go to anger management. It's not his fault that some punk ass kid had rear ended him six weeks ago, and that Zuko had broken his own hand when he punched the little asshole's driver's side door in.
Okay, maybe it was his fault. But fuck the police anyway; they never did him any good.
"Mother FUCKER!" The horn in his ittle Mazda 3 is getting a lot of love today (as if the logo isn't already wearing off of the steering wheel from all the attention the horn usually gets) as some dipshit almost merges right into him. "Open your fucking eyes! What are you, blind?!"
The driver of the car that almost hit him flips him off over his shoulder.
"Oh yeah? You're gonna flip ME off?! Well FUCK you too, asshole! I hope your mom gets cancer!"
Maybe he needs to start going to anger management twice a week.