Psych.

There was nothing left to blame. No event in her life that made the cut, that fit the bill, that possibly justified her feeling this way. And it made her angry. Angrier than she had been before. She was angry at the world, at the god who she had invented only to be angry at, at herself, at everything and everyone she had ever known. Reaching into the coiled depths of her past, she pulled out rough and tangled memories, bringing them to the forefront of her mind for long enough to assess them, search them, looking for anything that could carry the weight of this blame. 

But nothing could. Under the burden of her anger, the threads of her past unfurled and broke, split from their roots like weeds from the bright grass of her mother’s yard, revealing the dull and thirsty soil beneath. ---

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Blah, blah. Go to sleep.