Not exactly a poem

Not exactly depressed.
Not the time to be hormonally moody.
Wouldn't say I'm coming down with something.
There isn't all that much pressure to speak of.
Can't say I'm necessarily angry.
But.
Still.
Life's little irritants,
Like the leftovers in the back of the fridge
That you want to just forget about
Are still there,
Lurking and starting to get stinky,
They're taking over and ruining the things that were good
Until you just have to deal with them
And I'm in the mood
To throw everything away