Riding the Octopus: a metaphor about anger

The carnival is in town, and I walk through its myriad amusements to the back of the lot where they keep the rides.  My arms are loaded with gifts for others; I’ve had a full day and want to get home. I pass the Ferris wheel, the tiny rollercoaster, and the funhouse, and eventually my feet bring me to the gates of the Octopus–a sprawling, mad contraption with eight pneumatic arms ending in creaking, revolving carts.

I hate this ride. The rotation, the speed, the height, and the perilous seat...