Curling her toes in frustration, Aggie flew into an internal rage. Rather, she curled into an internal rage, her metaphorical guts clenching -- imagine spleen, pancreas, liver, and other squishy unseeables sprouting little hands and holding onto one another tightly, as if participating in an organ club's Circle of Hope. Probably an image of the spleen clenching its fists would be enough here, but Aggie's incensement was florid and grotesque (and perhaps a tiny bit redundant).And what was the igniter of Aggie's indignation that sent her innards eddying? I'm compelled to blame her toe-stubbing (the twelfth that morning: two whole toes more than most whole folks have toes to stub), or how she burnt her wrist on Mitzy's first birthday liverwurst (the gaudy "1ST" candle slid nicely into the pork cake), but those were all comparatively parenthetical incidents (incidental, really, to what initially lit Aggie's ire).
