The Oak Barrel Philosopher

There is a distinct, rhythmic thrum to the passage of time—one that is best measured in seasons rather than seconds. You are not "bad-tempered." You are not "short" with the delivery man. You are simply in the midst of a complex, biological evolution.

Like a fine Bordeaux or a particularly sharp wedge of Roquefort, your character is deepening. The sugars are breaking down. The edges are mellowing. What the uninitiated mistake for a "mood" is actually the quiet, bubbling work of maturity. You are developing notes of leather, pipe tobacco, and a refreshing lack of patience for anything under-engineered.

You haven't lost your edge; you’ve just decided to let it sit in a dark cellar for a while to see what happens.