My whole life, people have been saying, Why are you so angry?

Host: The recording studio was dim except for the red ON AIR light glowing above the door — that small, defiant flame that warned the world: something raw is happening inside. The air smelled faintly of coffee, sweat, and electricity, the scent of art being born the hard way.

The soundboard lights blinked in rhythm with the low hum of old speakers, and somewhere in the corner, a reel-to-reel tape spun like time refusing to stop.

Jack sat slouched in a swivel chair, his hands stained with ink and nicotine, his grey eyes heavy but alive. A half-empty bottle of water sat beside a mess of lyrics scribbled across wrinkled paper. Jeeny stood near the mic, her hair loose, her voice low and melodic as she adjusted her headphones.

For a long time, they said nothing — the quiet felt earned, like the space after an emotional confession.

Then Jeeny spoke, her voice soft but certain, her words cutting through the hum of the machines like something sacred.

Jeeny: “Fiona Apple once said, ‘My whole life, people have been saying, Why are you so angry?’”

Jack: grinning faintly, voice gravelly “Yeah. Because people are afraid of women who don’t smile while they’re bleeding.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand froze on the mic. She looked at him — not startled, but struck. The truth in his voice was too raw to ignore.

Jeeny: quietly “You sound like someone who understands that too well.”

Jack: leaning back, his chair creaking “Anger’s never polite, Jeeny. Especially when it comes from someone the world expects to stay soft. They see your rage and call it madness. They see your fire and call it noise.”

Jeeny: softly, but with an edge “Because it’s easier to shame the flame than to admit what lit it.”

Host: The room seemed to grow smaller — not physically, but emotionally. The air thickened, as if their words had weight, as if the truth between them pressed against the walls.

Jack: murmuring “You ever notice that? How when a man’s angry, they call him passionate — driven. But when it’s a woman…”

Jeeny: “They call her difficult.”

Jack: “Or unstable.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because our anger isn’t convenient for anyone else’s comfort.”

Host: The rain outside began tapping against the studio window, a slow rhythm that underscored the quiet fury in their voices. The faint buzz of the recording equipment filled the spaces between their breaths.

Jack: softly “So what do you do with it? All that anger?”

Jeeny: after a pause “I write it. I sing it. I bleed it out in ways that don’t make me a criminal. Because that’s what they never understand — anger isn’t destruction for me. It’s translation.”

Jack: leaning forward, voice low “Translation of what?”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze “Of everything they didn’t let me say when I was calm.”

Host: Her words hung there — hot, luminous, like a match that refused to burn out. Jack’s jaw tightened; the muscles in his forearm flexed against the dim light.

Jack: quietly “You think anger can be holy?”

Jeeny: without hesitation “It already is. Every woman who’s ever screamed at injustice, every person who’s ever said ‘enough’ — that’s sacred work. Fiona Apple wasn’t confessing; she was reclaiming.”

Jack: half-smiling, bitterly “You think the world will ever hear it that way?”

Jeeny: softly “Eventually. When they run out of ways to silence us.”

Host: A moment of silence — deep, resonant. Even the machines seemed to pause, as if listening. Jeeny leaned closer to the mic, her voice now almost a whisper — intimate and trembling with conviction.

Jeeny: “Anger is the sound truth makes when it’s been ignored too long.”

Jack: under his breath “That’s not just truth — that’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger doesn’t destroy me. It wakes me up. It reminds me I’m still alive enough to care.”

Host: The tape kept spinning. Jack pressed the record button. A soft click — then a heartbeat of silence — and then Jeeny’s voice filled the room again, steady and haunting.

Jeeny: into the mic “They call us angry because they can’t call us wrong. Anger is our language when the world stops listening.”

Host: Jack watched her — something in his face shifting. Not pity. Not admiration. Recognition.

Jack: quietly “You know… people have been asking me the same thing my whole life. Not ‘why are you angry,’ but ‘why are you so cynical.’ Maybe it’s the same question in different clothes.”

Jeeny: softly “And maybe it’s the same answer. Because you still believe things could be better.”

Jack: smiling faintly “That’s the cruelest hope there is.”

Jeeny: smiling back “The most human one too.”

Host: The storm outside grew louder now, rain hitting the window like applause from an unseen crowd. The studio lights flickered, then steadied again.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe the world doesn’t need less anger. Maybe it just needs anger that builds — not burns.”

Jack: “Anger that writes songs instead of manifestos.”

Jeeny: “Anger that loves the truth enough to shout it.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them framed by the red glow of the “RECORDING” sign, like two rebels captured in confession. The sound of the rain softened, merging with the faint hum of her voice humming — not a song, but something between prayer and protest.

Jack leaned back, his tone softer now, almost reverent.

Jack: “Maybe anger’s not something to apologize for. Maybe it’s the proof that something inside us still refuses to die quietly.”

Jeeny: nodding “And maybe that’s what Fiona meant all along — not ‘why are you angry,’ but ‘how did you survive?’”

Host: The scene dimmed slowly, the studio falling into quiet shadows, the tape still rolling. The rain eased into mist, and through it, Jeeny’s voice lingered — raw, steady, unbroken.

And as the credits rolled through the silence, Fiona Apple’s echo rang like a heartbeat through the dark —

that anger, when owned,
is not bitterness —
it’s testimony.

Host: For every why are you so angry?
is really a plea from those too afraid to feel as deeply.

Because the angry are the ones still dreaming of better worlds,
still fighting against numbness,
still alive enough to feel injustice in their bones.

And that refusal to go quietly —
that audacity to feel, to fight, to create —
is what makes the wounded heart
so endlessly, defiantly,
amazing.