They call me crazy; I'm not.

Your incompetence just drives me to insanity this time of the month.

The squeak of a desk, the laughter of a child, the sound of someone eating a meal

all make me want to take a nice pointy, sharp knife and swiftly slice through

the epidermis of your skin.

This, all because you have slightly bothered me.

When it is my time of the month

I want the world to stop.

I would love for the moon to crash into the Earth

ending our lives.

I want you to die. I want you to stop talking and

just die. Maybe you'll get hit by a train and hear

the snapping of your ribs,

the delightful crack of your femur,

the smack of your limp body hitting the ground.

I wish you'd fall down a well.

You'd scratch at the walls so desperately to

get out, but it would all be of no use.

You'd gasp for air and you know what I would do?

Laugh.

I'm not always crazy.

I'm only crazy every 28 days.