Pissed Off

Sometimes, it just feels so damned good to be NOT nice. To revel in the heat of blood pumping through your veins, rushing to your head. And to just scream so loud and so harsh you taste the blood in your throat.

The vision of my hands circling your narrow neck and squeezing it like you do a Cebu Pacific stress ball makes me smile with merciless glee. My eyes are overbright from the red glow of hostile energy surrounding my innocent feet flying beautifully to your ugly groin.

I long to stuff your lying mouth with the many pages of the outstanding speech running through my overactive mind. I'm sure you'd be addicted to the taste of perfumed paper as you are to a lot of useless things. And once your stomach becomes bloated and your mouth can't take anymore, I'll gag it with my super rich, super long, super beautiful hair so that no one -- absolutely no one -- will be fool enough to kiss your chapped lips and the world can finally rejoice!

The good angel whispers. Tells me I'm being mean and I'm overreacting.

Maybe I am. Maybe not. Guess what? I don't care.

I am a woman. I am entitled to my moods and celebrate them.

I am a free woman. I can be unreasonable when I want to.

I am not your woman. I don't have to tolerate you.

And if you're wise, you'll thank me for murdering you gently here. For being mean may just be the only thing saving me from hating you for good.

No, I'm not even sticking my head in the freezer this time. Dream on. My hair is red and I just love letting it out under the sun and shine.