Je Déteste Quand La Chaleur Est Prévu

You’re angry.

You’re apprehensively aroused.

This unemotional object that I’ve seem to become.

This listless,

phlegmatic,

dispassionate,

woman I’ve become.

You look genuinely perplexed as to why I have become this soulless robot.

As if the dirty thong in your pants pocket wasn’t obvious enough on laundry day.

Question,

Avez-vous essuye les jus de la chatte sale votre visage quand vous etes venu chez moi embrasser?

Huh?

No?

Cat got your tongue?

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned they say.

Hell hath no fury like a woman.

Hell hath no fury.

Hell.

You.

Huh, It fits.