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 I woke up one bright summer morning in mid-July, with a desperate urge to murder my Insanity. I flipped around, surprised to find, that she was right there, curled up on the bed beside me. Her cool breath juxtaposed with the sweat on my brows, and left me in a tingling drunken state. I was numb from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, while her eyelashes fluttered open at an alarmingly fast rate. “Oh, I should’ve choked her,” I thought, but she jumped up and put on my faded striped shirt. She sat on the kitchen counter and bit into a half-rotten apple, while I grabbed a knife before my plan meant naught. Almost as if she anticipated my bizarre craving, she ran, I chased her far, and I chased her wide, hiding the knife behind my back. I followed Insanity everywhere she went, conniving to beat her blue and black. But the witch was too smart for me, and I missed her by an inch, a yard, sometimes a mile. Once she got me wound up on a plane to Spain, it was demented, I swear, but wor