She hated the cicadas. They drover her insane with their buzzing all day long. Like one of those old movies about giant insects, they sang to her. She knew it was only to annoy her. Why else would they be doing it? It pentrated the sanctum of her apartment, and she could not stop it. Windows, curtains, and doors were all closed and still it would persist. An opcean of sound, ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing, and making her wish she had a tiny gun with enough bullets to personally hold it to the head of each and every one of them and end their lives in a fit of genocidal mass murder.

She’d probably get a medal if she could.