I think I became a Heartless Bitch when other women started insisting on reading me their poetry. Being a published writer, this happens to me far more than I would like. After spending days trying to express a concept in rhyme and meter, I simply can't bear to have some posturing femme vomit her favorite blank-verse emotional spew at my feet, then stare at me expectantly for the praise she's so certain it deserves.

"He doesn't love me...

I'm dying. I don't exist.

He looked at me! He has resurrected me with his eyes, I am alive!"

Right. Tell it to your therapist, you aren't paying me. Read me one more line of histrionic adolescent shit and I'll tell you precisely what I think of it. Then you can go tell your friends how mean I am.

Country: United States

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