Why I'm a Heartless Bitch
I think the key factor in the formation of my heartless bitchiness came at
an early age because I've been raised in California. That means I'm
surrounded by bimbos, sluts, morons, and silicone. Secondarily, I look
like a 15-year-old no matter how old I get. Short, skinny, Marilyn
Monroe-baby voice I can't shake; these are my curses which have decayed
into a deep-seated mordacious cynicism. I'm in my 20s and people think I'm
a sophomore in High School, tops. That's all very flattering, but I'm sick
of the leers and the kinky "wear a Catholic schoolgirl outfit" or "would
you mind dressing like a cheerleader?" suggestions from males who realize
my real age and get some kind of kick out of picturing me as a helpless
little girl. I feel no special affiliation when standing in line at the
women's restroom. If a blonde with a chest anywhere over 34C asks me for a
pad, I tell her I'm out just on principal.
I scoff at so-called "chick flicks" in which a female realizes all she
needs is the love of a good man; I refer to Meg Ryan as the Princess of
Pathetic. I'd like to bitch-slap Ally McBeal.
I get sick to my stomach watching men work out and flex. Oh, yes, your
sweaty gray T-shirt is just transporting me into hormonal paroxysms of
lust. Please, baby, take me right here against the Nautilus machine--as if
they could even spell machine, let alone Nautilus.
Once I snapped to an ex, "You're flexible, suck it your goddamned self."
I take pains to ask dyed blondes where they get their hair bleached, in
front of men. I also enjoy casually employing big words in the wrong
situation (e.g.: Hello, Heather, your makeup looks inordinate today.) and
watching them tilt their head and smile ignorantly. I scorn the weak and don't melt over kittens. I snarl and bare my teeth
at people's dogs when their owners aren't in the room.
I have no problem stepping on people's toes on my way up the ladder of
success. If they're a helpless female, so much the better.
I have no tolerance for Hallmark cards and menstrual supply commercials.
I am fond of saying to my male friends' girlfriends, "Thank you
Bambi/Candi/Starette. We are all now stupider for having heard what you
just said."
I don't feel the need to take en masse trips to the restroom with other
women.
It is a source of continuing astonishment ot me how many stupid people are
allowed to breed, multiply, and function in our world. I wish there was
something I could do about it, but there's a lot of handgun restrictions in
California.
I hate more than anything else in the world when a guy thinks he's being
smooth, what do they call it, "a playa?" "What's up, girl, you got a man?"
Do I 'got a man?' No, but I do "got" a mean left hook.
I get nauseated by couples that walk with the man's hand in the woman's
back pocket. We're saying, what, here? I belong to him and that's just
bliss?
As a warning to the men in my life that they're patronizing me and I'm
about to flick the bitch switch, I sweetly say, "Don't ask me--after all,
I'm just a girl, right?"
Yes! I want to read more from Real Life Heartless Bitches
| 
