Robyn
There are too few Bitches in this unfortunate world. Luckily, enough
still thrive to provide for me positive influences. Having been exposed to such
women and finding strength in their character, I've modeled myself in their
image. I believe this is why I project as a bitter, and maybe even angry soul.
It's not so much that I'm angry (although I do consider myself a sore
individual) but more just disappointed in, frustrated with, and possibly a
little embarrassed in (hu) mankind's abortion of a society.
You see, in the few months I've been out of high school it have become
apparent to me that, contrary to my conformed, naïve belief, no one actually
grows up. Little Ms. Aimee, our high school's very undeserving valedictorian,
will continue to get whatever she wants, not through honorable means of
intelligence, dedication and hard work but because she fellates well and knows
how to fondle the neo-nazi head honcho's ego as well as she does my gag reflex.
Having lived the teen dream during the best days of our lives, she can't see why
no one outside her elite slaves to the cosmetic industry bothered to clap
following her autobiography on "how totally awesome high school has been, woot."
She failed to realize half of us were still in shock that she was up there (due
to her head being firmly planted up her ass) or that the rest were popping
Gravol to keep our heaving at bay. Aimee hasn't yet and will never realize what
it is to lead a virtuous life. She won't have to.
I am tired of being told that I am jealous because I can't stand women who
afford getting their nails done by starving their dogs. I am tired of being told
I must be a lesbian because I don't want to promptly remove the clothes covering
Brad Pitt's epidermis and fuck a man who cheats on his wife and talks to people
like they're assholes, all the while thinking it's ok because he's pretty. I am
not enjoying (or, at least, not the way I used to) having to tear people's legs
off because they think they can walk all over me. It's not really that I want
them to die. It's just that sometimes -a lot of the time- I don't want them to
be alive anymore. I'm bored with being told I'm a Bitch because I don't give a
shit if it hurts your feelings when I tell you to get the fuck out of my face
after I've asked repeatedly for you to go away. You should have heard me the
first time.
I don't need to be told I'm a Bitch. I know what I am. Thank god for
Bitches too, otherwise I might actually be tempted to pick up a Cosmo magazine
and read about how I'm wrong for not rolling over and dying because I haven't
joined Jenny Craig or bought the right tools for masturbating yet, which is all
the lovin' I'll ever get. After all, boys don't date fat chicks. Get over it.
-Robyn
Country: Canada
Yes! I want to read more from Real Life Heartless Bitches
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