Member-only story
The Bitch hath Responded
Don’t make me laugh dear commoner
You called me a bitch.
It made me smile. “Like it’s a bad thing?” I replied, hoisting my red Prada bag over my shoulder. The devil’s not the only one who wears it.
To openly express my feelings without apology. Is that all it takes to qualify? I batted my lashes in wonder.
Or is it simply having better hair than someone? You could be a bitch for a number of reasons. I mean, yes, I have great hair. I could give you name of my stylist. There was no need to quiver your lip and shed a tear. Those split ends could be gone had you asked what I was doing differently.
But why the reaction? I know a few guys with a nice lion-like flow. I don’t half glance in their direction and scoff “bitch,” every time I pass them by.
Is it because I turned down an unappetizing invitation, food or date?
Must thou hit me with the classic, highly overused “you’re too picky.”
Must everyone I know be armed at the ready with these self-sabotaging phrases? It is as though they’re crouched in the bushes waiting. . . Just waiting. . . for what? That’s easy, for me to make a choice independent of anyone else’s input.
That Afternoon
