You Might Just Be a Bitch

What happened to all you mean girls from middle school, high school?

You grew up, is what.  Before eighteen you were just a surly, self-absorbed caterpillar with a body that wouldn't cooperate, no real spending power and only a remedial knowledge of how to manipulate men for personal gain.  But somewhere in your late teens or early twenties you spun a cocoon and emerged from it a fully-developed adult butterfly bitch.  (Congrats, by the way.)

Since then your ultimate pastime mission has been informing the world-- and men, specifically-- that you are the boss of you and them.  First and foremost, you don't take any shit from anyone.  The world didn't start rotating until you touched down.  As far as men are concerned, they should happy to even get a whiff of your ass; and they should be willing want to spend their time, money and energy on you-- because you're worth it!

Your body is on point now (or so that employee at Express told you).  You've got a fledgling career which means your own bachelorette pad, an endless wardrobe (with new shoes?) and a fresh bludgeon for the boys at the club who don't approach with tail tucked and neck exposed.

"Excuse me?  You must've had me confused with one of these lesser females in here.  That's not how you address me.  Besides, I can already tell you're not my type.  How tall are you, anyway?  I appreciate the drink but seriously, I'm just hanging with my girls tonight.  Goodbye."

You intimidate men (and some women) because they can't handle you, your "essence."  You're strong, a fact that shouldn't be forgotten; that's why you remind us every five minutes.  You've got options and you want us to know that, too.  You don't need anybody for anything, anytime, anywhere.  And you're not afraid to explode the decibel level in a room if any man disrespects you in the slightest.

You're Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha all rolled into one... with Attila the Hun and Cujo.

You don't mind the bitch label.  You'll wear it to the grave.  You'll never change.  You've been getting your way since you learned to walk and talk (and balk).  Never mind that people can't stand you, that men throw up their hands and retreat.  Never mind that it's become more important to you to be right than to be happy, truly happy.  You've got a point to make, a fiercely independent woman to be.

Be nice?  For what?  You're way too busy bitching living it up!