I’m Trying to Be Less of a Bitch, In Case You Idiots Didn’t Notice

In light of recent events (Christina’s birthday bash on Friday, which Diana has wrongly deemed a “disaster”) I’ve decided to try to be less of what you losers would call a “bitch”. Apparently my friends are as sensitive as they are pathetically single, so the way I speak and behave “hurts their feelings”—or at least it used to, because I’m reformed and am now a very nice person, so those dumb sluts can just shut the shit up about it.


Like an isolated community of remarkable apes who somehow evolved the ability to vote, my entire friend group has come to the consensus that I’m a harsh bitch. I find it hard to believe that I’m that bitchy—I’m just honest, which anyone with half a brain can appreciate. Of course, I’m not suggesting that my friends are stupid. I would never do that, because I love my friends and am making a concerted effort to demonstrate my admiration in ways that won’t hurt their underdeveloped feelings. I’m only suggesting that maybe if Diana had a real career or Christina was even minimally culturally enlightened, they wouldn’t be such fucking babies every time I drop helpful hints, like letting them know that some people should consider their miscarriage a dodged bullet, or that their dad seems kind of gay. On that note, I think it’s important to point out that I haven’t made any reference to Christina’s dad since her birthday—and even then it was more of a suggestive hand gesture than a spoken statement, so any dingbat who’s still harping on that can blow me.


Apparently everyone wishes I could be more like my dear friend Shelby, which is fascinating, because that would require me to trade my degree from Yale for one from ASU, marry a meathead, and entirely alter my DNA so that I enjoy bad sex with meatheads. Everyone’s always praising Shelby for being so thoughtful and compassionate, which I would never argue with because, again, I’m not a bitch. But if I were a bitch, I might point out that the type of childless woman who brings three travel packets of Kleenex, a box of Band Aids, and two Tide-to-Go pens to a birthday party may not be as stable or flawless as she appears, even if she did “save the day.” Of course, I would never, ever say these things aloud because I only have love in my heart now, you sloppy imbeciles.



In case you muppets can’t tell, my new commitment to kindness has been working out splendidly. Yesterday, “the girls” and I went out to brunch and Diana kept saying things like, “I think we can agree that last Friday’s debacle was the last straw,” and “If anyone wants to apologize to Christina, I think now would be a good time.” I kept looking at Diana’s criminally round face, thinking about how absurd it is that such a thin, shrill voice could come out of such a fat circle. Sure, Diana is vehicular manslaughter waiting to happen, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t say anything about it. Instead, I said nothing at all to anyone for the entire duration of the meal. By the end of brunch, no one was crying—a victory for which I take full credit. As Shelby mentioned for the eighteenth fucking time how lucky she feels to know us, I couldn’t help but bury my head in my hands. For whatever reason, this sent everyone into a tizzy, and as they heaped recommendations for therapists upon me, I nodded my head and exited the restaurant, without leaving money or an explanation. This is because silence is a virtue, and, more pertinently, because I was having a rage stroke. I had to get the hell away from those monsters before I accidentally belied my incredibly good nature.


And to whichever one of you spray-painted “BITCH” on my garage—you spelled “HONEST” wrong. You fucking idiots.