A Letter To the Mean Girl
Dear [...oh what will I call you...Silly Twit? Spoiled Fuck? Lazy-Righteous-Pig-Fucking-Hypocritical-Drama Queen?....nahhh]…
Dumb Cunt:
You know, majority of the time I feel like I’m completely misunderstood. But when I get this feeling from ‘friends’, it’s much more troubling. They’re the ones who are suppose to love you… for you. It’s been made very clear to me lately that you don’t even actually know who I am, thus cannot actually even begin to fathom a taste of love toward whatever it is you view me as.
There have been several counts (and recounts) of your opinions of me. What’s ironic is that I don’t give a shit about how you view me. What’s even MORE ironic is that I am still completely baffled at how you remain, without question, this country’s biggest idiot.
It entertains me that you think I’m high maintenance, out to get a rich man, and am always wrong. I can’t stop laughing when you look down on me because OOOOOOOOOOH your slutty friend called TWO boys last night. Go gab to all your emo friends who look like MK & A Olsen about it. You think because I actually have a job that I am a capitalist. This highly entertains me and I would love to sit down and listen to you tell me why I should stop working and be like you. What I maybe love the most is that you try and preach your relationship morals to me. Seriously dude? Really? You’ve had how many successful relationships in your life? HAHAHAHAHAHA.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
So the matter of high maintenance – this likely stems from our Fridays and Saturdays out on the town, when I sport a dress and lots of makeup. Do you not understand this is because I look practically obese unless I’m in a dress and like a hormonal teenager with my acne face? Obviously not. Some of us actually DO eat. And honestly now, who do you think does my hair? PLEASE, it’s me you assfuck. I cut it myself because I can’t justify spending money on it. You had a $300 cut and colour? I could have done that with a $4 bottle of peroxide. Bitch, you give us real blondes a bad reputation.
The jewellery obsession? Well, since I only ever wear black, and have plain, straight (real) blond hair, jewels are the only thing I ever wear to make things different or spice things up. Oh, and that’s my dead Grandmother’s ring, and the other one I always wear is my dead Grandfather’s. I’m sorry, did you just say ‘it’s totally in this season to sport men’s jewellery?’
Good to now. I’m so relieved.
By the way, I don’t see you continue on you judgement path when you ask me to wear it. Oooh sparkly. MINE. MINE MINE MINE. I can practically hear your brain working out how you can scheme this precious gem away from me and never ever return it.
You think I want to make you my life sized Barbie doll? Dear, look in the mirror. And then look beside you. I’m my own fucking Barbie doll. I’m trying to be nice and lend you my fucking clothes because you don’t have any. Because your daddy cut you off. Because you’re too dumb to get a job. And now you’re your own worst hypocrite because you’re asking to borrow my clothes and nail polish and jewellery and shoes. Did you notice there is a lack of substance in each category? The only ones that fit you are the ones I almost sent to the Salvation Army because I chose to skip the gym and actually live life a little. Oh, love handles, how could I possibly ever part with you?
You think I want to live in a fucking mansion? Blow me. If I could, I’d go live in a hut on a beach in India, and read books and write books. Away from you. What’s with thinking I want to make all this money and think I want to have all these things? Getting rewarded is nice, and [um newflash princess!] most jobs have a monetary reward. I don’t want fancy shit. I hate clutter. The less, the better. I want to earn space and freedom. Give me a dog and a big fucking field for my horses, and I’m set to go. I don’t need a rich ass man – I’ll make my own supporting funds, enough so I can send my child to university and make sure there’s food on the table when guests come to visit my humble abode.
Who do you think I am? Who do I think I am, expecting you to understand me when you don’t even understand yourself? This is all my fault. Fuck.
You think I want “things”, expensive shiny things? Fuck you. I grew up on a farm, bitch. You try living in your brothers clothes for 17 years of your life, playing with GI Joes and Micromachines. Then we’ll talk.
You think I want shiny things? Fuck no. I want land and world peace, asshole. What the hell do you think I’m going to do with the money I earn? Spend it on myself? You stupid cunt, if I had a rich ass dentist daddy, then I’d let him spend it on me but don’t be so fucking ignorant. Just because I desire things and dream for things and CHOOSE TO PRESENT MYSELF PROPERLY doesn’t mean I’m an uptight prude – it just means I don’t want to look like a hussy fuck nut from Florida [kind of like you did at Mothers' Day brunch with your entire family...I'm sure your brother loved your cleavage] for Christ’s sake.
I could act like you or that last ‘tard you brought home. Maybe then I’d understand…Oh my gosh, I totally understand that I can be totally rad and be like peace man, what up yo, you like my sweats bro? You think my business partner will dig my new kicks? That makes me feel WAY better about myself. I’m beginning to see the picture you’ve painted.
What. The. Fuck.
You know what I’ll do? I’ll eventually start my own charity, and probably spend the rest of my life trying to make a difference. I’ll do it because I want to and it will make me feel good, NOT because I think all my ‘friends’ will approve and pat me on the back and talk about me for 0.52 seconds. But you think I want to spend it on dresses because you’re so fucking narrow minded and self absorbed that you can’t listen for 30 seconds about what I TRULY want out of this thing call “my life”.
Nope, instead of listening, you just blurt out that you’re so right about everything, and judge before you give the person a chance. Fuck off, would you? That is just truly lame.
Read me: I don’t want fortune, and I don’t want fame. Why are you gasping?
Let me say that again, just so we’re clear: I do not want fortune, I do not want fame.
I don’t even want my name to be known in philanthropic light. I want kids underprivileged kids to see that people care, and for them to feel happy and giddy. I want to enrich peoples’ lives. Give, give, give, give, give, give. Like I give to you, although with you I doubt I’ll ever actually get a thank you, or a faint realization that you’re being babied because you’d probably die in a ditch somewhere, covered in vomit, tears, and fecal matter if you didn’t have people helping you all the time.
No, my love, I don’t give a flying fuck about sports cars, the newest vodka, Jessica Simpson, expensive lingerie or Tiffany’s (although I do peer in the window occasionally. I am female, after all).
Do you not think I don’t realize that I dumb myself down? I choose to avoid big words for your sake, darling, and chat about boys because that’s all you give a shit about. You want to know the gossip so you can blab to your lame ass, superficial friends about how I do everything wrong and am just generally a fuck up or a whore because I have two guys asking me for a date instead of one guy calling you at 2:30am for a booty call. Eat shit.
Don’t spread your ‘wealth’ of relationship knowledge on because you happen to have a ‘boyfriend’. So now you’re a pro? OH FUCK, he dumped you? Just like the last guy? Was it because you starfish? Or because you use your teeth when you give head? Oh it wasn’t the bedroom stuff? Oh, it was the conversation? He isn’t ‘successful’ enough. I see.
But you know what, it’s the only thing I talk about with you because I don’t take it seriously – I can make fun of it and make you laugh about it. I make you feel better about it.
Talk about work? Fuck you. I get so into it that you don’t comprehend the tension and assume that I’m wigged out about something and try your psycho-analytical bullshit that you heard on Oprah on me. Plus, you don’t understand dick-all about finance (or anything with depth) so I don’t want to waste my time explaining to you the theories of this financial model. Talk about books? Certainly. Wait? Can you even read? How about politics? World affairs? Oh, you heard about that celebrity affair on E!…great. Truly genius. You give the female species (and perhaps our generation) a horrific name.
It’s okay to argue, pumpkin, and of course people have a different standpoint. Just because it’s different than yours does NOT mean that it’s wrong. Why do you insist on making everything a fucking show down at the fucking OK Corral? You want to be right? Well the days that you feel useless, worthless, and depressed…yes, those days are the days that you, my dear, are fucking right. Bang-on. High fives all around. Don’t worry, I feel you. I’m a fucking idiot too, and by the looks of this letter, I’m pretty fucked up too…just different. Yes, different than you. Grasping the thought yet? No?
Oh yes, now you’re fuming. With you, it’s always got to be a fucking war. I have a different upbringing, a different education. OF COURSE WE HAVE DIFFERENT FUCKING OPINIONS you twatlick, what do you think? I don’t have to have the same thoughts or thought process as you, dumb-dumb. You think you’re so bloody righteous because you recycle a can? Fuck off. We all try to make our difference sweety, but don’t look down on me because I try differently than you.
So, with that, eat a burger or five, read the news, smile like you mean it and worry about your own opinions, not what everyone else thinks about you. Get over yourself. Stop hating me because you’re miserable with how you turned out. Get a new perspective because yours is beyond fucked-up.
Cordially,
EC
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