Some hot dude on my Facebook newsfeed posted something the other day about women hating each other and listed ways that they sabotage each other by translating their back-handed compliments, this was one example:
“Is that your man? Damn, he’s gorgeous.”
TRANS: He must be part BLIND bc you are one UGLY bitch.
He listed 7 more, each one more brutal than the next, of what we say to each other with what we “really mean” which is always “bitch, you is fat AND ugly AND dumb AND did I say FAT?” … his statuses always have the “read more” icon on the bottom and ramble on with random caps and ghetto spellcheck…Seriously, get a blog like me, windbag, and I mean it as a compliment. His posts make me laaaaaaugh. I refuse to believe that he is your regular garden variety hot-but-dumb dude but a brilliant intellect whose Kanye-esque rhetoric provides us with insightful social commentary. Also I fell in love with him a couple of weeks ago when he blathered on about how the only way to please a woman is to go “deep sea diving” and then described the vagine as a “seductive pink grotto,” imagine that! *swoon.* If I was to describe my lady parts as a place it would be the scary burnt out church ominously surrounded by a swirling murder of crows in episode 2 of “True Detective.” Omg, I found it on youtube, this is a metaphor of my abandoned poon, so poignant:
“There was a fire in here a long time ago,” Woody Harrelson drawls. I AM LOVING THIS SHOW SO MUCH IT HURTS.
I am going off on a tangent though, back to Ghetto Jesus’ point, “WOMIN HATE WOMIN.” I have to agree to a certain point. There is something about being in a group of vaginarama that makes me very nervous.
A gaggle of girls.
It’s not like you’re socially conditioned as a child to be a bitch but I think it’s something inherent in our human nature to ostracize the weak and the freak. It starts in the schoolyard playground…Me in Grade 1 playing “Red Rover” however that goes, I forget, but it involves hand holding and shouting out names. I am holding some girl’s hand but I am dying of shame because I have a worry of gross warts on my palm that Compound W can’t kill. I think my older sister ended up gouging them out with nail scissors, that is right up her alley. But then and there, I have a carbuncley cluster of them on that fleshy part at the base of the thumb and I am holding hands with this second-grade girl with blond pigtails…she looks down at our hands because it probably felt like all moist and toad-like and she saw my bouquet of verruca and she dropped my hand like anybody would and bolted to the other side of the game. Needless to say, I never got to play “Red Rover” again and spent the rest of elementary school with the other lepers banished to the back corner, building forts in the gravel. THIS IS HOW IT GOES, BITCH, GET USED TO IT.
A conniving of cunts.
Sometimes when you are in a small group of women friends, say a trio, at some point, two of them might turn on you. This is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is typical high school girl behaviour and can range from the subtle to the all-out cruel. My worst one happened in CEGEP (that is Quebec’s version of Grade 12 and 13 fyi, my foreign friends) when I had inadvertently “stolen” my best friend’s crush. I know that sounds bad, but this girl had a panty-raid of crushes and a new boyfriend every week and I am not exaggerating, I can count on one warty hand the number of sad dates I have been on in high school, so what if I poached her crush? Grow up, there’s a surfeit of dicks out there (no, there’s not), choose another one. So she had our other friend pretend to be on my side so I would confide in her so she could report back the things I said. So after she warmed me up with charlatan sympathy, I told her I thought she was being selfish and why can’t she throw the one bone, and I am going to lose my virginity once and for all. When bitch ratted me out to the crush hoarder, our friendship ended in a huge fight where a boiling pot of mac ‘n’ cheese was hurled in my general direction. For the rest of the school year she would stare at me like a wounded cow from across the caf. The guy in question ended up dumping me not once, not twice, but three times over the course of two years so she had that to be smug about. Serves me right, I guess, plus I got fat when I had to go on the pill.
A hag of hens.
Fucking book clubs. Do I even need to elaborate on this one? What is it about a roomful of wine-drinking middle aged ladies that fills me with anxiety? There is always one rotten apple in the bunch. Once, during the infamous battle of “Eat, Pray, Love” I got angrily shushed by one when I interjected a remark in agreement to her raging tearful rant against all the haters. We were the only two who liked the book and she shot me down when I was trying to support her. What a dumb, ugly bitch.
A racket of cooch.
A group of tennis ladies eating salad for lunch, a terror of twat or what? A horror of snatch! A fright of gash! A while back, before you knew me, I took up tennis because my beloved friend JHo described our future: Old ladies who play doubles in the morning and drink pitchers of iced Pimms in the afternoon on the veranda in our tennis whites, cable knit cardigans wrapped around our bony shoulders, we leave red lipstick stains on our glasses, and we talk in old timey mid-Atlantic Hollywood accents and say things like: “Shall we ring round the waiter and have another round?” until we start slurring. Good times! Well that dream died quickly. I joined a round robin which was kind of fun because everyone was the same level of crappy and we played and laughed and went home. But then something happened and cliques were formed. Some of the women became obsessed and made up teams. It was just like high school and these grown women reverted back to their 16 year-old selves where there was a hierarchy of social standing. There was no room for goofball round robin. They became viciously elitist. Seriously, it’s a gym where people waddle on treadmills, not a Slavic tennis farm. All the hos were getting private lessons and I was left behind in the land of tennis misfits, the wretched ones who missed the boat, the old and the crazy. And those bitches weren’t so nice either. I overheard one old lady in another locker bay talking trash about me: “She always misses the ball, she swats it like she’s trying to kill flies.” Fuck her and her thicket of varicose veins, I never played after that. Now I just watch the chosen ones, they take over the restaurant after their vigorous court play, glowing and giddy like they just fucked a Serbian tennis pro all morning. How do they even tell themselves apart? They are all blond with horse faces and you just know that when they finish their lunch salads, they hit the drive through on their way home. One good thing though, JHo and I are enjoying our afternoon pints together, which means our future is on the right track. I love her so.
So while certain groups of women scare me, presently I do cherish and find all my comfort-slash-mental health therapy in the company of my true lady friends. Unlike what Ghetto Jesus might say on the Facebook, we don’t have hidden agenda when we compliment each other. In fact the other day,one of my friends said: “I am loving the colour of your hair, KP, but fuck, you need to wash it. Girl, it is greeeeeeezy!” Oh how I laaaaaaaughed. Power to the sisterhood!
A riot of pussy and a team of hockey players, how about them bitches? Huzzah!
A laurel of bravos to you.
Humans are like all other social animal species, hyerarchical in structure. Even a hilary of laughter is governed by peer pressure and political and social loyalty.
The misfits are always the lusers, who are crazy, or old, or poor. And of course “me”, the person who is at any given time speaking in the first person singular.
The only escape from the red sword of murderers is establishing your own clan, and most people do get married for that reason, and that reason only.
I allayed my mismanagement of misbehaviour-driven social isolation into writing. Most writers are talkative people that nobody cares to listen to.
And then there is the internet. If anyone likes a warfare of drama, they must join internet forums. There is something about being incredibly cruel that you don’t notice when you are doing it, and it feels good, and if you met your victim in person, you’d be appalled, “I berated this beautiful soul? How could I be such shitful of hats?”
The only time social cruelty is justified is when you don’t know whom you torture, it may even be a bot, a well-written Pauling Tudor test (touring?) or your own self when you are the “other” one. The only time aside from these when Internet cruelty is justified, is when you do it to another being.
Never pick on a gang.
Never give a hard time to a blonde woman. And they are all blonde. (*)
Never make a mistake. Mistakes sont strictly ferboten.
(*) I am not being sexist, anti-blondist, or anything like that. I live in London, Ontario. All men have mousy, thinning hair, or else they are dark haired, or shaven clean.
On the other side of the sexual divide, are the women and they are all blondes. Some have highlights. The Asian and African women are blonde. The Camaros and VW Rabbits are blonde. This is a happy world I live in these days.
Because everybody wants a blonde. (Except the guys with thinning mousy-coloured hair… they want an Argenitnian, a Philipina, or a Latrina in Canada.)
Dear Krist, don’t worry about not being a shoo-in for any clique. I noticed clique-dwellers are better looking than normal; but they are boring. They may be loud, from a distance they seem to have fun, but up-close they are sexy, yet boring. Their laughter is always 1. social obligation or else 2. disparagement for an out-of-clique person. They hardly ever laugh due to having a good time, good cheer, good humour, or a good day at the races.
Once you are in a clique, you have to pay homage to the head girl. Tha alpha bitch. The Die Fuhrerin, the leader, the strongwoman, the helmswoman, the chairwoman.
It is not nice to be in a clique… then again, it is not horrible, it is okay, but it’s nothing to write home about.
Once a body realizes that, then being outside the clique ceases to be horrible, it becomes okay, although nothing to write home about.