Thoughts from a Weird, Strange, Funny Girl
If you were to ask people who knew (of) me in life what the number one personality trait they thought I most possessed… would not be a bitch. In fact, aside from maybe like two people (that I can think of), the connection between me and the word bitch would not even enter their vocabulary. Maybe that’s a little too boastful statement to make, maybe even a little arrogant to say, but in my opinion, that only enforces my argument. I am a bitch. Yup, that’s right, a cold hearted, manipulative, self-centered, controlling bitch.
It’s not like I am being too hard on myself, I just know that everyone tries so hard to see the good in me is that, that’s all they end up seeing. No one wants to believe I am the villain in the story plot but in truth, sometimes that’s real me. And this nice, kind hearted girl people keep preaching that I am feels like just a candy coated shell. Like sweet smelling hand spun cotton candy; sweet, inviting, big and fluffy but in the end, a virtually tasteless empty sugary treat. It isn’t real, just an illusion. Or the sweet caramel bite before the bitter taste of a granny smith apple.
No, I don’t think I am evil and no, I don’t think I am a psychopath. I know I have emotions and feelings and that I care about people. It’s just… sometimes I have these perceived notions of how certain emotions should be felt like and as if I am not living up to those realities. I watch people… all the time. Not in a stalkerish type of way but like the way a zoologist studies animals. I watch people talking to each other and the differences between people who just met and people who are close friends. I see the smiles on their faces and the wrinkles in their eyes. I hear the laughter in their voices between what is genuine and what is faked. I listen to the meaning behind the words and the inflection to their pitch. I stay attuned to body language and it is the reason behind my odd behavior of just some times stopping in the middle of a sentence because I read that your body language is losing interest in what I am saying.
The thing is though sometimes, and more and more lately a lot of the time, I am not such a nice or good girl. I am a bitch. And quite frankly I am a little proud of that. I enjoy being polite and kind and all of that but sometimes I take more pleasure than I should for unprovoked yelling at someone what an idiot they are. I don’t mind being patience and waiting my turn in line, and sometimes letting someone who obviously needs more help cut by but I will be damned if I don’t enjoy yelling at the pretentious asshole who thinks they can shuffle sneakily their way ahead. Even if it is the elderly. Frankly I am tired of so many elderly people thinking they have preferential treatment just because they are old. Some people just call this standing up for yourself and your rights but so many people are quick to label what a bitch that girl is I usually get the word fat thrown in there with my phrase.
One of my favorite moments of being a bitch was when a coworker, we’ll call him Larry, accidently saw me at one of my finest public bitch moments. I actually really like Larry and think that he is a pretty cool guy though if you ever met him, cool is not one of the words most likely to be assumed to his personality. I was crossing a busy street after work one evening to catch the bus on my way to meet up with my boyfriend Monkey at one of our predestinated spots. As I was crossing, the car coming the opposite direction decided to ignore the crosswalk sign blinking at me to go and narrowly avoided hitting me as he turned left. I gave him a few hand gestures that would make New Yorker’s proud and some choice words that would make my mother embarrassed. No, it wasn’t my proudest or most lady like moments. Then I looked ahead and saw Larry smiling. I blushed, embarrassed and looked down as I finished crossing the street. We laughed about it but I wasn’t apologetic and I explained how that outside of work how much cruder I could be.
It’s sad to think that on one hand I can count exactly how many people I know have seen only this extent of this type of behavior. Fewer still to those who have ever seen me at my truly moodiest, most selfish, hell even racist moments. Even then those people don’t really truly believe that I am anything but a nice person. Why? Why is it so hard for people to believe that I am anything more than a “nice” person? Why can’t we find a middle ground for the two extremes? It’s not like I want to go around being a dick to everyone I meet but so many people have this trained illusion of what I am all wrapped up in this nice little box. Maybe we have to define people like that. Maybe it’s just easier. Or maybe it hurts our heads to have to immerse yourself into the deeper subconscious of who a person is.
I have always liked to think of myself as too complex for that. Or maybe I just have this need to prove to myself that I can explore the range of personalities all within myself. That I can be a positive, kind hearted, happy go lucky girl. That I can be sad, depressed and withdrawn. That I can be loud, outspoken and opinionated. That I can be silly, immature and childish. That I can be mean, cruel, selfish and well… a bitch. And can be so much more. That is me, that is who I am. If I am being completely honest with myself (and the web) here, even this blog is used to be a little bit selfish. After all I am using it to express these emotions, these feelings, these words.
But I don’t expect anything from it. If you like it, great. If you don’t, well I guess that is why they invented the back button. For the first time in a very long time, I am expressing myself, and showing my true colors of who I am. And that mon amie, is a very scary thing.
Love Until Later,