Sisterhood Our Asses

This one is gonna fire out of me like a sniper shot:

Ladies!  Ladies, ladies!  Must we go on hating on other speci-women due to our own lapses of self-esteem?! We all have issues at times, I’ll give you that.  The fucking ego is a tricky mechanism; and as much as it’s beneficiary when propelling us forward, if not handled — it will drag down our otherwise fabulous selves.  But the thing is, my womanly comrades, I tend to solve my shit BEFORE I step out into the world every day.

It goes like this:  Wake up.  Brush the teeth.  Check-in the ego.  Then, I proceed with marinating my brain in caffeine for a couple of hours while I clock-in for the sake of my career; so that as the day progresses, god forbid I begin to despise the people I work for, who, incidentally, pay for what little freedom I have to pursue my art.  So, you see, by the time I lock-up the doors of my home where no one witnesses the exorcism of my own private garbage-baggage, I’ve brushed-off my shoulders from the dandruff of self-manufactured self-hatred.  To cause the least amount of distress or pain to a living thing — including myself — is my motto for the day.  It is my grace.  So I gotta do the work, for no other human should suffer from the echoes of my unhappiness.

What started this lovely rant?  I nearly got eaten alive last night.  Out on the town on my traditional Saturday-night story hunt, I dared to show up in a place that, for whatever coincidental reason, served as a stage for human sadness.  Normally, a swanky joint, last night my spot attracted a demographic of tragically insecure white women.  (Forgive me:  I say “white” because brown ladies tend to leave me be — unless I’m out with a brother.)  With a glass of cranberry juice on the rocks, I slithered in between the crowd, waiting for the late night festivities to start.  I made my way to the my regular observatory in the corner of the patio, right by underneath an open fire pit where no other human dared to chill.  I leaned the balmy skin of my naked back against the exposed brick wall and started to warm up my venom glands.

It felt like darts, I tell you — darts hurled by well-practiced hands — and they struck into the brown areolae of my braless nipples.  The feeling of being watched hit me head to toe, and it suddenly felt as if I got drenched with a bucket of ice-water, head first.  I looked in the direction of the stares:  a table of five females of various types was studying me in a bone-chilling silence.  They must’ve just sat down, for their plates still had the appeal of clean slates, with no evidence of their unhealthy relationships with food.  Four out of the five broads were… hmm, how should I say this?… on the heavier side.  Not that I would care, my dear comrades:  for I find women gorgeous no matter their size!

But these four were obviously tangled-up in a vicious circle of I Eat Because I Hate Myself and I Hate Myself — Because I Eat.  The syndrome, I assume, has been already activated when in the company of their girlfriends; and by the time a basket of bread was delivered to their table last night, they began to compete in non-eating.

Now!  I don’t tolerate diets, my ladies!  I don’t even want to hear it from my girls about their beef with their own weight.  My spiel is:  be active, eat healthfully — and leave your body be.  You’re perfect — so don’t you dare fuck with your gorgeous self. Obviously, my lifestyle choices show up in my appearance — and that very appearance did not sit well with my sisters last night.

Despite my returned stare — I mean, I even raised my eyebrow into a What’s the Problem Here?! arch — the unhappy broads carried on their deconstruction of V.  Finally, one of them leaned over and in very well calculated volume said:

“I would never wear that!”

What was I wearing?  Does it even matter?  Obviously, it was not my choice of clothing that awoke the insecurities of my female comrades:  It was my very being! If it weren’t for the dress, they would’ve fished for other evidence with which to tear me down; for that is the only way — at the expense of other women! — that the voice of their self-hatred is soothed, at least for a little while.  Would it be better if I buried my feline curvatures underneath on oversized sweater?  Not really.  It would be better — if I didn’t exist at all!

While the other broads chuckled like hungry hyenas, I unglued my back from the wall and made my way toward the pit of their unhappiness.  The author of the bitchy remark had no other choice of action but to take on a sarcastic sneer that disfigured her face into an even more unattractive look.  I evaluated the situation while watching the hater from behind the curtain of my hair; and by the time, I reached the table, my ballsy stare made the women get serious and obviously uncomfortable.  As I passed, I lifted my glass at the idiot-in-charge in a gesundheit gesture.  I mean:  What else could I wish her but a better, healthier self?

Only when my eyes left the field of the table, did the broads shifted in their seats.  Oh, I could hear them.  They were gearing up for further exorcism at other women’s expense.  Yet, they still had to wrap up my case.  Which they did:

“What a bitch!”  The last dart was hurled my way, except it missed its target; for I was already slithering between males dumbified by that same backless dress of mine who began calling me by the name of “Wow.”

Funny, I thought:  In either case, I didn’t even say — or do — anything.  Alas.

2 responses to “Sisterhood Our Asses

  1. I work in a fantasy world surrounded by princesses and dancing rodents, yep that one. One day I was working with the lovely princess in a gold dress, who happens to be very well endowed and naturally gorgeous, and a Playboy Bunny and her friend came to meet her. I think we’re all aware of the “look” of the Playmate and the reputation that they have, especially the one that had her own TV show, who happened to be the one meeting the princess that day. This Bunny decided that she was going to give our princess a glare, this look that showed up in the pictures, all I can say is it was not friendly. This from a Playboy Playmate, meeting someone portraying a fictional character. Even in a fantasy world women can’t seem to escape that despise for other beautiful women.

  2. Fantasy worlds — are dangerous, no matter who authors them, my comrade; for either they come from escapism of one’s reality or a desire for one that we think belongs to another person and which we must deserve. Both originate from a lack of courage.

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