The Consequences of Being a Bitch

You know what pisses me off? You know what really grinds my gears?

People.

Girls, specifically.

And girls seem to hate me, too. So this is a mutual sort of relationship we’ve got worked out here. Bitches don’t like me. I don’t like bitches.

All girls are bitches. Don’t give me that lame-ass excuse, oh, not all girls are like that. Some are actually nice and not bitchy in the least.

No. Just leave, right now.

Some girls may not show it. Some girls may hide it better than others. But all girls are bitches at the core.

Even me. What am I doing right now? I’m whining like a little bitch, about all the whiny little bitches out there. You can’t avoid it. If you’re a girl, you’re a whiny-ass bitch and there’s nothing you can do about it. Unless you deny it. But then you’re just a fake-ass bitch. At least I don’t claim to be different. At least I know what I am and have come to terms with it. It’s a very long process, and I’ve learned that you can’t force a girl into acceptance. She has to do it on her own.

Anyway. Back to why I hate all girls. Why do I think all girls are selfish, whiny little bitches? First of all, let me just clarify something for all you idiots out there. I don’t think that. It’s not just some opinion I have because girls don’t like me, wah wah, cry me a river, I hate you all, no one understands me, whatever.

Let me clarify something else, while I’m at it. While all girls are bitches, not all girls are the same kind of bitch. There’s the selfish kind, the whiny kind, the fake kind, and everything in between. Some girls are more than one kind, but the lucky ones are just one kind of bitchy.

Give a girl a choice between a shiny new boyfriend and a shiny new car, what will she choose? Both. Plus those new shoes and a fucking cheeseburger, why not? After all that work, she’s bound to get hungry. Feed the bitch. And if the burger is too greasy, she’ll complain about it and blame it on her shiny new boyfriend. Then she’ll make him fill up her gas tank and bitch about how his hands smell like gasoline. Then she’ll cry when he doesn’t touch her, because he’s afraid she’ll bitch some more.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

No. You don’t. You have no fucking clue the extent of my hate toward females. They’re practically raised to be bitches. But that doesn’t mean they’re off the hook. They need to see their bitchiness, have their faced rubbed in it like a pile of dog shit, and then they need to take responsibility for who they are. It’s not my fault you’re a bitch. It’s not Daddy’s fault and it’s not your ex-boyfriend’s fault. It’s your own—fucking—fault. Remember that.