Don’t you just hate bitches? I have been sitting here in the sunny surroundings of my lovely little flat and thinking about last night. I went to meet some friends at Dream Bags Jaguar Shoes on Kingsland Road for a few drinks. Upon arrival I was feeling great. My hair was wild, pink and flowing freely. Tonight was going to be amazing.
But as I approached the table there she was. Yes diary, that is correct, a pansy-heeled-party-sponge that we from now on refer to as Bitch-head was there. I did consider that it might be mean to call her Bitch-head. But she’s the worst kind of bitch in the world. A closet bitch.
Closet bitches are easy to spot after a while because you suddenly realise that whenever you’re around them they make you feel utterly shit about yourself for no apparent reason. That’s because closet bitches slowly chip away at you.
But don’t worry, I held my head high and refused to be irked by her presence. All of my favourites were there including Mr Handsome who was sitting there looking all handsome and stuff.
Everyone complimented me and told me how fit I looked. Even Mr Handsome nodded approvingly. Perhaps tonight would be the night we’d finally get it on…? Every time we lock eyes I’ve mentally ripped all his clothes off. Surely the feeling must be mutual?
“Aren’t you cold?” Bitch-head piped up.
When I left the house earlier – I admit it – I did pause and wonder if it was perhaps too cold on this mild March evening to get my legs out. But I thought fuck it and departed my boudoir with proudly naked legs.
Now I was regretting my choice. My legs were a bit cold admittedly, but her ‘innocent question’ suddenly made me feel exposed and stupid. I flashed the group my best smile, even though her icy glare was making me crumble inside.
Mr Handsome moved up so I could sit beside him. Be still my beating heart!
I organised myself into the space on the sofa gladly, even though this meant I had Bitch-head to the left… to the right… I had Mr Right.
However, Bitch-head managed to spend the whole evening talking to Mr Handsome. She even ended up using me as a human leaning board while she flirted incessantly across my lap.
I was left feeling like someone drew a massive penis on my forehead in permanent marker. Now I feel like I’m one of those people who walk around with drawings of massive cocks on their heads. Yup… one of those people who now also has cold legs.
Later, in the bathroom I tried to calm myself down. I took a deep breath as I reapplied my make-up. I was going to be the bigger person, I am a lady and will do things like a lady does… with the utmost class. The cubicle door behind me swung opened and Bitch-head emerged.
She’s such a sneak. I smiled at her reflection behind mine in the mirror as she approached the sinks to wash her hands.
I wanted to clear the air. I wanted to shout with my arms stretched out;
“It’s ok Bitch-head! We don’t need to do this! My friends say it’s jealously. It’s insecurity. I’m sure they’re correct but that’s the thing. I feel jealous and insecure just like you. I’m just as in awe and feel just as inferior around you as you do around me!!”
But I didn’t say these things, for it was she who spoke first.
“You really don’t need to wear make-up…” she said to my utter surprise and delight.
How sweet of her!
“…it always makes girls look really trashy.” She finished.
She dried her hands on a paper towel and swanned towards the door. As I watched her leave I saw my moment of glory! Her skirt was tucked into her opaque tights. I smirked to myself. I relished at the thought of her standing in full view of Mr Handsome with her skirt caught up in her hosiery. Oh the joy! This is exactly why we shouldn’t wear tights!
But I caught myself before I got too carried away and ran after her. Just before she got back to our group I snuck up behind her and gently tugged her skirt back down. She turned to me, looked at me as if I was a massive pervert and walked away without saying anything. The rest of the evening was ok, but I still felt stupid and now rather trashy with my reapplied lipstick. And my legs were by now, very cold. So I sat quietly and nursed my mother’s ruin, as I watched wistfully as my arch nemesis flirted with Mr Handsome.
But I went home with my head held high dearest diary.
I maybe many things, but a Bitch-head I will not be.
Illustrations: Domitille Haffner