I’d really like to take one day and be a bitch. Just one day. That’s not too much to ask, is it? I’d make the most of it. It would be my “I’m not putting up with your shit” day, my “listen to me or take a hike” day, my “oh please, bitches — I’m the biggest bitch here” day.
On that day, I would call people out on their bullshit while being as condescending as I please and with as much profanity as I’d like. I wouldn’t have to make sure I worded things just right to avoid offending anyone. I wouldn’t stumble over my words or take twenty minutes to write and rewrite a simple message.
On that day, anyone who got in my way would receive a ruthless verbally trouncing, and those people would hate me, but rather than their hatred making me curl up and wither inside, it would galvanize me to be even bigger and badder. They might get offended and bitch back at me, but I’d just put them in their place all over again as many times as necessary.
On that day, I’d flip every table that needed flipping, and I’d never look back.
On that day, I would be anything but ignorable. I would be seen, and I would be heard, or there would be hell to pay.
The reality, though, is that isn’t me. I wish I had that hard edge. I sometimes dream of having it and putting it to use to get some really amazing stuff done. However, every time I think I’m going to walk myself right up to that edge, and maybe even leap over it, I don’t. The reality is that I’m squishy. My empathy and sympathy reflexes have a fast-twitch response time, which completely undermines my “nu uh, don’t mess with me, honey” reflexes. I play defense, not offense. If I became hard edged, how could I still be me? I feel like I’d have to give up, well, myself in the process.
If you want proof of how squishy I really am, I’m even nervous about this post because someone might be offended at the way I used the term “bitch.” Maybe I’m perpetuating a negative stereotype. Oh hell, everybody’s always perpetuating stereotypes.
I’d love to flip at least one table, whether figuratively or literally. Sometimes it just needs to be done. But the reality is, I’m someone who straightens up a flipped table. Or, at the very least, I can’t help but recognize that when a table gets flipped, someone has to clean up after everything that gets broken, and that someone is most likely me. And if I’m not going to be the person to set things right again, I don’t want anybody to have to clean up after me — which of course leads back to not flipping the table in the first place.
So here I am, defeated by my own circular logic, a failed table flipper wishing to be a bitch. Just for a day.