I’ve found that the majority of aspiring female writers inevitably must become, first and foremost, a pretentious bitch. Given this essential truth, I have to admit that this is a fairly substantial roadblock on my way to writing the Great American Novel.
Because I can’t be a bitch. This is not me congratulating myself on my saintly disposition, on the contrary there has been many a time when I tried hard to be one, but it always just comes out as a random outburst.
For example: in high school, I had two arch nemeses. (Is that the plural of arch nemesis? Moving on…) I don’t think either of these girls actually knew that I was at all angry with them. A typical conversation might go like this:
Archnemesis #1: Hey, Katie, can I borrow that pen?
Katie (in mind): Yeah, sure. After you wrench it out of my cold dead fingers! I’ll never give you anything you cold-hearted blood-sucking toad. You’re so awful. And your hair? Ugly.
Katie (out loud): Yeah, sure.
Or the ongoing rivalry I had with Witness My Fitness down the street. Every day I would turn off of Camino Corto and onto Sueno to ride to campus, and every day I would see him. Smug, self-assured skin-and-bones skeleton of a man with a street racing bike and “Witness my Fitness” scrawled across his satchel in permanent marker. Well, I’m not gonna lie. I’m pretty fast on my bike. I had won many a bike race, and when I saw that cocky bastard’s motto on his backpack, his brazen attempt to assert his fitness over mine, and his suggestion, nay his demand that I witness said fitness—it really made me want to prove him wrong.
So we had a bike race.
The bastard kicked my ass.
So after that, he became my new arch nemesis. After that fateful bike race I would see him everywhere. Walking by me on campus, buying coffee from me at Nicoletti’s, strolling the halls of Girvetz…and everytime I saw him, I just glared. Glared and repeated silently in my head, “Witness my finger, bike fucker.”
Now this might be interpreted as just passive aggressiveness. But sometimes, even though I can’t manage to say anything really mean, I just blurt out something that’s not really nice. Like the following, that happened to me one time last year when I was working at IV market, and my neighbor Fatty walked in.
(Katie bagging groceries)
Fatty: Well, Katie, it was good to see you, and—
Katie: Cut your hair.
Fatty: (looks surprised)
That’s it! That’s as mean as I can get! To be fair, the hair needed to be cut. I learned later that it had been caught not once but twice in an automatic car window.
So, I’m working on it. But besides being a bitch, I think I need to work on my girl power-vagina monologue-female pride. Is it bad that I just don’t care? Is it bad that I think women’s studies classes are a waste of time? Seriously. If you’re a women’s studies major, what the hell are you learning? How to pee sitting down? Give me a break.
So being a bitch isn’t working out, and I can forget about being pretentious, listening to Tchaikovsky and quoting Ibsen. The only thing I ever quote is Old School, and that is only because it quite honestly relates to every aspect of my life. And I listen to Britney Spears.
Well, okay so I can’t be mean, I’m not able to “celebrate my femininity” and spell woman “womyn,” so I guess my only course of action to become a writer, since pretentious bitch is beyond my reach (for now) is to keep an online journal. Check.