In Which a Confession and a Wish Occur.

I can’t be a Bitch.

There, I said it. My ex-husband may not agree, though, I have a suspicion that he might. Our divorce could have been way worse.

I have always wanted to be a bitch. To call the douchebag out in the bar. To shove the pretty girl telling me to “move back” at a concert. Get all up in someone’s face. To tell off the woman in the business suit that she is a horrible person for parking in the handicapped spot at PetSmart “just to grab Fluffykins some food.” But, I just can’t.

Seriously. The worse thing I have done is put an open barbeque sauce packet on a guy’s windshield because he thought it was funny to pretend he was going to run over my son in his stroller.

In my mind though, I do horrible things. Pour gasoline in the ex-boyfriend’s basement and then light a match. Pour vinegar into the pots of his most precious plants. Set the shed at the house I spent most of my marriage in on fire as a symbolic gesture. I put ex-lax in the mean girls brownies and spit in the new girlfriend’s shampoo. I imagine I scream at “that cute guy” everything he did wrong to hurt me, then point out how small his penis is and he doesn’t date for years. I have the potential to be a monster.

But instead, I admire from afar those who just say what they feel, risk it all and don’t care if anyone likes them for it. They trust in who they are.

My sister has always been known for not taking shit from anybody. She threw boys up against lockers for being uncouth in high school. When a couple of boys spit ALL over our bikes in grade school she made sure the boys who did it were not well liked and for one in particular, she kept his feminine hygiene product sounding last name memorable until high school graduation. This was before we called people douchebags. My sister is a revenge trendsetter. I’m in awe to this day.

My sister and I also work together. One day, our new boss was trying to be funny and throw paper at her while she was talking to someone. I told him, “You don’t mess with her. Trust me. She has been the one NOT to mess with in my family, forever.” I don’t think he took me seriously, but trust me, I think he is learning.

My brother is a quiet badass. Just hangs out and chills out but if someone messes with his sisters, all bets are off. He and my younger sister were at a hardcore show when some guy, probably messed up on meth or something, kept slamming into my sister. My brother pushed the guy away as one does at a hardcore show but the dude kept coming back. So my brother punched the guy IN THE FOREHEAD.

Two days later, he found out he had broken his hand.

Hardcore, indeed.

So, see, I am not a bad ass. I’m more like a wimp. My anger comes through in the metaphors of my poems and even then, it is more like pain and melancholy. And I guess I fear that bringing all of that potential bitch energy to the page would just turn the language into a rant or some other non-eloquent movement of words. Perhaps, I am meant to deal with everything life throws at me in my own way but sometimes I feel it would benefit me more if I could embrace my inner bitch. Maybe she just isn’t there and instead I am made up inside of lost souls and battered saints.

Ugh…that does sound like something I would say.

art: "Set on Fire: (2009) by Kristoffer Zetterstrand