The Birth of a Heartless Bitch...
by Tavia
Good grief, where to begin? Did it all start when I was pushed to the frayed edge of my tolerance for
aggressive ignorance and navel-gazing self-righteousness? Was it the continual
and careless crossing of my perilously low threshold for the kind of passive
complicity that keeps the feeble-minded predators and pud-pullers of the world
in power? Perhaps it was the continuing spectacle of fools rushing in and lifting
their legs on the places where angels fear to tread. Or maybe I just got tired of
counting the cleat marks on my butt.
Actually, I think the HB in me was born back when I was a teenager, when I
started to be subjected daily to the ravings of sufferers of what I call the
"Yo Baby" Syndrome--all too similar to Tourette’s. These afflicted males (of course)
hang out on streets, lean out of doorways or windows, tool around in cars, or swing
from construction site beams by their prehensile tails, waiting for the next
opportunity to bellow "Yo, baby! Nice tits!" and other swayve and de-boner
blandishments at any passing female of non-geriatric age. When I reacted to such
assaults as I figure any thinking person should--with indignation--the
"yo baby"s morphed with lightning speed into "Fuck you, ya stuck-up stank ho!
Think you all dat! Didn't wanna talk to yo fat ass anyway"s.
At first I was stunned by the whole thing. What on God's green earth, I wondered,
could possibly lead anyone, no matter how testosterone-poisoned, to indulge in
such spectacularly rude, intrusive behavior? I mean, after all, it couldn't
possibly WORK, right? Having decided that it was simply another case of bonehead
men objectifying and abusing women with a reflexiveness so ingrained that it
didn't even require positive reinforcement for its perpetuation, I had just
about finished focusing my rage when I first beheld an even more hideous
spectacle: The Properly Feminine Reaction. I saw a freshly
hollered-at woman smile--SMILE, dammit!--bat her lowered eyes, pat her hair,
and throw a little more sashay into her walk, thereby earning even more
hyperbolic commentary from the perpetrator, whose fat head immediately
and audibly inflated.
I almost wish I'd learned a little less quickly that merely blaming
men and being done with it was far too simplistic; having that kind of
object-lesson lobbed at you that way can give a gal whiplash.
But it's hard to escape that truth, if one is even pretending to have
one's eyes open; no gender has a lock on idiocy. At any rate--that incident,
I think, was the one-shot labor pang that announced the arrival of
a bouncing baby Heartless Bitch.
Yes! I want to read more from Real Life Heartless Bitches
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