Rich Bitch

One lovely morning in the Spring of 2006, Valentine and I were out for our morning walk when a girl driving a silver Lexus SUV pulled up next to me on the street. She was about my age, salon-pefect hair, teeth so white and straight they couldn't be natural, acrylic french tips, fake tits, the whole deal. She was laughing as she rolled down her tinted window, the scent of some nauseating but probably absurdly expensive perfume wafting out, and then she yelled at me, "Don't forget to pick up your dog shit!" Perhaps she is trying to do her civil duty by reminding me to curb my dog, I thought. But could she not see that I was, in fact, holding a bag full of dog shit? In the hand closest to her car? A car which costs more money than I earn in a year? Was it not perfectly clear that my dog was being curbed? The look on her face was smug, self-satisfied, better-than-thou. And when I noticed her friends, four perfect carbon-copies seated around her, giggling behind their acrylic nails and Tiffany bracelets, I realized, they don't care if I pick up after my dog. They're yelling at me because they find it amusing. They're laughing at me, not with me. They remind me of those hateful cheerleader girls from high school who would come up to me, their glossy lips pinched into nasty little smiles, and say things like, "Cute sweater. Where'd you get it? Target?" and then skip off, giggling with their identical bleached blonde friends.

So I laughed and yelled back, "No fucking problem!" and threw my open bag of dog shit at her perfectly detailed and sparkling gas guzzler. Horror crossed her face as the reeking brown mass slammed into the side of her car and dribbled towards her shimmering, thousand dollar rims. AND I FELT SO MUCH BETTER.