An Inhuman Condition

Jamie thinks she is so cute. The way she flicks her hair and sways away. Those tight leggings and ugly hunting boots that look like Nordic, sealskin vomit trimmed with dryer lint – she’s such a bitch. Because it’s ironic and in to look like you woke up raped by a trashcan. I wonder how long it takes her to perfect that “impromptu” ponytail. Why would anyone spend so much effort to look like they aren’t trying at all? I can just imagine how she would defend it “Oh, some of us just rely on our natural beauty, Christine.” Natural beauty – ha! I see the brush strokes where she applied just the right amount of “natural” from a bottle. Ray might not see it, but I can see it. I could just strangle her.

I cannot believe we used to be friends. She wasn’t even into Ray until he started flirting with me. We go out one time, and suddenly she turns the slut-dial up to eleven. Sure she has bigger tits and a better ass, but I saw him first. That should mean something, right? Some of us try to look pretty, damn it. I spent forty minutes picking out this skirt and jacket – forty minutes. She just grabs the pink, school sweater and some fucking leggings. They aren’t even pants! Nobody forwarded that message to me: no Facebook post, no tweets. Maybe it was a Yahoo Answer to the question: “Could I be a bigger whore without leather boots and a credit-card swiper in my ass cheeks?”

She’s always been like this. I should have seen it coming. I had to watch Devon around her like a goldfish stalked by a housecat. I saw the little glances she gave him, the way she laughed at everything he said. It was so fake. The whole thing had a distant, tin-can sound like the bootleg DVDs my pot dealer sells. That’s her: faded colors, skips. If you look closely, you can see where they cropped out the head of the guy sitting in the next row. Anyone could see just how manufactured she is if they just paid attention. But no, it’s the tight ass, wide smile and sweater-mountains they care about. Guys are so dumb.

I can’t even confront her about it; the whole thing would be her little, innocent act of “Oh, I didn’t know. Maybe he just likes me more, teehee.” The impulse to gauge her eyes out would be too strong. My tolerance for bullshit is dwindling. It’s not enough that she stepped around me either. Whenever I see her, she just has to talk about how great he is and how happy they are like little knives in back. I hope her face is chewed off by bobcats.