On the Evolution of B—-iness

B—-es are women who discover, at some point in life, any of the following: (a) they were born on the wrong planet, (b) they were born at the wrong time, (c) they were born as the wrong species, or (d) all of the above.  In other words,      b—-es experience life as a single colossal injustice, or worse, as a series of middling disappointments.  Why all the fuss? People ask.  Life is unfair and life is a disappointment—why deal with it by wallowing in perennial PMS? What people fail to understand though is that b—-es are born sensitive.

As children, b—-es tend to be exceptionally intuitive and eerily mature.  They have a disconcerting habit of talking in polysyllables and looking grown-ups in the eye. They are the sort of little girls who, while other children are playing Monopoly, are reading the Communist Manifesto and accusing their parents of being capitalist swine.    

Later on in the b—-es’ prepubescent lives, they suffer the Disappointment—an incident utterly inconsequential in the eyes of the callous world, but absolutely soul-shattering for the hyper-sensitive b—-es in their larval stage.  The Disappointment will sink like an antiquated ferry into the depths of the young pre-b—-es’ subconscious, leaving nothing but ripples and a few bloated corpses.  Eventually, no outward trace of the disaster will remain, but like a hulking, rotting ship’s carcass, the Disappointment will remain at the very bottom of the pre-b—-es’ minds, providing fertile ground for the development of the psychic version of marine coral: b—-iness.

Coral is a skeleton; it naturally secretes its own protection.  The Great Barrier Reef is nothing but coral.  B—-iness is nothing but a hyper-sensitive woman’s Great Barrier Reef.  Touch coral and bleed. Annoy a b—- and die. In other words, b—-es are the walking psychological wounds of life—scabbed over by the carcasses of the unwitting and unlucky few. 

One of these days, you will meet a b—-.  And she will say or do something that will make you forget all the compassion this essay may have induced. And that’s perfectly alright—she’ll beat the crap out of you anyway.

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