You Don't Have a Man Because You're a Bitch
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You don’t have a man because you are a bitch.
Or perhaps you are a bitch because you don’t have a man.
People think I am a bitch, so I’ve been told.
I imagine they must think so because I am determined and opinionated, carry myself with an unapologetic high head, and have complete regard for myself and my rightful place here on this earth. I don’t stand for anyone’s shit and I won’t take it laying down, and I’m always the first to let you know when you’re stepping on my toes and crossing the line into forbidden territory.
However, in my case, I have a man. How can that be?
We might be able to gather that being a bitch and not having a man are directly proportional to one another, and perhaps one is the cause of the other. Hell, maybe both situations are completely unrelated and independent of one another.
However, one thing is certain, and that is the fact that being an ugly contemptuous monstrosity of a skag-type abominate bitch, never did anybody any favors. Ask Naomi Campbell, I’m sure she could tell you all about it. Although she has a man too. Huh?
I recall a young woman I used to work with at the casino, barely aged 21, who sulked, whined, lamented, and ate freshly seasoned dog crap on moldy rye bread, I’m not kidding you, EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE WEEK.
She was young, reasonably attractive, and was in bed politically frolicking around with all the higher ups in the place. She knew how to schmooze the right people to get exactly what she wanted, so I had no question she was also reasonably intelligent.
I often thought, ‘What the hell does this person have to complain about‘?
She had been recently promoted to yet another great position within the company, made a generous amount of money for someone her age, and had a TON of friends. She drove a brand new car, got her perfect little nails done every week, and had total unadulterated fun and freedom as was evident in her many wild and adventurous tales of drunken glory.
Yet, she was a nasty pus-filled ulceratively ripe gaping blood blister, that could easily burst at any given second, letting her repulsive contents spray up the wall and completely soak the guy’s shirt sitting 50 feet from her. Indeed, she was that RUDE, INSOLENT, FOUL, and DETESTABLE.
Her most common complaint, of course, was that she didn’t have a man. She whined incessantly about wanting one, needing one, and yet much to her “surprise”, she just didn’t have one. And much to everyone’s expectations, she remained without one. She did for as long as I knew her, which was maybe two years, tops.
I was sitting in the employee cafeteria one day eating my lunch, when Miss Nasty Pants decided to join me. And low and behold, she was complaining yet again about being manless without a dick to shag and fraught at the prospect of never having someone to come home to, to massage her aching feet. She bellyached about how she longed for a much needed rear end rub, someone to send her flowers, and someone to nuzzle up nook-wise alongside her ratty face (I secretly theorized she was a bitch because she couldn’t get laid).
I interjected with, “Maybe if you realized you don’t really need a man, you’d be less concerned about having one,” or something to that effect.
I kid you not, she gave me THE MOST nasty scowl on earth- stuck her tongue out, rolled her eyes, and ended the whole ordeal with some hacked up greenish blood-tinged slimy phlegm before she got up and left. I thought her head was going to jump off her shoulders and out the nearest window, had her body known that something so heinous and ugly were attached to it- the damned thing would be stupid not to willfully remove itself to get out of the way of inherent danger.
To this day, I can still see her ugly little knotted up face full of hate and detestfulness before my eyes, and how relieved I felt that she was so displeased with what I said, I was fortunate enough to never have to talk to her again. She refused to talk to me as though I’d given her the biggest insult of her life, although I’d bet my aching tookus, she’d gotten a lot more where that came from, from A LOT of other people.
A LOT of people didn’t like her. And the ones who did were of the most nasty repugnant variety themselves. She had a regular who came in named Jack, of whom I nicknamed Jackass because believe me, that’s what he was. He would sit in her section and hers only, and he hated every other waitress and staff in the entire place. He was a nasty old f*cker and seeing her and him together like two jovial bruise-skinned rotten apples happily decomposing against each other was enough to make me sick.
I tried getting a bit of background out of her on nasty old Jackass, and mentioned he was more than a bit rough around the edges. Unsuprisingly, she quickly came to defend his Nasty Old Goat Disease and justified it as though it was his birthright. At that point, I gave it a rest because there’s no use getting through to people of this sort. As I see it, freshly laid shit attracts diseased flies, and together they make perfect disgusting harmony. Why question it? It was what it was.
Of course this was years ago, and I sometimes wonder what became of that nasty skag. I would imagine she eventually did find someone, and perhaps her poor displaced soul was saved by an immaculate act of charity by the grace of some higher power. Somewhere, some kinder being bestowed upon her a chisel and a mallet that kindly chipped away some of the concrete of her meanness and brought forth a kinder more diplomatic human being.
Or maybe she shriveled up into an ugly old woman, whose face froze permanently during an unkindly winter freeze, who now sews $5.00 quilts beside a motorized kerosene lamp that’s set to explode 2.3 years from now via faulty valve stem manufacturer’s defect.
The point of this story, you ask?
I am not her kind of bitch. Never have been. And I have a man. 
There is a big difference between bitches.
There are the kind who aren’t willfully or easily provoked and there are the kind who live to be provoked.
And the kind who live to be provoked are the kind who turn men off quicker than the power company shutting off a gambling loser’s 3-month unpaid light bill. The kind NOBODY wants to be around, much less any kind and decent man.
Either way, we can blame a woman for not having a man when she doesn’t have anything nice to say, do, dream up or invent, at the same time we can blame a woman for being a bitch because she doesn’t have a man. Yet, ultimately, the reason a nasty hater bitch doesn’t have a man is because no man in his right mind wants to hang around long enough to dig out what’s underneath the thick morosed skin encasing a huge bitch.
When you’re an unscalable bitch, nobody wants to rub up next to you, nobody wants to send you flowers, and nobody wants to f*ck you. And unless you’re Naomi Campbell, status-wise, looks-wise, or money-wise, you should probably bank more on being a kind upstanding human being.
The gist? Quit being a hateful bitch and you might get laid.