I’ve got critics saying that I’m a goldigging narcissist. I’ve said that myself, genius, what kind of insights are those?
It’s like telling me that I have brown eyes or big boobs. I see all this when I look in the mirror. I know who and what I am. I love to look in the mirror a lot because I love what I see. And because I’m a narcissist. If you don’t like it, carry yo ass. There’s plenty of things to do on the internet. The world wide web is huge. Besides, they say it like it’s a bad thing.
Hating is just a special way I’ve saying I love you, even though I don’t want to.
Hating is so high school. And a few anonymous commenters will never be able to compete with a 15 year old girl when it comes to haterade.
See, you thought high school was a place to learn your math, english, history and all that bullshit. No. High school is where you are socialized. You are being initiated by your peers and prepared for the real world on how to deal with people around you. It’s a rite of passage. So while boys initiated each other by giving each other wedgies, bragging about seeing boobies, or handing out black eyes, girls learned how to psychologically scar a bitch for life, inside and out. You learn where best to stick the shank, and when, even if it’s 2 years later, all while smiling at a frenemies face the whole time. Girl World is real. And I graduated with honors.
In junior high, I was easy going and cool with everyone. I was that wacky friend. And I was okay with that. I like having fun and a good time. It’s what I’m about. Then the puberty happened, and kids started acting crazy. And, yeah, puberty got me too. After that, suddenly I was the center of most people’s attention. Awesome. People either kissed my ass or were threatened by me. Everyone wanted me as a friend or a fuck. The drawback? I had to contend with behaviors from everyone’s insecurities and hang-ups. And who isn’t insecure at that age?
I had a BFF who I had known since the beginning of junior high. We did everything together. We went shopping together, we had slumber parties, we browsed magazines together, we dieted together, we tried to get classes together, we swore we would always be there for each other. This bitch. She sold me out to a boy she liked because she was afraid that he was more into me than her. She told him embarrassing things and talked shit about me behind my back to him. And she even tried to backhand compliment me TO MY FACE when this dude was around. I couldn’t believe it. All for the attention and approval for a dude we barely knew. And she got him, eventually. I felt so betrayed. I cursed the Gods. I swore we would never be friends. I was really, really hurt. Just like I’m sure she was hurt when I stole that guy from her. Especially since all I had to do was talk to him on the phone a few times and she had stalked him, talked shit about me and given him blowjobs. Bitches needed to know that I am not the one.
Queen Bee: it’s a dirty job but someone has to keep the others in line.
This is what I learned about haters. For once, it’s not really about me. I just represent something that makes them feel frustrated, insecure, or inferior about themselves or worldview. And that’s a personal problem. If they have self-esteem issues, then comes the haterade. What they don’t know is that they are serving up their own bullshit insecurities on a silver platter to the very thing that threatens them. ME. The bitch. So thanks. I’ll be having that with my lunch.
Haterade: It’s what’s for lunch. Tastes like chicken.
Also, now that I’m older and
slightly wiser, I know that I don’t really have to get back at haters. They’re already miserable. You really can’t do something that they’re not already doing to themselves. So now I just sit back and laugh. Well, I try anyway. ; ) And carry on with my bad self. Doing well and feeling great is always the best revenge.
You can take the people out of high school, but you can’t take the high school out of some people.
If you’re having self-esteem problems I feel bad for you, son. I’ve got 99 problems but being a bitch ain’t one.