Bus Bitches.

I’m on the bus tonight. It’s late, I’m tired. I want my couch, I want some crap TV, and I want to pet my cat.

Right now, though, I am forced to endure the conversation of three tipsy rich girls whose conversation is entirely made up of stupidity and cruelty.  They’re in first year at UBC, I can tell by the courses they’re moaning about. But they’re there for what my mother used to call their MRS degrees. They’re at school to find husbands. But since first year is too early to actually look for a husband, just now they are party girls with bad attitudes.

On an English prof: It’s like, he thinks writing, like, matters! I’m, like, “I’m here for the credits.”

On a roommate: I, like, can’t be around her anymore. She’s too, like, nice. She has, like these parents, who, like send her care packages and stuff! Her mom, like, sent her condoms! And a note! It said, “Don’t kiss any boys you don’t know.” Her mom thinks she’s like, getting some. And she isn’t!

On parents: My mom’s like, “I just need a view.” I’m like, “You’re moving again?” She’s, like, looking at places moving down from four bathrooms to two bathrooms.  My dad’s like, “It’s disgusting.”

On my other side are two alterna-lesbians who dart glances at theis golden trio, with combined disgust and terror in their eyes. This I get. Girls like these bitches are a cause of teenage suicide. They are the reason normal girls cry.

Their smug shells of complacent entitlement will protect them from a lot. But not everything. And not forever. Life will throw them curveballs. I wonder if they’ll grow into grace, or harden into brittle shells.

Time will tell, and part of me is glad I’ll never find out which way they go.

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