Raging Bitch

So I just did a review of a piece I wrote a little over a year ago, called Bitch, because I’ve been reviewing all sorts of stuff I’ve written over the past few years, but this morning I’m inspired to write a sequel, this one, because I do believe I’ve found myself, the grown up version of the Bitch.


Now I’m the Raging Bitch. I like it, bunches. I’ve even got the image to go with it.


The Bitch is no longer standing there trying to look hot, silly whilst holding herself so chastely belted, arms wrapped up tight, holding on to who knows what, maybe Mom and Dad, chained to them almost, or maybe it’s the image of the sexy male, not Michael J. Fox, he never did it for me, but no, someone else there in that magazine full of naked men, she’s so over that, and someone new has taken her place.


The Raging Bitch is quite different.


She’s got those arms spread out, funky chicken-like, winged almost, hands on hips, the stance one that the folks who look at things like body language, say yup, that’s a raging bitch pose, and clearly I’ve looked at what they think, Bitch was judged that way, her body language, or maybe she was discerned, as I did actually learn about it, who knows, and really, who cares, not Raging Bitch, not one little bit, but then, that’s because she’s discerning.


See what a Raging Bitch she is?


Anyway, so, it’s something I’m really good at. Once upon a time, back when I tried to fit in here or there, I stifled her, or myself, I mean, I’m not always a raging bitch, but if one is needed, she’s here, I can whip her out, just like that, and really, right now, she’s kind of needed. And the thing, what makes me really, really good at playing host to Raging Bitch, and yeah, I’ll word it that way, it’s perfect (heck, maybe we’ll call her Arrogant Raging Bitch) is that I really don’t give a single rat’s ass about whether or not anybody likes me.


Well, really I do, but since I know some folks do, and heck, and even if not, I do, so, well, I’m good with it.


I’ve had the conversation, more than once, with my aunt, who is so over the top nicety nice in every single way to folks, all the time, when we discussed my epically brilliant piece on Visible Panty Lines, and the offense a former student took with it, which was really, almost my point, trying to point out how phucking ridiculous that one’s ability and brilliance (super capable and brilliant former student) should be judged on the fact of wearing underwear with elastic around the leg holes, former student defending that judgment (or maybe it’s discernment, gosh, that’s a tough one, lots of subjectivity there) because she’s forced to live her life under it, or thinks she is, or wants to, and my response that I gave to my aunt, was about the not one rat’s ass I gave if it offended the former student, whom I love, wildly and deeply.


In fact, I kind of wish we’d all get a whole lot more offended about all kinds of stuff, and rant, and rage, and be raging bitches, which, OBTW, has little to do with being female, unless one is a canine, according to Webster and probably those snobs at Oxford, a Bitch is a pain in the ass, something that actually niggles, at least a bit, kind of hard to ignore sometimes.


Of course, Being the Change would probably be good, too. Raging Bitch has that t-shirt on, she has it on now, and has her tan on, she's going to work on that, shortly, and the smile isn’t so much a smirk any more.

​It’s much happier than that.