Hello, Bitchfaces. I would like to start this column by thanking the above sorry ass dude. I absolutely love it when weak ass, intimidated men step directly the fuck out of my way.
If their hands tremble or their voice quivers a little when they address me, it’s a fucking bonus.
You know, I’ve been a woman who has created her own success my entire life. I clawed my way out of the fucking dirt, earned some degrees, made some money legally and otherwise, lost everything, and fucking here I sit. In the house that Bitchface built.
When I tell you that a soft ass man like this Bozo looking for cashiers and part time daycare workers to date, in his 30’s, no less, would be petrified to speak in my presence, that’s not me assuming things. This has happened. More than once.
There are men out there who look at the success of a woman, especially one who built it herself, and they are immediately aware of the fact that their balls aren’t big enough and that their mothers’ normal intimidation tactics wouldn’t even make me bat an eyelash.
They know they would be crushed beneath my fucking heel the second they tried the negging, the passive aggressive, weak ass man tactics. And they want no part of it.
I applaud them. By all means, take your pussy ass home and cry in the shower, sir, I would be frightened of me too. Fuck, I am me and I scare me.
I think that in my younger years, shit such as this would have offended me. Like, oh, what now I’m too smart and successful. I have to be broke and stupid now in order to get a subpar dude to waste my fucking time?
Boy, please. Me in my 40’s is like, um. Yeah. What in the fuck would a little pansy bitch like that do with me? Like, seriously. Let’s fucking be serious.
Off rip, bruh, I don’t need you. I don’t have the time for your insecurities, I also have shit I’m working on. So, no, I can’t be off at 8pm watching reruns of Friends, you garden variety pencil dick. I’m trying to get all of the fucking money in circulation dropped the fuck off to the door. Your obsession with Phoebe is just going to have to do it for you there, buckaroo.
I can laugh about this shit now, because I have experienced this on more than one occasion. God, when I worked for Publix, it was like Corey was a legend because he had the nerve to approach me. Like, why is everyone tripping? Literally nobody else has asked me out. You just stare at me like a fucking buffoon when I walk by. That’s definitely not the same.
So, these dudes, like the one above, they have no problem showing you exactly who they are. They’re the guys who gossip about you like bitches, because they know they could never date you. You don’t even see them, they’re just scenery.
They’re the guys who, when they are lucky enough to get a date with you, they lie and tell everyone they slept with you, when you left halfway through dinner because you couldn’t hear another word about cornhole on Saturday and the Nascar race. Yes, I did. I left the server a nice tip, told her to give me a 5 minute headstart, and cash me out. It was just too fucking much.
They’re the guys who, when you date their friends, they call you a bitch behind your back, but never have the balls to say it to your face. Even when you directly say “yeah, must be the Bitch in me, huh?”. Because they’re afraid of confrontation, and they’re jealous petty bitches at heart.
Everyone knows when you date a woman who isn’t afraid to eat alone at the table she fucking built, varnished, and placed the meal upon, you literally can’t get a toehold with your normal weak ass bullshit game. You gotta bring something more to that table, and these pussies lack something more. Hell, they lack something. Period.
So, I would personally like to thank Bozo above, and request that any other weak ass spineless shit dudes do the exact same. Get the fuck out of the race, because you know you’ve been lapped twice already, and you ain’t doing shit but taking up a lane.
From Self Made and All Other Forms of Successful Women Everywhere,
and, of course, Q
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This post was previously published on April Hawkins, Ask A Bitchface.
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