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Bitch, Please – Are You Brutally Honest, or Straight-Up Nasty?

Disappointingly for all concerned this is not a crash course on how to be a bitch. For one, if you need to follow a step-by-step guide then you’re unfortunately not emotionally equipped to gracefully manoeuvre the ‘bitch’ lifestyle (and thus are probably a good person.) Secondly, if you are that kind of dingbat that opened this to further enhance your bitchy persona, then I’m sorry but I must dash any sense of mutual acquaintance that you felt forming. Also, take a lesson in humanity you psycho.

This morning as I was jigging around my room, bleach in one hand, phone in the other (I was cleaning obviously) I came across two frightfully bitchy tweets. I was halfway through that weird hop you do when you’re trying to slither into your jeans when I say them, and these tweets stopped me dead in my tracks, barely avoiding a wheelchair causing toe-stub. I realised quickly they were about, or rather aimed at, me. Reading them blasted me with all the joy of opening a fridge full of spoiled vegetables.

As I re-read these beautifully crafted bitchy rants I was (at first) filled with sheer frustration. My first instinct was to respond; I dug deep and tried to summon something so morale denting and awful that these snaky douchebags would be scared to use social media ever again. My second instinct was crank up a giant machine-gun and spray them with bullets, but I felt that was a tad dramatic. Besides, where does one get a machine gun? This isn’t Trump’s America.

I started typing but every retort I came up with seemed pointless, lacklustre. It wasn’t cutting enough, savage enough. I wanted to cripple these semen-stains emotionally. They hurt me, so I had to hurt them back harder. Then I realised that anyone can be nasty; anyone can engage in war of words. Would replying make me feel any better? Probably, initially anyway. Ultimately though why would I waste my time replying when they didn’t even @ me. More importantly, why bother letting that negative energy in?

Now before you start with ‘Eh, you’re writing about it so…’ I’d politely ask you to shut up and read on. I do have a point somewhere.

Over the years I’ve gotten used to people ‘coming for me.’ They attack me for articles I write, for expressing my opinion with brevity, for the blogs I post, and even for how big my hair is. Basically, I’m not afraid to call a spade a cunt and not everybody is on board with that. It’s happened so many times I’ve become desensitised to it almost, and I’ve had some nasty-ass jibes hurled at me along the way. On one occasion someone posted a comment urging me to go kill myself. This worked out well because my bratty nature is programmed to systematically do the opposite of what someone tells me to do, so it temporarily cured my depression. Yet when I see nasty tweets crawling out and bitchiness splattered over twitter like giant happiness-sucking centipedes I feel sort of, well, sad to be honest.

Before we go any further I’d just like the records to show that I was not shocked by the unfolding of these events. I know that Twitter is a breeding ground for the back-stabbing types; it’s a haven of intellectual parleys, suspended morals and wild bitching. I also know that quite a lot of people hate me, or rather the persona they perceive I have. Also: If you’re reading this thinking, ‘omg, he’s such a narcissist’ then I’d like to let you know that people have been calling me a narcissist since I was three-years-old, and it no longer has any effect on me, so you might want to go with something more creative.

Being bitched about is a common occurrence in life, more so if you’re a gay guy. I bitch, I bitch a lot. I vent my frustrations through comically crafted rants. Even though this doesn’t make it right, I always apologise and feel that all my bitchy rants are, at the time, justified. When I saw those Tweets, which were posted over a week ago by two people I don’t even follow, speak to, or who even made my Christmas card list, I just felt the whole thing was unnecessary. It was essentially the least tasteful thing I’ve seen all year (yes, I’m aware it’s only January 10th.)

I get people don’t like me, and that’s fine. No, honestly, it’s fine. I’ve always been a Blacksheep; even growing up I was this googly-eyed little gothic weirdo that wandered about drowning in a ridiculously oversized hoodie, a face full of metal and arm length stripy gloves. Now as an adult I’m frequently condemned for how honest I am when I write or arrogant I am or how I fabricate things. Yet most of the people that take issue with me don’t know me at all. If there’s one thing that’s certain in this world it’s that people will find a reason to hate you, if that’s what they want.

I once made the mistake of reading the comments section of a piece on body dysmorphia that I wrote and man, there are some mean as fuck folk out there. People telling me I should have been aborted, people mocking my hair and my nose. One even said ‘Oh, he says he’s got body issues but posted a topless picture.’ Yes, you drooling troll. I did post a topless picture, and would you care to know why? Because I work damn hard to get my body how I want it, and you can be assured that if I want to show it off I will. One selfie doesn’t completely eradicate a mental illness, you absolute weapon.

Anyway, the point is I’ve made peace with the fact people aren’t into me. My other point is: Don’t be a bitch for the sake of being a bitch then try and cover it with niceties and remarks such as ‘I’m just being honest lmao.’ No, you’re not being honest, you’re being a terrible person. One could go as far as using the ‘C’ word. You’re the sort of person that will probably one day be an overweight divorcee who regularly shags stray cats to death – now that’s bitchy.

I tend not to investigate other people’s insecurities because I’ve got a fair number of my own just hanging in the closest, but I think a general overlook is called for. Those people that display an almost satirical level of self-confidence, claiming to the best at this, the King of the Universe and so on. Those people are the ones drowning in unresolved issues and lingering anger. I know when I bitch it’s born out of anger, frustration; from my inability to articulate how I feel verbally, but there’s a reason I can’t talk about it things vocally. Does that justify being a bitch? Not at all, and I’m sorry for that. The difference is I don’t do it out of nastiness.

When you get older, there’s a confusing hierarchy that comes into play. You’ve undoubtedly came into alignment with it at one point or another. For example, have you ever found that one person has an issue with you, then suddenly you’re the villain of the piece in the eyes of others? Have you ever encountered someone who behaves in such an appalling way that you’d be less offended if she/he tossed a handful of staples in your face? And even though their behaviour is collectively condemned, people still put up with it? What about those people that make remarks so tasteful that you feel like shitting in your palms and flinging it around the room while barking like a seal. Have you met them? Why do they get away with it? Hey, it’s a standard panic response, don’t judge.

Bitchy remarks come in various forms, but most often come from people with faux-cocky personas. The type of people that take down their ‘lessers’ and what have you. But really this is just a flimsy veil people cast over themselves to try and cover up the fact that they really aren’t that confident at all, especially when they’re alone.

Who hasn’t been there? Loud, out-going in front of your friends or online. Then when you’re in your room, you can barely stand to look at yourself for more than six seconds. When you do, your recoil at your reflection. Your hair hangs there like a damp curtain, you weep at the sight of your fat, swollen belly; you wonder why your pores have grown into vast blackholes scattered across your faces (yes faces, plural, because you have two of them, you snake.) Your entire body looks like it entered Mortal Kombat with a corkscrew, then lost. Then just when you can’t take any more you go to turn away but notice your penis is just hanging there like a crippled finger, it’s deflated state a stark resemblance to your real ego. Yet you’ll then take to Twitter and nonchalantly cast hateful comments onto the internet.

There’s a difference between being bitchy, being honest and being down-right mean. Everyone bitches, we’re human. Being honest is something we can all do, but don’t always do it well; but being nasty? What’s the phrase? If you don’t have anything nice to say, then shut the fuck up?

Not being a bitch, just being honest.

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