The Heartless Bitch

I used to have a heart. But you know something? A heart was getting in my way. I wanted to roll across everyone and sundry like the juggernaut of a woman that I am, without remorse, regret, or repercussions. Feelings might be nice for some, but give me a delightful numbness and a complete indifferencegasm and I’m a joyful woman. So I grabbed my toolbox and cracked open my sternum to get at my heart. Blood? Pain? I thrive on it. I dug my hooked fingers in, ripped out my heart, took a healthy bite just for good measure, threw that sucker on the dirty floor and danced it into cardiac jelly.

Indeed, I am a heartless bitch.

Not that I hate men. Men have their use, of course. In fact, I was married once upon a time. But romantic love and I are eternal antagonists. I spent eight years in legal bondage as an ice queen with incredible acting skills. That’s been done for a long time now. I moved through the separation without ache or pain. I wanted it to be over so that I could move on to the life I wanted to make for myself.

And I have made that life. I am my own drive pursuing my own substance and meaning. The only person I can truly rely upon is me. Once I learned the truth of that lesson, nothing has been able to restrain me.

I do try to convey my message of heartless bitchiness/feminine independent power to others. I have never cared what others think of me—of my clothes, of my language, of my choices, of my mistakes. No one can determine what is right for me but me. I scorn fashion and trends. I will not take a spin class or go out on a questionable date because I have been pressured to do so. I understand that ultimately my opinion is the only one that really counts.

If all of this makes me a heartless bitch, then at least I am a genuine one.