Elektra

I'm no d I work in the city. And I know a man pretending to be a woman when I see one. And I see three right in front of me. This is not that kind of establishment. Wait a minute. Girl. God may have blessed you with Barbies, a backyard with a pony in it, a boyfriend named Jake, and an unwanted pregnancy that your father paid to terminate so you could go to college and major in being a basic bitch. None of these things make you a woman. Clear your throat. Lubricate. Now wait that bitch. Your uniform of ill-fitting J. Crew coolers, fake pearls, and 50-cent crunchies cannot conceal the fact that you do not know who you are. I know our presence threatens you. We fought for our place at this table. And that has made us stronger than you will ever be. Now pick your job off the floor and go back to your clam chowder and shallow conversations. My girlfriends and I aren't going anywhere. It was too lovely talking to you. Y'all heard that? Gonna get your clam chowder before the clam chowder gets you. Shall we order another round? Shit. You found me to care for me. You helped me understand. It's time I passed that kindness form. No. It's time you paid that kindness back to your mother in her greatest time of need rather than lying to her, going behind her back after she rescued you from the gutter and showed you the ways of this world. So no! No, bitch! I do not give you my blessing. I give you what every mother gives a baby bird who has feasted off the scraps of her sisters and gotten too fat. A push out of the nest. You are not on my level. You are jealous and petty and you show your true color. I have a right to show my colors and you show yours. You're not ready. You're a second banana. I give you that, but no more. Look at me. Look at you. I can pass. I can strut down Fifth Avenue when the sun is sitting high as my cheekbones and be weighted on that bird off same as any white woman while you hide away the shadows. You're way ahead of yourself in the game, beast. Oh, shit. We got to distract her. You got the right bitch for that. What's all this about? We're tending for termites. Don't worry. Federica knows all about it. We're close. I find that hard to believe. Just last week we had lunch at River Cafe and she told me all about how much she adores you. Now I know you're lying. She's the worst neighbor I've ever had. That bitch can die on a fire. But I'm still calling the cops. Good because you should be arrested for showing yourself in that radio house dress. Now run home, Wonder Bread, and take your ugly dog too. This ain'the Yellowbrook Road, bitch. I don't owe you an explanation for anything. I've had enough of this abuse. Just because I was down on my luck for a moment does not mean I'll spend the rest of my life living I am not a sl I don't owe you any answers. I don't owe you any manners. And I most certainly don't owe you a goddamn apology for being late. You're 99 cent mere maid from Cadmene and Prince of Grey, Toilet Wines. Guess what? You don't have to tell me I'm out of the house. Wait, bitch! And you best not ever show your face in the ballrooms again. I'm going to eat you alive on that runway. Of that, you can be sure. Didn't you hear the news? I'm walking with the House of Evangelista to help them win a trophy or ten. But mostly to destroy you. Aphrodite, I've got no beak with you. You may go or stay if you don't mind the sight of blood. I've got nowhere to be. Good. Then you can hear the disappointment in my voice as I count off the ways in which I've clearly failed as a mother. Look at the fruits of my labor. A full hearty chunk who makes her living on the pole, and a brainless wonder who thinks the way to get curves is to stick Charmin in her drawers or to inject cement into her dairy ear. House of Thorosity, you two are about as fierce as my morning cornflakes. You may have left my home, but you can't leave me. I'm in your mind. That voice saying you're not good enough, little girl. You're not smart enough or tough enough or glamorous enough to make it in this world. And that little voice is going to eat away at you think you're on the road to being legends, but you couldn't make it from here to the door without me pointing the way. You're nothing but bags of rancid, rotting meat. Well, take a long last look at this filet mignon. I doubt we'll be conversing ever again unless I take a sudden interest in dying of boredom. Your money's no good here. This is a bridal shop for women. We are women. Real women. How about I shut you up for a minute? I appreciate the fact that you're old-fashioned, but you don't have to accept us. You just have to take on money. I wouldn'take your money if you gave me a million dollars in gold. I refuse to sell you anything on principle. These designers are artists, and I won't let you turn their work into a freak show. I can see from your sad little wedding band that you are married, but that doesn't mean that you've had any real contact with a woman for quite some time. Even a loving wife would avoid her impotent husband if his testicles hung so low that they grew filthy from dragging along the dirty floor once he took off his tighty whiteies. And I doubt, no, excuse me, I know that no other women have paid you any mind because women aren't attracted to men who aren'tall enough to ride the cyclone at Coney Island. If not for pity, your closest proximity to a vagina would have been at your birth. So, we can excuse the fact that you cannot see the royalty gracing your store. I have seen my share of real men, and I can assure you, I am not looking at one right now. Ladies, let's go. My coin is too good for this place. What happened? But you, you haven't heard the last from me. Watch your neck. Thank you.