It is time to smite the boyfriend. He has made his last snide comment and thrown his last lecherous glance. My friend has shed the last tears on his cheating, unworthy, flat butt, and has made her last frantic, tearful call to me. I have had enough.
I feel my calling. I can’t stand to see my girlfriends breaking into little pieces and waste their money over looser boyfriends that capitalize on the desperation and expiration date of fantastic girls that they otherwise wouldn’t even see through binoculars, let alone share beds with. All of a sudden these sniveling Casanovas discover they are hot marriage commodity and start using that to make up for those high school years they spent recovering from wedgies and rejection.
I can’t overlook it anymore. The righteousness of my cause, coupled with the frustration from disruptive phone calls, tearful meetings in Starbucks and revenge bar sprees, fill me up with smiting power and transform me inside. I can feel the current running inside me, I can feel the clothes transforming into black leather gear and costume jewelry appropriate for superheros. For I have decided to become CheaterSmiterGirl! and come to the aid of slighted ladies anywhere in the world. Wherever there is one more tear shed, one more heart crack over cheaters, there I’ll be.
I need the power to fly of course. And maybe just a long whip that will make a cool noise, like Catwoman. Yes, it swishes quite nicely. Hmm. Maybe teleportation will be best, seeing as it will be very drafty in my costume. I look down and am immediately affronted by the high peaks of my breasts, pushed even farther by the black leather corset. Soo predictable. Such a man-made fantasy.
The thing is, they will not fear me if I appear in bloomers. And they have to fear me, they have to know there is no chance against me. Tight black pants and thigh high stiletto boots are dangerous looking. And breasts this high can only be offensive, threatening and confusing torpedoes for evil wrongdoers. I want them to tremble between fear and seduction, and feel powerless in all ways that matter. Possibly I’ll add a little rot in my hand. So they’ll ache to be touched, just as they’ll scramble to hide from the decay.
I have the smiting bolts of course. Right through the groin so their little peckers never gets them in trouble again. And maybe a bit of halitosis, just to remind them of their school days. Not even the most marriage minded girl could suffer halitosis for long.
I am ready. I think of the apartment of the confusing jerk that my friend is slobbering over and I am there, in his minuscule living room/kitchen with its fake fireplace and checkered sofa. There is only a little nightlight on and my stilettos leave a mark on the wooden floor as I stride over to the easy chair. I could appear in his bedroom, but naah. I have no wish to see him contorting back and forth with the skank he is boffing now. The jerk. It has not been 24 hours from the lethal fight with my friend, and he is already with somebody else, while she obsesses over his MySpace profile, checking his “friends” and network for clues. Oh, he’ll get the biggest smite of them all.
For I am CheaterSmiterGirl!