CATTY KATHY

Stuck-up, skinny bitches. Look at them, laughing and making sure everybody hears their conversation. This isn’t a fucking bar, you skanks. It’s a public place. You know, a restaurant? Ever heard of it?

Jesus Christ, what is that floozy wearing? Update for you, hon. It’s after Labor Day. Lose the shoes. And I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you only need one set of highlights in your hair. Yeah, your roots are showing, darling. Oh! Maybe you meant to look like that. Sorry. There’s something about buying a vintage dress for $150, which doesn’t even fit your porky ass, that must make your parents proud. It is their money you’re spending, I take it. Must be rough.

Oh, somebody needs to tell your friend that she’s not buying the right size bra, too. If you have D’s you shouldn’t wear a B-cup. Just a suggestion. Nobody wants to see your giant gazzonga tits spilling over onto your fat gut though, so at least wear one. Just a tip for next time, sweetie.

Nice overpriced, oversized shades, by the way. They make you look a praying mantis who’s trying to hide the fact that your Diesel jean-wearing, jock boyfriend punched you in the eyes while continually date raping you.

Yeah, I don’t know if the pedal pushers are tight enough, but I can tell you that they definitely don’t hide your tramp stamp. Is that the Japanese symbol for "slut?" "Fashion victim?" "Fuck buddy?" Yeah, my Japanese is a little rusty. Oh, I almost forgot about the prostitue thong. It does wonders for you, believe me. And the fact that all these kids can see it? ‘A’ plus!

And here’s a tip. Next time you get an $80 pedicure, make sure they saw off those creepy, werewoman toenails of yours. Oh, wait! That’s a French pedicure? Tre’ chic!

God. I am ugly and fat and I want to fucking die.




-SLL