That kind of girl and one of those men

The boys(our boys, my boys) tend to date that kind of girl. Long, straight dark hair. Perfect makeup. Slim waist. Pretty face. A top university degree and designer wardrobe. If she were in her early 20s, we’d call her a “skinny bitch” and laugh. But she is our peer so we call her cute and envy her not so secretly.

I used to tell myself my life would be perfect if I was that kind of girl. I’d find more clothes. Men would ask for my number at clubs or at the store. I’d be married by now and raise pretty brown babies with my handsome husband. But I’m another type of woman. I am not ashamed of my penchant for chips, drinks, cuss words, and horror movies. I dig my jeans and sneaks. My heavy, wavy hair does what it wants. That is an obvious symbol.

Better to spend my Sunday afternoon with hedge clippers in hand than waiting for a call from one of those men. Thick, dark hair. Perfect skin. Slim build. Pretty face. A top university degree and designer gear. He might be in his early 30s but he is still a boy, a player. He’s still “trifling.” He is our peer. He is still cute. But we watch out for him.

“I am sick of these motherfucking snakes…”

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