If you have badly bleached blonde hair, think about getting a better dye job, or at least consider going back to your natural hair color, as your bad looking bleach job is highly distracting to me

Who does she think she is with that bad bleach hair do, and the fat ass, and those giant grapefruit titties?

I mean I can understand the fat ass, since all the black guys that she went to high school with kept feeding her cheese fries, kept feeding her whatever fucked up things black men say to black women, so that black women have big old egos, and a wonderful sense of self worth, even though they have giant asses, giant asses like the asses you see on National Geographic Specials, where the African women  stuff pillows and couch cushions into their skirts to look like they have the giant asses that they see American women have, because American women have access to things like cheese fries and second helpings, which is an unknown thing in Africa, due to all the starving and the pestilences, which god keeps sending their way, all over the fact that they don't know a thing about Jesus yet, which is ironic if you think about it, because all black people in America love them some Jesus, even if they also love them some deep fried chicken and big asses, which is something as a white man I will never understand I guess.

Though I do understand about the chicken thing, who doesn't like friend chicken?  But a big ass?  Please.

My manager is giving me a look.  And I don't think I like it very much.  Just like I don't like her badly bleached hair.  I can't understand how a woman can have such a bad bleach job when the woman makes as much money as my manager does.

I know she cares about her personal appearance (you can tell because she applies so much make up, any woman willing to cake on that much make up obviously cares about her appearance, and we haven't talked about the fake titties, only because I am not a big fan of fakes ass tits.)

I go to strip clubs once a week.   And I can't tell you how many chicks I see with fake-ass tits, and how they think they invented cleavage, and want me to ooh and ahh at them, when all I can think about is how those things are a pin prick away from silicone rupture city, baby, and that's one place I don't want to go.  Ever.

Like I said I think my manager is giving me a look, and I don't know why she did, and I don't know what I did to deserve it.

I'm not even on the clock yet.  And yet I look over there at the check stand and my manager is giving me a scowl.  Like it is my fault we are so busy that she had to interrupt her busy schedule of reapplying the blue 1970's eye shadow found in every high school year book from that era.

It's not my fault.  It's the god dammed customers.  And I still have 10 minutes before I have to clock in, and I would like to buy my Gatorade and my Twix candy bar in peace, and not have to think about why the hell a woman who earns well over a hundred thousand dollars a year, can't buy a 6 dollar bottle of Loreal to match her roots.

I think it has something to do with her actually cultivating the look she has.  Like she really wants to be thought of as the 23 year old Jersey gal whose boyfriend drives a blue tinted Camaro, and he smokes pot, and she smokes clove cigarettes, like that makes her fashionable, and not at all like the rest of her friends, who smoke camel 9's because they like the pink box it comes in, and how in a few years they will all be smoking Virginia Slims, because they hope to stay skinny, and how a few years later they will stop pretending, and stop buying Virginia Slims and Capri cigarettes, and start smoking something like Winston Light 100's, because staying young and beautiful is just something the cigarette manufacturers promise, and it is not something that they really ever deliver.

But I want to believe that my manager already knew that.

But I can't.  I can't say that I think my manager really is one of those literate MFA  grad girls who took a job at  a grocery store just to make ends meet, and to research, to see what it "feels like" to be one of "them" and get a bad bleach dye and spend a few hundred dollars a month on maintaining said bad dye job, (I have never seen my manager with a full head of blond hair, and I have never seen the full natural head color she has, so I am guessing that indeed she must be spending loads of cash at some trendy salon getting the 1987 Jersey girl, and going home after buying a gallon of blue eye shadow and the various brushes and utensils that are needed to apply such thick and luxurious coats of eye shadow all across her eye lids), because as I have said the hair color is the same every day of every week, and the more I think about it, the more that I get pissed off about that.

I take personal offense to it.

Like she is trying to out me like she is trying to tell me that whatever ironic stance I think I have found in my journals is nothing compared to the ironic blend of Jersey girl made good, blue eye shadowed, bleach jobed, fat assed, fake tits, Halloween costume, that she has thought of, and I can't wait to read all about it in her next book of poetry coming out from some small liberal arts college.

Dye your fucking hair bitch! It's fucking distracting me.