“And it’s disgusting how little that you try, the existential equivalent of pink eye,” Alex slammed his phone down on the table. It was one thing to be a bitch, it was another to be a pretentious artsy type of bitch. That was exactly what Melanie was… a faker, a fraud, a wannabe poet and full time bitch. It wasn’t that Alex didn’t try, it was that anything less than over romanticized, under developed, imaginary prince in disguise wasn’t good enough for her. Or any of her band of bimbos and brainiacs alike. Like everything else she did. Melanie didn’t judge her friends by their intentions, intelligence, or interests, only by their perceived personalities. Their power, pull, or persuasion. Basically half of her friends were illiterate sluts while the other half were intellectual experimenters, all of them striving to fit into a golden mold with a golden boy.
