In search of my inner bitch


For the last couple of weeks, longtime BW columnist Bill Cope has been discoursing on a newly turned-over leaf. He has decided to try and become a Mr. Nice Guy. He writes that he's at the dawn of the Nice Bill Era . I'm happy for him. I really am. It would stand to reason that nice people have it easier. The problem is, people who are too nice are treated like shit (way too nice and they may try and send you to a class for special people). But nobody likes a mean person. People who are too mean are also, well, treated like shit. Find that fine line between pushover and pushy and the world is your big, stupid oyster. I thought I was walking that line as perfectly as a leopard-print-leotard-wearing Cirque Du Soleil performer on a tightrope. Apparently, though, I've been wandering around in a Mary-Kay-Cadillac-pink fog through a meadow watching unicorns munch on daffodils.
I was told recently, by more than one person, that I'm too nice. I had this impression of myself as kind of a bitch. Apparently, I was the only one with that impression. Well, no more. I'll endeavor to be tough. Crusty. Rotten. Nasty. More like the old Cope. Maybe I'll ask him where to start on my path to peevish. But not right now. I just sneezed and I think some cotton candy came out.
Atkins out (to kick ass and take names).

Oh, and I made that frowny face. Don't like it? Too bad. I don't care. Because that's the kind of person I am. Or at least the kind of person I'm trying to be.