Elizabeth Taylor

I think there’s one girl who you will always despise. You’ve probably never spoken to her in life. She’s never been a bitch to you. She probably doesn’t even know your name. But you pass her in the hallways everyday. You see her eating lunch. You see her flick her disgustingly perfect straight brown hair to all the boys in school. Her parents come by once a week and you see her perfect and complete family.

Five years later.

She gets ‘him’. The guy with the perfect shoulders. The shoulders that got you by the summer semester.

You marry the mailman.

‘Him’ and ‘her’ have the perfect children who attend grammar school.

Your kid has dyslexia and can’t pass the first grade.

Ten years later

You grow wrinkly and fat Rosie’O’Donnel style. She grows old gracefully Elizabeth Taylor style.

Fifteen years later

You hear through the grapevine that she has gotten divorced. You’re ecstatic about her misery and finally think things are looking good.

A month later she marries again. To a cricketer this time. Richer and better looking.

Twenty years later

You pass her by at the dry cleaners.
Perfect hair.
Perfect Skin.
Eyelids botoxed.
Chanel bag.
You’d have to sell one of your babies to get her shoes.

She still doesn’t know your name.

For a brief second you make eye contact.
She almost recognizes you.
She stops.
She whispers, “Do you work here?”

Dumbstruck. Wide-eyed. Smiling. You nod.
Because you do work at the dry cleaners.

And you anxiously wait for the “Are you the girl from school?”

But that never comes.

Instead you hear her complain about some stains she wants removed in her old wedding dress.

You nod again like an idiot.

By that time she’s already swung her chanel out of the doorway.

You knew she was a grinch all along.

But you’re a professional.

And you know the best way to take out a stain.

Burn it.