Ode to you, oh trashy white girl in my Lit. class.
The one who sits three feet from me and makes me want to vomit.
Do you really have to be so loud when you pop open your sugar-free Red Bull and three bags of chips?
Do you really need to take four breaks during class? Every time you get up I can smell your FUNK.
You gulp your soda pop like an animal and half of it is runs down your face. Instead of reaching for a napkin (or even a sweatshirt), you simply smear your dirty hand across your face and let the soda drip to the floor.
Your grimy fingers and cheap acrylic nails are like a bad train wreck that I just can’t look away from. Over and over and OVER again you shove your nasty hand in the bag and pull out a handful of potato chip crumbs. You don’t even TRY anymore, you just shove the palm of your hand into your face and you seem perfectly content with the fact that only half of the chips end up in your mouth; the rest have fallen down your raggedy black wife beater that you have so stylishly paired with white denim coochie-cutter shorts.
Your ugly tan headband and your pink Blackberry and your three mismatched fake silver earrings… everything about you just screams “trashy”, including that nasty $3 lotion that smells like scented tampons.
The tramp-stamp, the thong hanging out of your pants… the ten giant rings on your ten unwashed fingers… it all just makes me want to scream out:
“WHAT FUCKIN’ TRUCK STOP WERE YOU RAISED IN?”
And now that you are done feasting on your loud, greasy chips, you spend the last hour of class picking the dirt out of your fingernails and toenails, then pulling your shorts out of your crotch and chewing on your nails.
I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.
I’m so glad I’m paying all this money to sit here next to you every week.
Thanks, trashy white girl, for being all that you can be.
Ode to you, trashy white girl, for making me look so good.
