Ugh. That bitch. She’s at least semi-pretty, that is to say pretty enough to cause an unwarranted love triangle. She has some traits that you’ve always lacked, and she’s definitely the type to invoke enough jealousy to annoy your boyfriend. “We’re just friends, okay?” Then you look across the bar at her huge rack in a tiny tank top. Puke. She always has a slight twinge of arrogance when she talks to you. After all, she “knew him first and will always know him best.” Double puke with burning hatred on top. She also tries way too hard, or maybe not at all (which is so much worse), to do guy stuff like chugging beers, listening to Fleetwood Mac, and scratching her balls. You’re 97.6 percent sure she has them.
And the worst part is that you know she thinks you are the bitch.
OBVIOUSLY she’s out to steal your man and/or push you off a cliff or at least a two-story-high fraternity house balcony. I know this because I was the girl friend at a certain time, and damn was that girlfriend a girl friend life-ruiner. She was convinced I was in love with him, which I was, and she basically did all but file an actual restraining order on me. However, he’s gay now, so joke’s on her really. That bitch karma has my back. My point is this: The girl friend always has a thing for her guy friend. You’re totally right about her being a conniving little bitch. Unless you’re wrong and she gets a boyfriend and then you two become besties and you all go on double dates happily ever after the end. “HAHA,” you cackle at this undoubtedly sarcastic joke. Truthfully, though, this has to have happened somewhere in the world. It’s just never happened to me. Or anyone I know. Or anyone I know knows. You get the picture.
So, where does this all end? Who gets the guy — the girl friend or the girlfriend? The sad part is that I don’t know. It’s gone both ways in my experience (like, actually, he may go for both). Maybe he will be trustworthy, put you before her skank-self, and you’ll get married and live in a castle somewhere in the hills of Germany and have a butler named Sven. Or perhaps she’ll woo him with some form of gypsy magic or just the same old boobies and tank top routine and you’ll be forced to stalk them on Facebook for the next five years until he proposes in a mediocre enough way that gives you slight satisfaction but also thoughts of suicide for just a second. I guess you just have to wait it out. Like the old saying goes, “life is like a box of chocolates, not everyone can have the vanilla crème.”
Girlfriends of America, may the odds be ever in your f(l)avor..