The taming of the bitch

I am the Momma Bitch.

At least that's what my friends call me. The alpha-female of a pack, first to react violently in times of injustice or sometimes just because I want to, looks down on anyone not worth my time or attention (looking at my nails because you're too unimportant that my nails are more interesting than you), eyebrows semi-permanently raised sky-high, occasionally (okay, frequently) the bully who's ready to blast retorts to anyone's insults.

But looking back at my life lately, I guess my inner bitchiness has started to peel off my skin. Probably, graduating college as a Psychology major helped in taming me or being an (insert name of a known school here, hint: school color is blue) made me be subtler, nicer, more subdued. Or hell, probably the real world made me realize this.

Admittedly, I'm clamoring to hold on to that part of me that makes me, well, me. Because yeah, it feels good to be the best bitch on top of the food chain. People want to be with you, want to be you and any person of the puny type may cower at my feet because you don't even matter. (See, right now I am typing this and I am cringing at the thought that these can come out of my mouth, or rather, mind. What an inflated self-ego!)

Like, right now, I hate all these illiterate bitches who are friends with my boyfriend. I mean, come on, I feel left out because yes, it seems you're all closer to him than I am, malice or without malice. What girlfriend would agree to that? And it makes me even more irritated to know that these bitches are not scared of me, or even recognize my authority.

Blah blah blah
Yadda yadda yadda

So, there.

That's what's on my mind.
I want to bitch on people so badly, my soul's clawing out of my body to do so. I want to set my authority and territory.
But I no longer can't. I don't want to turn this into a pissing contest. And I don't know why.

Guess the bitch has been tamed. Maybe I've matured?
Thanks, life.