Gorgons and Sirens

Networking, schmoozing.  Flutes of rosé.  Feeling sophisticated for playing this game to score some dick.  Remember Nick, who knew I was easier than you?  Console yourself, I still practice wearing heels at home.  I didn't learn how until I was 22.  So what?  I can only guess what you're wearing and it's not Jimmy Choo.  Graduation dethroned the likes of you, the little hard candy ex-cheerleader tyrants who couldn't get a clue:  brains to earn money for shoes, and men whenever you want.  Oops, how're you getting on?  No one's calling me loser now that I pay my own rent, and don't have to share a toilet with vapid drunks in their boyfriends' trunks.  Bitch, you called me a failure just for wanting to fuck.  At least you didn't call me a slut.  But giving me shit for not talking ball when all I wanted was sex?  Stupid cunt.  No wonder I'm in Menlo Park and you're trapped somewhere you hate, surrounded by thousands of older versions of yourself, with whom you compete and with whose husbands you wish you could play adulteress and procreate.  Spit on your fingers and flick.  Guess what?  I got to a 30-24-32 -- muscles and truth.  They're eating out of the palm of my hand -- not so many jocks as couch potatoes I'll admit.  Tonight, an IT guy, don't know his name, tomorrow a tagger and a hacker (two in the bush is worth more than one of your little fuck fruits.)  Susan Smith your way out of that little cul-de-sac, you cunt.  I just wanted to send this off with a care package to the former queen of Alpha Delta Pi:  box tops I cut out for the schools shouldering your evil little shits, and three pair of white cotton granny panties -- one for each girl in the house you said didn't fit.  We didn't.  Ready to stick a fork in it sis?  Love, Dana.