Life of the Feared
I saw them, glancing not so cunningly over their comic books. I saw their make-up, their hair, their wannabe-hip style that reeked of angsty teenagers. If there was one thing I hated more than anything else it was girls who tried to be It.
It was hard to believe that in one year I had gone from that to the new me. I stood and stalked to a shelf, casting a look of disgust at them. I had research to do, for real work that would make a real difference in their pesky little lives.
Nothing warmed my heart more than knocking people down a few notches, so as I passed a drooling male reeking of Axe I let him know he was so far below me, with not even a tilt of my gait his way.
He didn’t take the hint and followed my swagger two rows down.
“Excuse me,” Axe tried to lower his pipes but missed bass by a long shot.
“Oh, that is a sorry excuse for deodorant!” I said without looking up from my opened book on microtubules.
Four painted eyes peered around the end of the row. “Take a picture!” I hissed.