What I am to you, is not real

Tonight was an intrepid trip to Wal-Mart, where I resisted the makeup area but succombed to a DVD. I picked up Mommie Dearest, which I've never seen but sounds like campy fun.

I also got a pair of pants that convert into capris, having shed my stigma about Wal-Mart clothes and deciding that $20 was pretty good for a cotton/spandex blend. And as per usual, I say two girls I went to high school with once upon time, and of course, one got fat and the other looked pregnant. But then again her babydaddy was pushing a cart with a young baby in it, so she's probably just fat from being pregnant.

I made it towards the changeroom and stood in the lineup of tired mothers and prostitots waiting for my turn. Finally I was at the front, where the oh-so-happy teenage looked at me disdainfully through her heavy black eyeliner and three inches of bright blue eyeshadow. She smirked as she lead me to a changeroom and unlocked the door.

I was mildy angry as I tugged on the pants, which I was sure were going to be too small but surprisingly weren't. I marvelled at myself in the mirror, rolled up one pant leg to see the full effect, and couldn't help but think

//Fuck you!//

to the blond ditz who thought she was better than me in her $100 jeans and her bleached blond hair.

As I walked away with my new pants over my arm, I couldn't help buy smile at the thought that maybe in another 6 years she'll be fat and buying bulk diaper packs during her breaks.