[Ashley]

I hate her.
Alright, I don’t HATE her.
I just don’t like her very much.
You see, there’s two kinds of people in this world.
There’s the people like her who float through life in a bubble like Glinda the fucking good witch. And then there’s people like me.
People who have to grasp the side of the mattress and haul themselves out of bed just to get to the bathroom before their bladder explodes like a grenade. Of course, such a thing might just be more interesting, BETTER even, than living through another day of this shit.
She doesn’t have that problem. She has completely healthy urinary movements, while I’m laying there thinking, god, this is the worst UTI I’ve ever had. Why in the hell did I think it was a good idea to drink three diet Pepsis and then hold it for five hours? Why does this always happen to me?
Because I’m not her, that’s why.
Things aren’t easy for me. I don’t see a kaleidoscope of awesomeness when I look out the window. Rainbows and ponies and dancing freaking leprechauns.
She likes those things. She likes everything.
And he likes her.
No, scratch that. He loves her.
The man, the coolest fucking dude on the face of this earth, loves this girl.
Where’s the justice in that?
Every goddamned thing she’s ever wanted, she’s gotten. I’m sure even little animals help her clean her room and brush her hair.
Jesus H. Christ.
And the bad thing is, she’s amazing. She’s completely, horribly likable. It’s impossible to look at her, with her blonde curls and big dopey blue eyes and not see this wonderful, caring person. Which she is. It’s not an act or a trick of light. She glows.
And I swear to god, if she comes anywhere near me, I’m going to shoot her.