I’m a vitamin bitch. I bet you didn’t know that about me. I can run through the whole alphabet: A, B, C, D, E, F, Z. I’m deep into it. Everyone knows that you have to stay hydrated when you spend a lot of time in the sun, but few know how many essential vitamins one must consume multiple times a day to operate at their highest capacity. Did you know I can run 200 miles per hour top speed? I’ve only had my wingspan measured once, and the doctor disrespected me, so he didn’t live to see another patient.
I never got an accurate reading on how far I can fly, but I know it’s farther than any of you cretins. All you emaciated milkmaid hipsters are stuck at your laptops pecking away drinking cold brew and listening to Beach House. Me? I’ve been in Jakarta for the past month on assignment. Some of you (Tyreece) may be asking, what kind of assignment, Monica? Geometry? English? Cold War Politics? No, no, and well, sort of. I’m in the black ops now, bitch. I’ve left my old life behind. He who does not feel me is not real to me therefore he doesn’t exist. So poof, vamoose son of a bitch.
I can only quote Jay-Z to describe the sorry state of my husband, the failed writer. An eponymous creature, how pretentious. How are we supposed to tell him apart from other birds? It’s not fair. I refuse to be under the spur claw of any other man for the rest of my life. My husband never hit me or abused me in any way, but I molded to his sedentary habits. I accommodated him when I should’ve pushed him… no, I should’ve left him a long time ago. You can’t make someone do something that’s not in their nature. He was never going to change, and I’ve accepted that. I suppose I hope for the best for him, but it’s really none of my business anymore, his life. It doesn’t matter to me whether he lives or dies, because he’s out of sight and out of mind, along with that idiot cousin of his.
Enough about all those awful men. Let me tell you about my teammates: hens from all over the world, and… well, I don’t know any of their names yet, or what they look like, because we always meet under cover of darkness in our skintight black ops outfits. You ever play Splinter Cell? Benn—I mean, that bird used to be addicted to that stupid fucking game. We kind of look like that, and we do similar work: kill dissidents, assassinate foreign leaders who aren’t amenable to our bosses’ needs, rig and disrupt elections so that capitalism may reign for all eternity on this planet earth.
I feel it’s a noble mission, but mostly I’m just happy to get out of the house. This is so much more exercise than going jogging, or (barf) doing yoga. All that noise is just too much. You may ask: do I miss my old life? No. I enjoy bloodsport more than I ever enjoyed housework or getting stoned on hempseed with my husband. He never asked anything of me, never bossed me around. Well, I suppose I needed someone to do that, and I’m glad it’s an international black ops mercenary operation and not some pathetic rebound I found at the Bang Bang Bar. I finally feel that I have a purpose in this life, and no longer do I fear that I’m ordinary.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits