I Am Going to Start Ending Every Sentence With “Bitches,” Bitches

Hey, bitches! Today I acquiesce to the peer pressure of my educated, professional, affluent female friends and start ending every sentence with “bitches,” bitches.

I used to think that “bitches” as a punctuation mark was affected—an attempt to appear carefree by co-opting nihilistic Breaking Bad gangster slang, bitches. But now I have to add it to anything just to be heard, bitches. If I say, “Let’s go to brunch,” everyone ignores me, bitches. But, “Let’s go to brunch, bitches,” has my ladies calling premium vodka for a Bloody Mary in 30 seconds flat, bitches. So beginning today I’m going to be heard, bitches.

It starts at my 7 AM doctor’s appointment, bitches. When my internist asks if I’m exercising, I say, “Not as often as I should, bitches.” She looks startled and says, “What?” I repeat myself and she doesn’t just nod, she writes in my chart for a long time, bitches. She’s listening, which means she will catch even the slightest hint of a symptom of a deadly disease, bitches. Adding this one word to every sentence could save my life, bitches.

I celebrate my likely increased longevity at Starbucks by ordering: “A tall, skim, light cap for Kate, bitches.” When I pick up my drink, the name on the cup is actually, “Kate,” bitches. And when I take a sip, it’s the right kind of milk, bitches.

At the office, I greet my colleagues with, “Good morning, bitches,” “I hope we are not out of the Dulsao-flavored Nespresso pods, bitches,” “How are those spreadsheets going, bitches?” They look at me more intensely than ever before, bitches. Like they are taking me in for the first time, bitches. They don’t just hear me, they see me, bitches.

All morning, I am so audible and visible, bitches. I am a police car, lights flashing and sirens blaring as I chase the perp called indifference and arrest him, bitches. “Who else’s email is down, bitches?” “I got your UPS package by mistake, bitches.” “I signed that birthday card yesterday, bitches.”

My coworkers must be intimidated by my higher profile, because they head to lunch without me, so I go alone and order an extra-large drink because I’m dehydrated from adding this extra word to everything, bitches.

Back at my desk, my boss stops in unexpectedly and suggests I go home early, bitches. Finally, bitches! Just one extra word and she’s rewarding me because she’s noticed how hard I work so I say, “Thanks so much, bitches!” She looks behind her for another person, bitches.

In my Prius with the windows down, I tell the entertainment system to play "Firework,” but it will only play Bowie’s “Queen Bitch,” bitches. I sing it loud over and over again, bitches. Except I have to change the lyrics a little to squeeze in “bitches,” bitches. Other drivers let me merge, bitches.

I’m home before my roommates, so I drink green tea and listen to NPR and in a pensive moment brought on by today’s big revelations ask, “Do we really consider all things, bitches?”

Finally, my roommates get home from their jobs at the lab and the think tank and the law firm and the tech start-up, bitches. So I say it, bitches. The sentence I have been waiting for all day, bitches. “Let’s go to happy hour, bitches!”

And they say, “What, slut?”