Agnes the Shrew

Have you ever been insulted by someone so wholly unqualified to insult you that you are literally speechless? Ever have that happen repeatedly?

So, I have this one student who looks like a cross between the following. Try and do this in your head, kay?:

Jolly from Candyland

Theodore

An Ancient Nun

A Weeble

A Chicken McNugget

Okay, so you got it? You have to remember the shape and the sour, sour face most (not like the crispy, tender pleasantness of a hot nugget...mm). Anyway, so this wretched girl is one of my students who we will call (her real name is such a gem, but I'll pick a name along the same lines) Agnes. Agnes is barely 13 years old. She is a fat sausage of a girl who tops out at about the four foot mark. She draws teeny comics and loves her pudding.

I know what you're thinking, "lola, don't be cruel. She is probably just insecure. After all, she is going through puberty." (And I should know. Those snazzy, solid-colored culotte sets would leave nothing to the imagination on a girl half her size.) But you have to understand. This girl is 100% unadulterated pure BITCH. Savagely BITCH. Nauseatingly BITCH.

I'm nice to her. You have to understand. And I can't go into too much detail as this is job-related, but case in point? This very day, I go into work, having just seen my hair dresser over the weekend. I look good, if I do say so myself. And I do. As does the rest of the office. BITCH Agnes parades her roly-poly self on up to my desk, flashes me the smugest of smiles, looks up at my hair and goes, "Bad hair day, lola?" (Yeah, they call me by my first name.) BITCH!

And I'm like, "Fuck you, you smelly plumpling! My hair is a thousand times better than the flakey fuzz wire popping out all over your dome." But I smile and narrow my eyes and say, "Accctually, Agnes, I just got it done. Thanks though." I'm so fucking controlled at times.

All last week she has stood outside my classroom, promptly waiting for the bell to ring, waving her hand in front of her face as soon as she sees me and saying, "Pee-ew, lola! You stink." And I balk. Straight balk like I've never balked before as this is coming from a mouth that smells like rats died on burning hair and it was put out with raw sewage and fish oil. But I recover, bristle slightly and say, "What do I smell like, Agnes?" And she says, "Waaaay too much perfume."

Here is where the profanity begins under my breath, though one of my other students says, "Shut up, Agnes. I have horrible allergies to perfume and I can't even smell her." E, who hangs out with me in the morning during her prep, seconds this, and I stick my tongue out at Agnes and give her a "HAH-ha" look. Smug THAT, you sloppy simp!

And the one that kills me. Kiiiills. Perhaps you didn't catch that culottes thing. The girl wears shirt and skort, or shirt and leggings sets all in the same color. With a matching baseball hat. Did I mention that they aren't normal colors either, but dull sky blue, neon green, and fuscia? And there are matching caps for every. one. of. them. She's a fucking crayon. A hideous, boorish, lump of crayon. You seeing this?

And here it is: SHE critiques MY outfits!!! She once told me that I "must have gone to a special school to have worn a shirt like that to work." What the fuck, BITCH!?!

And then one day, I wore a black, knee-length skirt with a ruffle at the bottom, kind of fitted, slinky, you know, and a black blouse with capped sleeves and a Madarin-style neckline. I had on casual black shoes and turquoise jewelry. You getting this? The stupid little cow walks up to me with retina-searing red leggings hugging her square, granny-pantied ass and hip rolls, a long-sleeved matching red tee shirt, and a signaturely coordinating hat, and says to me, "What are you, goth? Who wears all black? Are you going to a funeral or something?" Face. Blank. Jaw. Drops.

BITCH!

FUCKING BITCH!

I'm going to fail her. Oh, yes. Wicked, wicked laughter.