I despise uppity sorority girls who dare to openly scoff at me after I’ve absentmindedly spit upon their shoes as they power walk in overly-perfumed hordes through public parks. In reality, they should be falling to their knees in order to display how overwhelmingly grateful they are to be blessed with my fluids. They should be thanking me profusely for the gift of my DNA. Instead they stomp down the path, babbling obliviously while showcasing their faux tans, vacant stares, and judgmental smiles. I often find myself wishing that a family of large, rabid squirrels would suddenly swoop from the trees to deliver a series of fatal bites as I relax at a nearby picnic table, chuckling and taking notes on their terrified shrieks. On other occasions I enjoy pretending that, following a vicious argument over the advantages of designer handbags, they begin ruthlessly gouging out each other’s eyes with sharp-pointed nail files. I picture them bleeding out beneath the swing sets, amid a pile of bloody eyeballs, much to the horror of a visiting kindergarten class. Sometimes, when I have a spare minute, I’ll stop to engage them in a pleasant chat. “All the walking in the world won’t tone those tree trunk thighs, you silly sluts. Remember that.” Or “Hello there, ladies. Right now I’m fantasizing about what it would feel like to drown you in that swiftly moving brook. Shall we go for coffee?” While these conversations tend to end poorly, I nevertheless find great delight in their surprise and discomfort. Don’t forget to spit on their shoes.