Back at the Bad Bitch

She's a bitch, oh yes she is.
Shorter than most, her hair is the only thing that has body. She's short, stubby, with a face curled into a prune. Her nose sticks out much like a beak. Watch out, you might get close-lined. Her eyes are beady and unintelligent, just looking at her makes you want to do something dramatic (like kill her and then yourself). She gets her pleasure by watching kids struggle, and putting in insulting input ever now and again. No one really likes her, she's unmarried, for an obvious reason, and everyone is out to get her. She's the track coach from hell, takes no pity, and certainly gets none of her own.
With all of our combined efforts, all our anger focused to one place, her. I wanted, with all my heart, for her to burst into flames. Instead, I got something else. Maybe not as good, but it'll work. With an angry whirlwind that was possibly sent from God, papers fly from her binder, all around the track, high in the sky, shining in the glorious sun. I try not to cry from laughing so hard, it's just the way she looked so stunned...over the trees, into the highway, her papers flew, who knew what they had written on them. It was amazing.
It made my day, actually. She smiled, pretending to get over it, but I know in her mind she was probably thinking, "Oh, f*ck this." It was beautiful. Tristan said that it would have been a good picture. I agree.