Every now and then, a person pops into our lives who knows how to party.
This is the girl who bleaches her hair, then dyes it, then bleaches it again only to chop it all off the next week.
She swears and smokes and talks shit and rolls joints like a robot made specifically for the purpose of swearing, smoking, talking shit and rolling joints.
She’s a fucking tidal wave. A typhoon with a twister strapped to her back. She dances like a lunatic, makes plans and then breaks them and touches your boyfriend on the chest and thigh in the living room while you’re ralphing in a bucket because you tried to keep up with her wild ass and FAILED because you have organs inside your body and not just hollow storage spaces for narcotics and liquor to gather.
In short, she’s a terrible human being.
We call her, “That Party Bitch.”
These are her leggings.
It’s too bad they’re so fragile. That Party Bitch does NOT do hand wash.
Forever 21, Why Are you Setting That Party Bitch Up for Failure?