Bad Girls Aren't Sad Girls!
May 17, 2026
According to Donna Summer, bad girls are sad girls. Well hallelujah, diva — times have changed!
These days? Bad girls aren’t sad. They’re incandescent, free — for the first time in history — and just sometimes mad! Think mad as in savage. Untamed. The femme fatale…
Today, the Queen of Disco definitely qualifies as a bad girl! And I know M.I.A. would back me up on this one…
Well, a real bad girl’s problem is, we sometimes take it a bit too far. We just spark a little too easily — like a matchstick that catches fire with the slightest strike.
I mean, I’m nice. I cruise through town in my old benzo cabrio, with my two dogs, pumping Virgo’s Groove, just being a girl and loving it!
After all, what could top being a woman in this world? And even if it’s the dead of winter, in my car — and the pink depths of my soul — it’s a hot, melting summer.
Until… some miserable boor tries to mess with me and test my kindness… My problem is, that matchstick? It doesn’t just spark; it sets the whole damn city ablaze.
So, one day, I’m headed out of my neighborhood. I get to that tiny little street I hate — the one where everyone parks wherever they feel like, turning it into a one-lane war zone. I back up to make room for the other car…
While I’m maneuvering and trying to figure it out, this self-appointed road sheriff just sits there, glaring at me through his windshield, practically radiating disdain.
I tried, I swear, to be calm and keep my cool — right up until he started waving his arms, clearly cursing in his ugly car. Then, the cherry on top: just as we pulled up side by side, he leans forward and gives me that cowboy look, like we were in some Wild West duel about to find out who was faster on the trigger.
That was it! I reached my limit – you know, where all I see is red, and not a single thought goes through my mind.. Some people would blame my hot Macedonian blood. Honestly, all I knew was, bad Kiki was already there. She had fully taken over, and the happy girl cruising to Virgo’s Groove? Gone. In her place, a full-on mad girl whose anthem had now switched to Jay Z’s Lucifer.
The problem was, he chose to intimidate me rather than concentrate on the road situation. Big mistake! I hit the gas, determined to get through that street, and get this over with, no matter what. And I did… Sure, his car got a little paint from mine on the way, but I couldn’t care less! If he wanted the Wild Wild West, then the Wild Wild West is what he got…
Just as I reached the end of the street, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and what did I see? The same ‘gangster’, real tough guy, suddenly stripped of all his theatrics, looking utterly shattered — like an extra in a Western realizing he was never built for the action scene.
Nooo, I didn’t feel sorry. Hell no! He deserved it. In fact, I hope that scratch serves as a permanent, evergreen reminder. A lifetime membership to the ‘Respect Women’ club.
A month later, I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing when a policeman called my brother. Apparently, the entire family had already heard about it because they were looking for ‘the runaway driver’ — with a warrant to arrest my brother. (They thought he’d been driving the car.) Haha… hilarious. Again, what could top being a woman in this world?!
I was shocked, of course, but at least entertained. Eventually, it became pretty obvious I hadn’t exactly committed a felony — despite the rodeo clown’s dramatic little victim testimony. Oh please. His version of events belonged more in a soap opera than a police report.
My car was in perfect condition, after all, I told the police, “Maybe he has a little scratch, but come on — that’s what happens when you act like a violent, misogynistic jerk, probably because his mother never loved him.”
So no jail time… this time. But I made myself a promise… to work on those matchstick nerves. Because it’s just not worth it. Not worth letting some boorish hillbilly pull me out of my world. I just love my life a little too much to let another’s bitterness scratch it.
Some people live in their own Les Misérables — forever cast in misery, too bitter to coexist in peace.
I don’t.
Thank you for reliving this moment with me!
See you next Sunday at 4.
Love, Kiki