The N Word

The N Word

As a 19 year old, white, college girl, I’ve been called a lot of things.

Loud. Stuck-up. Bitch.

But by far the N word has been the worst.

ATTENTION MEN OF THE WORLD:  No girl wants to be called nice.

I am not nice. I am compassionate, giving, generous, but I have no intention of ever being nice. Don’t call me that. It’s a backhanded compliment.

According to Webster nice is defined as pleasant; agreeable; satisfactory. Maybe you hold the door open for pleasant. Go on a date with agreeable. You may even marry satisfactory. But no one wants to fuck nice.

Except my friend Daniel. (This issue came up the other day when his girlfriend, my exuberant friend Claudia, and I were discussing our hate for the term.) He shrugged and said he would. But I’m not interested in shruggable sex, shruggable romance– I am not the girl who gets shrugged at. I want an opinion, to make an impression even a leap back.

Nice is settling. Imagine: your friend is setting you up on a blind date. You ask them if she’s good looking. He tells you she’s very nice. I’d reconsider going.

The synonym for nice is fine. The high pitched, insecure response to how are you? Not, damn that bitch is fine as hell.

Nicki Minaj isn’t nice. Neither is Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Beyonce, Hillary, Shonda or Cleo-fucking-patra. They eat that shit for breakfast.

Don’t call me nice. Call me bad, dirty, a stain you can’t get off your sheets. Because I know you’ll be thinking of my little black dress in the laundry room next week.

Fuck the N word. Call me a bad B.