They always act so damn happy all the time. Sure, our team’s won every game this season, but do they have to beam at us with those stupid-looking smiles and make jazz hands while they shout out those dumb-ass cheers in the girliest voices ever?
“You’re thinking about killing the cheerleaders again, aren’t you?” said my friend Laurie.
“Oh, not just killing them,” I replied, turning to face her. “I’m thinking about peeling the skin off their hands and feet, and pulling out their pretty little French tips, and splitting their puffed-up bottom lips with my fist o’goodness, and shaving all their hair off, and then, when I’m done, I’ll take a picture and post it on all of their stupid Instagrams.”
She laughed, an eyebrow raised. “Been thinking about this long and hard, have you?”
“Since the kickoff.” I glanced at the scoreboard. We were winning seventeen to