Even though we’ve only been talking for a few minutes, I know what you’re thinking: I’m not like other girls. I get that all the time. I’m not like other girls, but not for the reasons you’re familiar with. I don’t drink whiskey straight from a tumbler, feign interest in professional sports, or laugh at men’s unfunny jokes. I’m not like other girls because I’m a reptilian agent sent to destroy humankind.
I don’t have a vagina or a penis. My genitalia transcend binary sex and resemble the pyramid emblazoning US currency.
I don’t dress for the male gaze. I dress to cover my biohazardous innards so no one detects I’m a heat-seeking scaled creature.
Unlike human women who take forever getting ready, I quickly slip on my skinsuit and head out the door. Even better, I don’t have to waste time wriggling into Spanx; I just have to put on the skinsuit of a smaller, tauter woman.
Women’s skin-thin, sensitive epidermis leaves them vulnerable to the elements—and the capitalist scam that is skincare. If I keep a skinsuit fresh, I can go for three to five years without replacing it, or longer if the skin contains melanin or belonged to a rich white lady. And I completely agree, having skin is stupid of women and they should change it. That would save them so much time and money. Stupid mortal women!
I’m a cheap date; no extravagant champagne or barrel-aged wine for me. I’ll happily nurse a mason jar of goat’s blood at brunch or a gravy boat of antifreeze at dinner. Did you know gravy boats can hold any liquid?
I don’t expect you to pay the bill. I don’t expect anyone to pay the bill because I just vaporized the waiter with my laser beam eyes.
I don’t play mind games to win a man’s heart. I control his mind by telekinetically hypnotizing him, then eat his heart for sustenance.
I hate drama! And unlike people who always say that, I mean it. I detest churning the rumor mill or fracturing a social group. Instead I quietly sit and evaluate my companions’ physical, emotional, and psychological weaknesses. Sure, I could use that knowledge to destroy my rival and become alpha. But conveying it telepathically to the extraterrestrial engineers orchestrating mankind’s demise is much more engaging. Small minds discuss people; my mind catalyzes the destruction of Homo sapiens.
I recoil at vapid television programming like The Real Housewives or The Bachelor. I’d much rather watch footage of skulls being crushed by huge pincers on Deathflix. Or Faces Of Death on Netflix.
You can’t turn a ho into a housewife, but you can turn me into anything because I spontaneously shapeshift. The only mortal possessing this ability is Tilda Swinton, who’s actually both Daniel Day-Lewis and Denzel Washington. I wouldn’t be a bitch about it if you left me for Tilda Swinton.
“Bridezilla” describes a woman who transforms into a virtual monster on her wedding eve, the prelude to a miserable union that drains you of all life. I’ve been a monster all along, and I’ll only drain you of the biological materials necessary to make reptilian-human hybrids. Sure, eventually my skinsuit will snag and you’ll come face to face with the horror-inspiring guts I painstakingly conceal.
But if that isn’t the most intimate experience known to man, I’ll halt the obliteration of human civilization.