She was no Charlie’s Angel.

She had always wanted to be. Honestly, the clothes and hair were a bit too retro but the overall flair was cool. Being part of a collective, a female collective was something to dream about.  Of course, the local gang girls had mercilessly teased her growing up. They were fat and mean and she was lean and nice. She wasn’t going anywhere with that crowd. She had a brain. Still it was all a bit aspirational.

She would run around with her friends pointing their hands as if they were guns. They would hum the theme song to Charlie’s Angels and would occasionally pose in selfie-mode in the well-known Charlie pose. Their hands were quite adept if you think about that photo moment. They would often giggle when trying to figure out who would be Charlie and who would be Bosley.  How ridiculous that they always casted those roles with men in mind. What was even sillier was that they were no longer little girls in the hood.

She was at her desk now, which was not in total disarray. That was odd for her. She had felt a need to clean up sort of like how nine-month pregnant women do as part of a weird nesting behavior.  She pulled the gun from her top drawer. No one knew she had it there. She was too small, lean and nice to have one. She looked at herself in the mirror. She remembered back to when she had lofty dreams and ate cotton candy. Life wasn’t good then but there was sweetness nonetheless. She aimed the gun, like in the movies, at her image in the mirror.

I’m starting with the woman in the mirror

I’m asking her to change her ways