The Names Barbie

My name is Barbie. I have blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pink lips. A perfect smile. The problem?

I fucking hate it.

I’m not nice or elegant. I’m not respectful and I’m certainly not calm. Nor am I bubbly and friendly.

I’m cruel, mean, insane, and most of all, hazardously bitchy. My favourite four letter word isn’t, ‘pink’, but ‘fuck’ suits me just fine.

My parents named me after the doll because they thought it was ‘cute’ since they pretty much own the whole god damn Barbie business.

If anything, it’s not cute. It makes my life a living hell, everyone always judging me like I’m some angel.

People always say, “You’re such a doll” (not sure if that’s a compliment) and “You’re so sweet.”

I’m none of that so we better be on the same page.

Now here’s the drawback---I should be dead.

But instead, I get hit by a car, kidnapped, thrown into an ice cream truck, and then land myself in my living room with my crying family on the couch. All to say they sold me to a man richer than my parents.

Who in hell is richer than the people who owned the most famous doll industry in the world?

Certainly the most dangerous killer of Italy.

And I thought wearing the color pink was the worst thing that could happen.