Envy is such an awful feeling. Especially when you know there's no calculable intrinsic superiority between the envier and envied. I mean let's be honest, most of us are raised to think we are the eye of the tiger itself. Rawr. (Note: tigers are cats and cats are catty.)
I'm not that bad when it comes to professional competition. I'm happy to cede the yardsticks. I will never make loads of money (read: publishing is labor-of-love), and I value hard work without the titles. I'm even pretty good about platonic female competition, because it's just embarrassing when women get catty. It's an embarrassment I compare to shopping with my mom when she asks the most uppity looking clerk if she gets a discount for being a senior citizen (true story). But this jealously line gets thin when female friends are actually sexual rivals.
You see, recently I was bombarded with the positive reviews, hipper-than-thou blurbists, interviews, endorsements, amazon recommendations, crescendo-accelerando applause, for the latest book by a sexual rival.
How dare she leave the positive markings of a novelist, a bard threatening MY medium, haunting the mausoleum of my closest neighbor, terrorizing my ego!! (cue: "O Fortuna" Anne sheds tears of blood.)
But then just as all seems an attack on my patient life of quiet contentment, I see this hilarious send-up of womenvy. Contextual humor makes everything ok.
God bless Hillary Clinton, and god bless being allowed to like that catty bitch again.