Well, congratulations, losers — you’ve managed to throw me a funeral. Cute. Only problem? I’m not dead. Yeah, shocker. Newsflash: Heather Chandler doesn’t die. She brands. I’m eternal, like Diet Coke and bad perms.
And by the way — what’s with this Regina George cosplay? Who decided to downgrade me into some off-brand Mean Girls situation? Honey, I don’t do knockoffs. I set the standard, everyone else copies. Regina wishes she could bleach her soul as pure and white as my scrunchies.
And Cady? Sweetheart, no. You are not Veronica. Veronica’s my Vice President. She holds the clipboard, she takes the notes, she stays in her lane. Period. End of story.
Oh, and JD? Don’t even get me started. What is he, some Hot Topic reject Skull and Bones fantasy? Please. If this were a secret society, the only thing he’d qualify for is sweeping the initiation floor. Throw his creepy trench-coat ass in jail before he ruins another pep rally.
So, let’s set the record straight: I am Heather Chandler. I am Red. I am the myth, the mood, the meteor that smashes through your boring suburban orbit. You don’t bury me, babes — you orbit me. You revolve around me. You need me.
Now, someone get me a mineral water, because this funeral has been exhausting. You’re welcome.
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