I dare you to write from the point of view of a bully
It was all in good fun; just a couple of laughs. God, why does everyone have to be so sensitive? If she didn’t think so, she’s too sensitive. It was just a stupid joke. So what?
No. Don’t be ridiculous. It was funny. It’s always funny. I have twenty people laughing too that say it’s funny. Twenty people had a good laugh and you want me to feel sorry for the one with ruffled feathers? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t find it funny, it happened to her, how does that even count, she’ll get over it, that’s what people with brains do; they get up, grow a thicker skin, and walk away. That’s what they’re supposed to do, so why isn’t she talking to you?
I don’t know, I guess I do it because I have a sense of humour and a working brain. It’s a long day and class work will deaden your brain cells if you let it. It livens things up, she should thank me for keeping her life interesting and making her reflexes faster.
What do you care anyway? What do you get from sitting here asking me these questions, anyway? I know what I get. I know what I give the other students. I don’t know what she gets from telling on me except me getting even, and believe me, I will. She’ll wish she had just sat through it and kept quiet.
They’ll remember me, every one of them. Long after I don’t care what’s happened to them anymore, they will remember who I was and what I did to them. They’ll tell their friends, and their stupid boyfriend and their awful urchin children, and they’ll hold what happened on that day and every time they tell it, I’ll live a little longer because they remembered, and whatever they do from now on, it’s because of my prank. That’s what I get. What do you get sitting there in that chair with that look on your face asking me inane questions?
Don’t deflect. Don’t tell me we’re not here about you. Answer my question, because whatever it is, you’re not here to help me.