How does it feel?

Hey Heifer,

When I came to pick up the kids two weekends ago you were gracious enough not to bother hearing my knocks. Not to bother coming to the door when I was looking right at you moving shit around in the sun room through the glass door. You we so kind to let the dog out from the side door to bark like a maniac next to me through the fence. And so thoughtful to make one of your offspring finally open the door and greet me with open arms. You fucking peach, you.

And then, when we went to pick up party decorations for Daddy’s birthday surprise, your youngest matter-of-factly told me that you’re throwing him a birthday party at a climbing gym this month and that Daddy and I have to figure out what we’re doing for his birthday on top of that.

First of all, he wanted a party at laser tag, but you wouldn’t know that, because you wouldn’t care to ask, because this isn’t about anyone else but you, because you’re fucking terrified of ever being in the same room as me, because how fucking dare I be anywhere near the children I’m raising for you, you dumb cunt.

Daddy and I had to have a serious talk with your disappointed “baby”, explaining to him that parents wouldn’t take their kids to two birthday parties for the same birthday boy, and how would gift giving work then? Luckily, his grandparents, uncle and aunt all happened to be in town this weekend to celebrate with a family feast by way of his favourite cuisine, we even got a private room at the restaurant! And tomorrow, on his birthday, he’ll get useful presents and a whole lot of balloons, followed by a requested trip to the science museum and surprise cupcakes. Eat that, fatty.

You really are pathetic.

How dare you manipulate your children into excluding their family all because of your need to feed the ignorance bubble you’ve constructed for yourself?

Did it feel good when he texted you saying I’m not going anywhere? Did it tingle a little when he called you out on keeping the door closed? Did you think your excuse of preventing me from a leaping dog would work? (Let’s talk about the pick-up yesterday, when your eldest opened the door, and the scary dog jumped on me without ever barking, and melted in my hands when I gave him love and kisses. Let’s talk about how angry you got and started yelling at him to come back inside. Oopsies, did I strike a nerve with that one?) Did you roll your crazy eyes when he mentioned no longer protecting your fragile feelings? Did you throw your phone down when he said to start taking the well-being of your children seriously for once?

Oh, and now you’re interested in taking them to the dentist. BUT WAIT! Not because you care, but because there were charges on your insurance that weren’t covered! You want to be in the know after not bothering to take them to the dentist for almost two years and never giving a fuck to make them brush their teeth at your house, causing them to have tons of work needing to be done, that your insurance doesn’t cover. Guess what, bitch, you can call the dentist and find out when their next appointment is. You can even schedule the one after that yourself. Funny how when the threat of money being taken away from your “self care” fund is imminent, you suddenly want to know what’s happening in your children’s lives!

Mother of the fucking year. I hope your choke on the countless burgers you shovel into your fat, greedy face.


Everything and Nothing

Hey Heifer,

All those sneakers you buy won’t make you cool.

All those clothes you buy won’t make you fashionable.

All the selfies you take and shop won’t make you attractive.

All the quotes you post won’t make you smart.

All the crystals you buy won’t make you mystical.

All the tarot you “read” won’t help with your disposition.

All the fast food you eat won’t make you skinny.

All those Barre classes won’t make you desirable.

All those naked pictures you pay for won’t fool the fool that chooses to see you naked in person.

All those movies you watch on repeat for decades won’t bring back your youth.

All that sunbathing you love won’t reverse the blatant damage you’ve already done.

All the alcohol you drink won’t make you seem less of a loser.

All the music you listen to based on who you want to attract at the moment won’t grow you a soul.

All your new lingo won’t make you less white and old.

All the shit you buy your kids won’t make them love you more when they get older (unless they think the relationship you have with your mother is solid, ha!).

All the lies you tell yourself won’t add up to reality no matter how much you try.


Pity Party Extraordinaire

Hey Heifer,

You sure know how to make me hate you with the fire of a thousand suns.

Not only did you cry a fucking river to the kids’ therapist this morning (you were supposed to see her over a month ago), consequently getting me taken off the email threads, lumping me in with your nanny as “an afterschool caregiver”, protecting your fragile feelings, and prolonging your fucking pity party. You also just fucked us out of thousands of dollars based on your ignorance and neglegence by stringing your ex husband along on health insurance, allowing him to get surgery, for which we will now have to pay out of pocket.

Thanks. And how perfect to do it two days before his birthday! Bravo. You must be beaming with pride.

I am currently taking all the precautionary measures not to find you and throw a burning match in your direction, you steaming pile of diarrhea. I hope you die a slow and painful death. Not a day too soon.

Then you have to go and post this shit:

Poor baby. How precious that you use lyrics to dramaticise your need for attention. All the emojis totally help with the emphasis, too. You’ve grown so much. So mature and emotionally developed.

Fuck you.



Hey Heifer,

Yesterday morning your 7 and 9 year olds casually mentioned sex during breakfast. 

Now, I’m totally into the idea of raising well-informed humans, but you haven’t the slightest on what that means. No, they learned it from YouTubers when falling down the rabbit hole of too-mature-for-them video game you allow them to play day and night. Their formative knowledge of sex is in form of make believe robots and my deepest fear is that they act out what they see on each other, all because their careless egg donor “forgot” to switch on parental settings on their personal fucking computers.

Then, just a few hours later, I was to sit in the same room as you. At the same table, even. For our fated meeting about your kid’s speech therapy progress. 

We arrived way early to pick up the kids and the anticipation was killing me.

Then, late as usual, your thighs thundered their way into our quiet room and you, in all your fruit print covered glory, piercing everyone’s ears with a squeaky introduction aimed at the space across from me. I may have developed a twitch from the screeching that comes out of your face hole.

Hilariously, the two tiny chairs on our side of the table were occupied, so you had to awkwardly waddle to find another one, strategically placing it at arm’s length, and away from us. Was it just me or did your square ass try to swallow that seat? Teachers had to stretch their necks to address you every time and for someone who normally hides, you sure made yourself look as stupid and petty as you really are. This, after the tickles I felt when my name kept being brought up over and over again, to be included in the pamphlet we were going through, and for all future meetings. 

And then!

You decided to tell the teachers about how your kids use their iPads, and proceeded to vomit complete nonsense about the way they like doing their homework and how they like to spend time away from each other. How the fuck would you know? My eyes rolled so hard and so many times I thought everyone could hear them.

I really enjoyed correcting you backhanded, because unlike you I actually spend time with them with zero screens to scramble their brains with. We talk. We read. We climb. We draw. We play. We create. We dream. We cook. We dance. We clean. We fight. We hug.

You. You post shit like this: 

“When you at work and you get videos of your babies riding bikes without training wheels ( just last weekend I was lying in bed stressing about being a terrible mother since they still couldn’t 🙄🙄🙄) But NOW!! 😍😍😍 now we just gotta get some new helmets.”

So… You’re stressing about being a terrible mother, but NOW you’re on top, because someone else did the work for you? Opportunist pig, taking credit for everyone else’s efforts; pretending to give a shit.

But that wasn’t all of it. The world was then graced with:

“today was a rough day. i’m emotionally drained. tomorrow marks 2 years from making the best decision of my life. it’s not easy by any means. but the last two years have brought so much more happiness to my life since becoming an adult.”

Hold. Up.

1) Your rough day consisted of a half day at work, probably watching music videos until stuffing your face full of food. Going to a short meeting where you got to see your kids. Gyrotonics. Shopping. Couch. 2) You’re emotionally drained from what exactly? Speaking to your kids’ teachers and, god forbid, being in the same room as me? Sure. 3) Actually, the two year mark is in two days, you idiot. Last year you were late by a day. Figure it out since it’s so fucking important. 4) You didn’t make the decision, your ex did. He. Left. You. 5) When did you become an adult exactly? Was it when your parents paid for everything? 6) You are the happiest pig.

It’s ok, you can play your tiny violin to get the attention you need. And you can prove your worth by spending money on yourself. And you can earn your kids’ respect by not interacting with them outside of Snapchat and bribes.


Choose Fear

Hey Heifer,

I heard you’re terrified of strong, opinionated women.

I heard you do the running away thing pretty well at the mere idea of ladies superior to you – let’s face it, it doesn’t take much – giving you just the tiniest scrape of their thoughts. Thoughts! Seems like the apple doesn’t fall too far in your mangled gene pool, what from your mother and her  ̶l̶a̶p̶ ̶d̶o̶g̶ husband always leaving their grandkids’ parties early as to not get “bossed around” by anyone with  ̶b̶a̶l̶l̶s̶ ovaries bigger than theirs.

Are you so fragile that your mum and bff-nanny won’t look in my direction when you’re around, but are chatty and lighthearted when you’re not? Are your bubble walls so thick with cracked glass that your closest people are terrified of what might happen should they gently tap them with a feather?

You can’t handle being around me so much that you catapult yourself out of every room we find ourselves in together, you attempt to hide behind whatever posts and door frames are around (now, I’m very visual and to me this looks like a watermelon hiding behind a pencil, just saying), bury your batshit eyeballs all the way into your magical unicorn electronic device, and actually graze the floor with a distinct line of blatant ignorance as you bow your head to look from one side to the other, because you’ll do anything to avoid looking anywhere my bright vagina light shines.

What a beacon of hope you are for the growing boys you’re pretending to raise. I’m sure all the inspirational quotes you post about #breathelove #belove Kumbaya nonsense you don’t actually understand, topped with heavily Photoshopped photos of your blubbery backside and deflated udders, will be sufficient for them to measure other women to when the time comes. Hell, they may already be doing it! Well done, you. Your stunted emotional and psychological growth (don’t worry, you made up for it in caloric intake) are just the right mix of confusion and shame they’ll have to sort through. Go on then, the Kardashian show you DVRed is way more important than your children’s development.



Can’t Buy Love

Hey Heifer,

You really are a pile of flaming, hot garbage.

It’s a total bummer that you lost your child support just a few months into the divorce proceedings – I’m so sorry that you don’t get extra cash to spend on yourself now. We jumped through all your hoops to make sure you were comfortable with the arrangement. Your ex husband even agreed to have the kids meet with a therapist in order to ensure their comfort with a 50/50 home life that you were so against.

But you couldn’t be satisfied with that, could you, my dear torta? No. You needed to be the best damn opportunist you could possibly be to milk our kindness and love for your children. You had to take trips, switch days around, host teenagers and bands at your piss palace (wonder why they never came back), get horrifying tattoos, take your clothes off for boudoir photos  (that you collage and post up in your own bedroom – again, where are all of the laughing-so-hard-you-cry emojis?!), go to parties and shows while we bathed, fed, clothed, schooled, and entertained your “babies”. Last year alone, over 40 days of free child care for you. What a lucky fat tuna you are!

My brain cannot compute how you have the audacity to keep asking for us to be there every time you don’t want to, without ever asking to make up the time. I’ve spent too many moments having to pull over on the side of the road to cry for your kids. For the day they realize that their mother has planted a field barren of fucks for them. For the day tears stream down their little faces as their minds wander with questions. For the day their giant hearts break. For the days they’ll wake up confused and blame themselves for not being good enough to love.

I will never forgive you for this.

You can hide at the thought of me. You can avert your eyes when I’m in sight. You can call me every name in the book behind my back, shit, even to my face! You can burn effigies and poke voodoo dolls in my honour. You can consult your tarot cards and shove crystals up your lumpy ass, or whatever you do with them. But for the love of anything worth a damn in this life, don’t take it out on your kids, they don’t deserve this.

It’s ok, their father and I are an unbreakable team and we stand united. We will provide them with all the things you lack. We will give them the tools they need to cope with anything the world throws at them, especially a useless egg donor that they were cursed with. We will be their shoulders to cry on when you fuck up, and their cheerleaders when they find strength to persevere despite you. We will show them unconditional love with a balance of discipline. We will listen to them – the first time I said I care about their thoughts and feelings, they asked me why, we’ve come a long way since – and nurture their dreams.

We will be the family unit you couldn’t ever fathom if you tried, because unlike you, we don’t use money to replace love.


Pride and Perks

Hey Heifer,

I wanted to congratulate you on being a #proudmama for strapping those thunder thighs into yet another pair of compression leggings and trekking a whole quarter mile to your kids’ school, only to spend the entire awards ceremony on your sparkly, unicorn clad electronic device. Hey, your kid got one out of five awards in his class for achievement in writing, math, homework and responsibility! He’s come a long way this school year, no thanks to you. Must be a huge boost to your online ego when taking credit for everyone else’s work. You must have forgotten how you didn’t bother to even find out if he had homework last semester until his teacher had to stalk you – yeah, she told us, then you decided to make the nanny handle it like the epitome of motherhood that you are – to come to conferences so she could scold you for being a lazy, fat cunt.

I can’t wait to see the five pounds of makeup you slather that sour, wrinkly mug with, melt right off when you show up to your other kid’s speech therapy meeting in a couple of weeks and see me sitting there. I. Cannot. Fucking. Wait. And looking forward to watching you quickly waddle out the door, perhaps even faster than you did today. 

And then, all of your pride went right into boasting about some more useless shit. Shit I called a number of entries ago. Shit you do because you’re socially inept in the real world. Shit like buying people’s affection. You literally posted a picture of a sneakers box and wrote “There are some perks to dating me.” Where are all the laugh-so-hard-you-cry emojis? I need the whole lot! Guess you didn’t learn your lesson the first or second or third time. You know, like when you got your metal crush boy a mountain of loot. How did that work out for you? I’m sure his girlfriend thinks he looks great in it all.

Let me help you with this correction: the only “perk” to dating you is a shitty discount to a shitty employee store of a shitty athletic brand where you pretend to work as a shitty glorified seamstress. Let’s not even mention your seething hatred of the competition brand (the same one you don’t allow your children to wear in your piss palace; the same one I keep buying them to spite you), because they didn’t want you back after your internship. Oops! Did I write that out loud?!

Why don’t you worry less about showing off how you buy people on social media and pay a little more attention to what your children are wearing, to save them the humiliation of showing up in ripped, faded, 3-inches-too-short sweat pants and dirty, white socks in beat up, too small shoes, to a fucking awards ceremony.