Faking It

Hey Heifer,

You are so fucking fake!

Like, everything about you. Everything. Not plastic fake, but your core. Your very being. There is nothing about you that has or ever will be real. And you keep proving this daily.

The saddest part is that your children look up to you and this is how they see women represented: soulless, careless, pretentious, delusional, neglectful, and empty. Tragic. It’s ok, I’ll work harder to make them see the other side, the side you’re afraid of and have always run away from: strong, outspoken, fair, nurturing, confident, loving.

And you know what’s funny? You choose not to see the shit show that you are. This is your choice. You post things that embrace your #beautifulmess, but you don’t really. You look in the mirror and see the same #basicbitch that everyone else does. So you take a bunch of selfies and manipulate one or two with #allthefilters and, bet, stare at it over and over again, marveling at the make-believe version you created. Pretending that everyone else is also fucking blind and dumb.

I don’t need to hear the horror stories from your ex husband, or in-laws, or friends, or anyone else who knows you. I see it. I laugh at you. I cry for your children.

Your image is more important than anything anyone can ever give you, because of this you’ll always be alone. No wonder he left you.

And then you started dressing like (two of) me. That’s a real knee slapper! I guess you’ve seen too much of my uniform when I come pick up your kids. Your Anthropologie flower prints, sparkly sandals and neon strap (clearance) Coach bags turned into beat up motorcycle boots, black jeans and grey flowy tees? Hm. Oh, you’re a #rockerchick now? Oh, you’re covered in (shitty) tattoos now? Oh, you’re going to live shows now? Oh, you’re doing everything your ex husband told you he wanted and found in…me?

The thing is though, I didn’t have to try, nor have I ever done anything to impress anyone. The thing is that I don’t spend thousands of dollars on myself each month. Thing is that I don’t have to dye my hair every colour of the rainbow to stand out, or get decals on my nails to stand out, or wear completely inappropriate outfits to work just to get noticed by someone, anyone. I accept myself and choose to give rather than take. 

But what do I know, I’m just some dumb bitch who left her past life to be a mother to your kids and the friend and lover your ex husband had always wanted.



Author: heyheiferblog

Quiet screams if a resentful stepmum.

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