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.



Author: heyheiferblog

Quiet screams if a resentful stepmum.

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