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.