Memory Loss

Hey Heifer,

Remember when your kids’ therapist tried to contact you in order to give you her assessment of their progress, and to come up with a plan of attack for their future?  Remember when she wanted you to bring them in, in order to make sure the parental duties were equal? Remember how you never answered because you seem to have lost all fucks that don’t pertain to the circumference of your fat ass?

Remember when you were supposed to send back a bag of kid clothes that we’ve purchased for them, they’ve worn to go back to your house, that you’ve been hoarding, that actually fit and aren’t covered in rips and stains, but instead you sent back too-short-pants and shirts with holes in them, none of which were ours?

Remember how you only started cooking your children breakfast the last couple of days they came to our home, all to impress your new boy crush on social media? Remember how the nights before we picked them up you fed them fast food?

Remember how you posted full body selfies where the walls miraculously morph right into your problem areas? Wow, Magneto’s got nothing on you, girl! Remember how you posted pictures of all your new gym outfits, showing off the cleavage…on your back? Do they sell those sports bras in udders size?

Remember how on March 8th you boasted about being a lazy cunt and then, after a day of social media, you realized you can cash in on the political movement, so you decided to squeeze your lumpy horse stumps into some red compression leggings and posted a picture of your ass? Total feminist.

Remember how you asked your ex husband if you should claim both kids on your taxes this year, because, you know, he can claim our baby so I don’t have to, because you can never have enough money to buy garbage with, and he no longer pays you child support, because you were spending it all on yourself?

Remember how you hid from me last time I dropped off your sick child? I know, I’m terrifying. All of me that can fit into one of your thighs – before the walls help you look skinnier, obvi.

Remember how you fucked up your ex husband’s credit by not paying your mortgage for 150 days?! Yeah, we went to get a home loan today and heard all about your foreclosure stint and the credit card bills you forgot to pay, in his name – you see we don’t ask for handouts from our parents.

Remember how you’re gluten free, but eat the only flavour of Doritos that isn’t, because you’re fucking delusional? Remember how you think that gluten is different in other countries?

Remember how you blocked me from social media, even though I never followed you?

I see you.



Literally Losing

Hey Heifer,

Your kids now have silver capped teeth because they don’t remember the last time they picked up a toothbrush at your piss palace.

You’ve taken a bath every fucking day for the past two weeks while your children walked around dirty from the Wednesday mornings they left our home, until Sundays, when they came back. Probably because you slither your mounds of flabby flesh into the tub during their bath time. Probably because when they ask you to take a bath, you say no – they’ve told us.

In the past week you’ve gotten really into hip hop and hip hop culture. So, does that mean you’re no longer into new age metal? Is it because your new 20-something crush is no longer a white boy? Is it because your need to impress this new dude overrides the shitty tattoos and “metal mama” image you’ve been steadily curating? Did you clean up your “shoe collection”, to only display your trainers to impress this new someone who, like the others, will use you for discounts at your work, and find someone actually worth a damn to go after?

You look stupid. You look desperate. You are still neglecting your kids.

How about sending them to a literary parade at their school and mispelling one of their characters on a fucking sash you threw on him? The same parade you didn’t even show up to, because you were too busy taking selfies. And then you had the balls to post that you found out about their need for costumes at 10:30pm the night before? Hi, the paperwork was sent out two weeks ago. And also, why the fuck were the kids up 2.5hrs past their bed time?

Oh yeah, I know! Because you still don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone outside of your lumpy, wrinkled ass.


Single White Female

Hey Heifer,

It’s Friday and you have been cluttering feeds with your (pay)day off shenanigans. I swear you never work.

Not only have you bought yourself a brand new outfit, head to toe. Marveled at the thirty seven colours you chose to ask your hair colourist for (seriously, do you come up in that salon every time and ask for their tropical bird special?), that you so masterfully chose to style into Little Bo Peep curls, you know, because you’re 12. You got your nails did. Then you went back out to shop some more for clothes that look like my entire fucking closet. This is some single white female shit, Heifer. Though don’t they say something like imitation is the highest form of flattery? Gross. I dress for my shape and size, while you’re looking like a fun house mirror.

Oh yeah, WHO’S WATCHING YOUR FUCKING KIDS!? They’ve been out of school for nearly two hours, on your fucking day off, while you’re SHOPPING! Mother of the year. Here’s a gold star for yet another reason why I hate knowing I breathe the same air as you.

Maybe on your way home you’ll buy your children some art supplies, come home and read them a book (beyond kindergarten level), cook them a delicious meal, and ask them how their day went?

And then I woke up.

Never have I wanted to cunt punt someone more. With steel toe boots. Followed by a Lysol sesh – I heard you don’t smell any better than your piss palace.



Selfish Cunt

Hey Heifer,

So, you haven’t seen your kids in 5 days, came home after work and decided it was a good idea to make yourself another fucking bath?! I guess it’s better than going out for your usual happy hour, but seriously?

What the actual fuck is wrong with you? Why did you have them in the first place?

I know it only takes 5 minutes to make mac ‘n’ cheese out of a box and shmear some cream cheese onto a bagel (this is not dinner food, you lazy cunt!), and I know your nanny made the homework go away before you waddled your fat ass home, because god forbid you have to actually be involved in your children’s academics. You shoved your kids in front of their individual screens (a seven and nine year olds have no business having their own computers!) and posted videos of, yet another, bath bomb. The norm of your selfishness knows no bounds.

It’s mind-boggling how you have zero regard or understanding for anyone else but yourself. I’m slowly learning to accept and not be surprised by this anymore, even if my brain explodes a little every time I do.

If all your children are good for are some photo ops and an occasional “I love you, mummy”, then we can arrange weekly visits, because at this point they’re rotting in your piss palace, fending for themselves, dumbing down on YouTube videos, and stepping in dog shit, while smelling like cat piss in the clothes you barely ever fucking wash. (A few days ago I washed a blanket one of them brought over, and the stench of cat piss prevailed. Cue me vomiting into my own mouth. You disgusting bitch.) How is a neglectful “mother” going to impact their growth and emotional well-being?

How many times have you used the few hours you get to spend with your kids on yourself? How many times have you shoved them in front of an iPad while you went to get your nails done or go to the useless exercise class? How many times have you left them at home when you went to a show? How many times have you left them with the nanny, so you can go to a party? You better believe I’m keeping a spread sheet, keeping track of all of it, you know, just in case you might ever get curious.

How many times have they eaten dry cereal, because you couldn’t go to the store a mile away to get them milk? Why do they share a room in your 5 bedroom house? Why do they take turns sleeping in your bed every night? Why did you tell them you have no money when they’ve asked for paper and coloured pencils to draw with, and then gave them computers? Why can you not go to a store without bribing them with useless toys, while you shop for yourself? Why do you give zero fucks about anything besides your (fake) self image?

Please to explain. You know where I live.



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.


Poor Forgetful Heifer

Hey Heifer,

Remember how you “forgot” that you had your kids on your weekend and then your “plans to be out of town fell through” and some “new plans have come up in town” and you thought it would be “best to keep to the plan since it’s already been communicated” to your kids? Yeah, I’m sure they’d be really bummed out if mummy surprised them with the original day they were looking forward to spending with you. Bravo. Really, exquisite work.

Here’s the deal, though: I can see what you’re “busy” with.

For starters, those exercise classes you’ve been broadcasting on your social media don’t work when you stuff your face with pizza and mac ‘n cheese (in bed) right after. Let’s face it, you hit your plateau around a year ago.

Didn’t you just paint your hobbit toes, like, two days ago in anticipation of a date? Oh, sorry, did you find out he had a girlfriend and had to cancel your trip because he’s another dude (who lives with his mother) rejecting you? Oops. Yeah, you should definitely go to the nail salon and spend more money on your broken feelings.

Ooooh, then you went on a #datenight at your ex husband’s former restaurant! That’s smart, considering you probably don’t want him to know that you’re frolicking around aimlessly instead of spending time with your fucking kids. It’s ok, I’ll be the mum they need.

OMG, and the next day you actually got up and went to…wait for it…THE SPA!? NO WAY! That never happens. You poor thing, I’m sure your fat ass got really overworkef by laying around on the couch and was in dire need of some #selfcare.

Then you got really adventurous, found a book store (first time in 37 years) and actually went in to browse the display. Wow. You’re so intelligent. I can’t even start to compete with you. Wait, and you brought home a vintage book with Buddha on the cover that “spoke to you” (and will simmer in a layer of filth and animal hair until you never pick it up)? Damn, girl, you ooze worldliness and zen.

Oh shit, you’ll never believe this: I just asked your kids and they said they hadn’t bathed or brushed their teeth once while in your care last week! Shocker, I know. But you! You did manage to take your beloved bathbomb-bath with all the #bathessentials last night. They must not be deserving of such royal treatments, those little bastards. It must be really difficult to rally and teach them proper hygiene. At our home it takes a whole “Whose turn is it to shower?” to make sure they’re clean. Can you even imagine how hard that is to ask every night?

And today! This is a good one. Today I got a text message from a girlfriend who follows one of your social media feeds for a daily pick-me-up, with a screen grab of you laying in bed with your #bae at 11 o’clock in the morning. Lucky dogs. (Literally, you call your your dog bae. This is totally normal.) But check it out: by 11am this morning your kids were fed twice, had brushed their teeth, played a board game and tidied up their room without looking at a single screen. All this while I also took care of an infant. Can you even imagine? But then, by 2pm today you took a another strenuous bath and got to forcefully crack open a case of wine from one of your many winery adventure with mummy (paid for by mummy). 

Your life is the hardest. Being a delusional princess is a huge responsibility and I really don’t know how you manage to juggle all your personal appointments while your children are minded by others.


Mother of the Year

Hey Heifer,

We’ve known each other for some time now and I’ve been taking care of your kids as my own, while you refuse to acknowledge my existence and, flat out, hide when you see me.

You choose to love yourself above anyone else.

You choose to cower in your hoarder, piss infested “palace” amongst fake crystals, reading your tarot every day, without actually understanding how it all works beyond the book that accompanies your set, rather than pay attention to your children’s school work (it’s OK, your nanny will take care of it).

You choose to bake failed Pinterest cupcake projects (out of a box) for co-workers, rather than feed your children anything nutritious.

You choose to #selfcare and #treatyoself to spa days, overpriced manicures and shiteous hair jobs (more often than anyone I know), rather than making sure your kids ever fucking bathe or brush their teeth (it’s OK, I’ve taken over all of their doctor appointments now).

You choose to spend obsene amounts of money on a wardrobe that doesn’t even fit your fat ass. And while we’re on the topic of your unfortunate anatomy, when you filter (to death), squeeze and stretch your selfies to pretend you’re skinnier and your wrinkle riddled face isn’t so – just remember that your co-workers and family already know what you look like as you waddle through your sad, pretend life every day.

Here’s your mother of the year award, heifer. You deserve it. I can’t even imagine how hard your life must be when, whilst pushing 40, your mummy and daddy are still paying your bills. When you fly to incredible places for free and spend all your time secluded and scared, while I make up excuses when your kids ask me why you won’t Skype with them. It must be hard to have everyone else, and a television, take care of your children, because, let’s face it – you don’t know how. It must be hard to fake your happiness on a daily basis.

I call you heifer not just because of your  ̶u̶d̶d̶e̶r̶s̶ size, but also because you embody that moniker to the tee by being a textbook narcissist pig. Though your “spirit animal” is a unicorn, the reality is that you’re a busted cow with a stick hastily duct taped to her empty head.

You’re a real catch. #SingleSundays