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.


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.