I hate woman who give me unsolicited advice whenever I’m out in public with my 3 kids because they’re being passive aggressive buzz kills, who never get anyone high off their presence alone ever. I’m in the process of putting a mask on my 3-year-old before entering a fancy cheese chop in the burbs because I’m grooming shishy bitches on the rise and I hear, “The mask is covering his eyes.” I blurt out, “Don’t act you’re a must-see star attraction all of a sudden babe. I’ve been entertaining 3 kids for 3 summers in a row with no centralized AC or virtual grandparents in sight and loving almost every second of it. So, when your blah brained, hubby, starts to outshine you in the parenting department, it means, you’re a more annoying cunt, than you give yourself credit for babe. If you had big tits, it would at least soften the blow of you trying to characterize me as a bumbling jerkoff putz who can’t tell whether he’s getting his son ready to enter a store post Corona for an overpriced grilled cheese, with gooey gruyere or a pinata smack off for my white privileged seed because their father doesn’t treat them like a shameful, resurgent herpes sore on the spot, runs off to his hack golf buds, as deep as the eighteen hole, whenever he likes, or just abandons their kid all together with his baby mama, because he’s got fresher snatch to spew into next, which trumps being in position to do cartwheels into his kid’s hearts which matters most, unless you want to be responsible for birthing another kid stuck in an endless cycle of violence or drugs to rebel against a chillingly indifferent world, that never gave me him a fighting chance to become somebody to believe in, yeah, yeah.