You scum sucking, toilet bowl swirling piss ant.
This is The Diva’s mother. You know The Diva. She’s the one you called a tramp today.
Fuck you, you knuckle-dragging, excrement-laden little bastard. Do you even have the mental capacity to appreciate what that word, tramp, means to a girl? I’ve seen you on several occasions and you’ve never, not once, struck me as the sharpest tool in the shed. You’re a tool, alright, just not a useful one.
I wish you had been there to see her face when she got into the car this afternoon. My baby’s sweet exuberance wasn’t there, just downcast eyes and quivering lip. Even if my baby didn’t know what it meant, she knew from your tone.
What did you gain by saying it? Momentary satisfaction at having it roll off your lips. Widened eyes at the shock value your word wrought. She sure as hell didn’t bring it on herself, much as I’m sure you’d like to think so.
You little shit. You probably lugged your ass home and holed up in your room to play X-box without a care in the world. Or maybe it’s a rock you live under. Not that that would surprise me.
That encounter, that word, meant absolutely nothing to you. It means a shit-ton to the girl to whom you said it. Every woman who’s EVER had anyone lob those filthy epithets at them knows the power they have. It’s the sharpest cut with the dullest blade. Generally wielded by someone whose grasp of the English language is limited to swine-like grunting.
I don’t care where you heard it. I don’t care that you’re eleven. You know better. You knew it when you hurled the word, much as I’m sure you’ll try and deny it. I know your kind. I’ve had firsthand experience with pricks like you.
You can’t un-say it. Apologizing doesn’t cut it. I hope that word sinks like a stone to your gut and sits there like a cancerous mass. I hope it haunts you every day from now until the end of your miserable little life.
I told her to not let it bring her down, that there are some people out there who are miserable fucks. Apparently, you’ve started early. Your mother must be proud.
You know the worst of it? My daughter, bless her, will forgive just like that. No question about it. Me? I’ll plot your life in my mind. It’s filled with bitter disappointment and penicillin resistant venereal disease. Be grateful it’s her and not me.
The Diva’s Mother