Dear mom,
I have some information that might interest you. Last night, you made me sit down at the dining room table and go through my friends social media photos. Apparently you think this is a normal thing that other humans do with their children. Pro-tip: If I should end up in Hell for whatever reason, I fully anticipate it being an eternity of watching my mother go through my Facebook account while mumbling things like, "It must have been cold at the beach that day."
I hope you noticed that dad did very little talking and a whole lot of looking. You probably didn't see it in your quest to save your sons from the disgusting hussies and keep them reliant on mommy's creepy Oedipedal love. Be glad that you didn't. The last thing you need is something to legitimize your insecurity. Have I mentioned that writing about this on your pretentious Mommy Blog with your real name and our real photos while insulting every attractive girl in school is a shitty thing to do? Because it really is, you human wasteland.
And don't think your bitterness went unnoticed. It was kind of obvious.
"Wow--you sure took a bunch of selfies in your skimpy pj's this summer."
First? Pajama pants and a t-shirt are skimpy if you rode in on the Mayflower. It's actually fairly unusual to wear a parka to bed to "keep the sin away." They're not weird. You are.
Sidenote: Did my 8-year-old sister really need to be present for all this? I sure as shit hope you're ready to bankroll a few decades of therapy. And my room does not smell like "stinky cheese". It's cologne, it's called "Mountain Musk", it's very expensive, and it's made from elk pheromones.
Can I just reiterate, once more, how not-cool it is to publicly chastise girls on Facebook because you suspect they aren't wearing bras? I'm pretty sure men your age have gone to jail for less than that. Just saying.
Oh, and then there's this bit:
"I can't help but notice the red carpet pose, the extra-arched back, and the sultry pout. None of these positions is (SIC) one I naturally assume before sleep."
When Dad read that, he went to that hollowed-out copy of Purpose Driven Life, took out the flask inside, and took a nice long drink. Gosh, you didn't know about the flask? No surprise. He said the mouth of that flask is the only one he enjoys kissing anymore.
I also noticed in your Mommy Blog, which nobody except Russian data miners ever accessed, you seemed to imply that "the whole family" was looking at these photos in disgust. That we, as a tribunal of some kind, determined that we had no choice but to block my female friends on Facebook (except the one who likes Anime and doesn't post her picture because she's self-conscious about her acne and obesity). We both know that's bullshit. Here's the real deal:
My brother and I: Hoping for a swift and painless death via meteor strike.
My Dad: "Gosh, she really doesn't have a bra! This is just...obscene...."
My sister: Doesn't know what the fuck is even happening because she's EIGHT.
You: Painting yourself as Margaret Thatcher rather than a deeply bitter person whose every action is designed to compensate for your many failings.
It's all okay now though. I don't have friends at school anymore. The girls think I'm a creepy asshole, and the boys laugh their asses off at my misfortune.
But you know what? It's okay. I'm not that mad. Your post went viral, and now you're the laughing stock of the Internet. It's pretty hard to hide your bullshit beneath pretenses of piety when your precious blog is being dissected by millions of people. Just wait until 4chan gets their hands on this! They'll probably have your debit card info on Pastebin in roughly 30 seconds. And the blog? Forget about it. That thing's going to be a vast expanse of photographs depicting acts that are only legal in rural areas of the Netherlands.
And me? When I get to college, I'm going to do every goddamn drug I can get my hands on. I'll tattoo "G.G. ALLEN RULES" on my eyelids. I'll engage in every obscenity that I can find. And when I'm hiding needle tracks and introducing you to my polyamorous girlfriend named Spider, you'll know the true breadth of your failure. I will drink your tears. In my dreams, they taste like cherry wine.
Signed,
Your Loving Son
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