Are you enjoying all of the “likes” you’ve been getting on the post you put up last night with the picture of your son wearing a Harvard sweatshirt and the heading: “This just happened”? Did it? Did it really just “happen”? Do you know what also just “happened”? I just “happened” to run into some bearded girlfriends of mine who live in the fog and filthy air and suckle cats. I just “happened” to show them your post, and they just “happened” to be looking for the nicely-toned arm of a varsity rowing team captain for their wicked womyn’s potluck.

Hahahaha. Just kidding. It’s not a potluck.

I am going to work very hard right now to take a step back from my rage, because it messes with my sleep cycle. And I am not going on Ambien again just because of you and your FB post. I am not going to sleep-eat my way to a size 4 like last year after Cuthbert got suspended from the lacrosse team for giving some kid an alleged “brain bleed” in the locker room. Maybe that kid should have gotten suspended for being a pussy.

Yeah, that’s right: I have a kid just like you. I just don’t post every day about his deep love of reading and his “milk of human kindness” service trips to Guatemala. Look, I’ve given suck, and know how tender it is to love the babe that milks me — even when he becomes a teenager and fails to live up to his potential. But you don’t see me posting every last little detail about his #milestones, do you? Have I posted anything about Cuthbert’s gap year at Highland Wilderness Bootcamp? Have you seen a single picture of him eating bear shit or dangling from a challenge wall?

Does your kid even know what grit is? Did he overcome his fear of his mother’s nipples to become a black belt in Dark Arts Breast-Handling? Did he step up and become the man of the house after his father blew the chance to finally make something of himself because he was a loser who was too scared to face a few ghosts and eternal damnation? These are amazing, authentic personal essay topics about real gritty life experiences. And any admissions officer who doesn’t see that — and who sends a certified letter rejecting your son because he’d be a “threat to their community” of fucking snowflakes — needs to man up.

Do you really think anyone believes that your grit-less son convinced Harvard to admit him all on his own? Everyone knows that you hired an expensive college consultant to curate the hell out of his application. You may have been able to fool the admissions committee with that story about the emergency C-section he performed on a Guatemalan woman using nothing but a clamshell and a reusable Starbucks straw — but I see right through you.

Oh, and by the way, you’re not #blessed with prayer hands anymore. Literally. I have sent my infernal spirits to disable that emoji. I will dance in the flames of my ambient rage and spray my cursèd gall-milk over everything you love until I am in possession of what is rightfully mine: a video of Cuthbert clicking on a confetti explosion acceptance email. All the Ivy League acceptances in the world won’t protect you from the long line of rejected kids that will haunt your dreams, sear your eyeballs, and stretch out to the crack of doom.

Screw that to the sticking place, asshole.