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So Denise Albert has some pretty major Mommy Rage issues she's contending with. Her rant on Metro this morning is literally EVERYWHERE (I read about it on Gothamist), and thus far people aren't exactly taking to her shit too kindly (as per u, best stuff is in the comments).


Here's the thing, Denise: I can totally relate to what you're going through! It's not exactly the easiest thing in the world to be a BALLER either, and sometimes I wish people would just, you know, be a little bit more understanding and offer me some special consideration. It's hard out here for a pimp!

So yeah, I decided to rewrite your entire opinion piece from a non-breeder's perspective, and I rully rully hope you like it! I tried to stay mostly true to form, so shitty sentence structure and the like is, of course, still yours!:

Move out of my way. Help me, please. Hold a door. Offer me your seat on the bus. Walk faster. Why so slow? 

Out of my way, I’m a BALLER!

Yes, I have BALLER rage. I don’t hide my feelings, and if you make me angry you will know it.

I’ve always been honest, vocal and very straightforward. But since I've chosen to embrace the non-breeding BALLER lifestyle, all of those qualities have escalated to a heightened state.

If you see me trying to negotiate four bags of $2 buck chuck from the Trader Joes wine shop as I get on the subway, why can’t you move out of my way? When my behind is scrunched up to the door, one foot behind me, one arm on my bag of organic, overpriced groceries, and another trying to adjust my vibrating panties, would it kill you to just hold the door? I mean, you are standing right there blocking the entrance to the train with your gigantic doublewide fingertip slicing Maclaren stroller so that no one can get around you. What happened to common courtesy?

And if I get to my R-rated movie early to get a good seat, and you come strolling in as the previews are rolling with your whiny, misbehaved, way less than 17-year-old kid who shouldn't be there in the first place and he sits down behind me kicking my seat and screaming in my ear, would you mind moving before I have to angrily ask you to?

If you work in a store, hurry up. I don’t always have time for small talk … especially when I need to get home to meet my weed delivery guy. And I certainly don’t have time to wait while you are on your e-mail cause, duh, I have netflix "watch instantly" porn on my Tivo that's calling my name. I won’t be shy about letting you know.  

I don’t want your dirty little kiddo touching my dog either with her germy, fruit roll-up'd hands. I don’t care if you just used a wet wipe cause it didn't fucking help — someone did once try to calm me down with that rebuttal.

To some, this may seem aggressive or forceful but the bottom line is I know what I want, what I like, and how to get it done. So please, pay attention, be courteous, do your job correctly, and occasionally, lend a hand. Then us BALLERS with rage can use our useless anger for the good of others, too! Oh — and bars are for ADULTS people, so don't clog them up with your your little bebe bitches who need their diapers changed on my motherfucking table. I've got nachos that need to go there.

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