🔮 hex no. 003: for the bitches who bill me for their incompetence 💅📉

stay the fuck away from me
🧿

to the girlies who think being near me
counts as labor—
this one’s for you.

i hex you for charging premium rates
to exist in the vicinity of productivity
while doing absolutely nothing but running your mouth and draining my weed.

you are not a helper.
you’re a freeloader with an hourly rate.
a walking expense.
a “manager” of what, exactly?
my patience? my snacks? the vibe?

you want more per hour than an EMT
(they deserve higher pay)
to sit on your ass and tell me you’re “holding space.”
babe.
what are you delivering?
what’s the actual product?
emotional clutter?
circular conversation?
anxiety in athleisure?

you are not booked and busy.
you are chronically available and weirdly expensive.

dog trainers who can’t handle dogs.
babysitters who need to be babysat.
spiritual assistants who don’t even show up clean.

girl—you invoice like you’re elite,
but move like a craigslist intern.

so now?
this is your curse:
📉 may your rates be met with laughter
📉 may your clients demand receipts
📉 may every future “opportunity” ask what, exactly, you do

🧿 may the mask slip
🧿 may the group chat speak
🧿 may your vibe-based career dissolve in natural light

i’m done funding delusion.
i’m done tipping entitlement.
i’m done letting babysitters, “managers,” and misbranded witches
pretend they’re working
when they’re really just in my fkn way.

and take my money.

🕯️ spell cast.
💳 access revoked.
✨ go “hold space” for someone else’s downfall.

your hourly rate?
now worth exactly what you contribute:
nothing.