uh oh. 💻 the cloud hates you personally

🔦

aka: perjury season

—

shit.
delete doesn’t mean
gone,
fucking idiot
i don’t need sex tapes.
i’ve got the fucking timestamps, babe.

oh my god.
i don’t do vibes,
i do fucking evidence

we’ve got—
logins,
pings,
and public humiliation

i don’t need confessions.
i’ve got patterns that
line up like ugly-ass fucking ducklings
of ER visits, crashouts and goddamn venmo receipts.

i don’t need your absolute legal fanfic.
i’ve got the receipts your sloppy-ass
left in six recorded drug thefts,
seventeen location shares
and a fucking wifi login,
you absolute
dipshit,
amateurs.

🔬🧬🧤

here’s the science, sweetheart:

lies are obvious.
and every one of you
tone-deaf fucking clowns
left the same
stupid fucking trail—

same nights,
same pings,
same cash advance—
same 7-Eleven
or Wal*Mart
fucking sob story.

so fucking cute.
tragic.
absolutely incriminating.

but shit,
i clocked the timelines.
the text overlaps—
i mapped the pings.
i screenshotted the fucking
“oops deleted”s
before your crusty thumbs
fumbled the fucking trash icon.

heads up motherfuckers:
the cloud
does not give a single shit
about your
trash ass reputation
or your fucking situationship.

the math?
absolutely filthy.
finished.
fucking framed.

continuity of conduct.

devices acting like they’re handcuffed together.
payments fucking
talking shit
at the exact minute
your dumbass alibis “took a fucking nap.”

and those alibis?
only work if
the sun took a personal day and gravity called out sick.

lol
i’m not posting details.
i’m posting inevitability.
the rest?
i’ll save for court,
as you keep signing docs
locking you into a narrative—
that doesn’t make sense
matched with the fucking records—
that shit smells like
fucking perjury?

cross-refs for dummies.

duplicates offsite
with grandma’s church gloves on
the chain-of-custody.

subpoenas templated
like bedtime prayers—kneel, say “amen,”
and hope your professional chat
doesn’t get read in court like
fucking low budget porn—
but everyone’s a cokehead
and nobody’s getting paid.
just herpes.

bitches
go hydrate.

phone a fucking friend.

call that “crisis manager” who can’t spell metadata.

ask them
about exif stamps,
baby. ask them about ip drift.
ask them why your “private” folder
is fucking blinking back
at three jurisdictions.

hehe.

no names today.
no screenshots.

just the sound
of a locked folder
fucking yawning open
and every version
of your “truth”
hanging up like
cheap cigs and fucking regret.

if you touched it,
baby,
it touched back.

if you typed it,
it’s on the record.

if you synced it,
it is there—by god.

is it scary??

knowing—
you didn’t get away with shit.
and it’s going to be out there,
on the fucking record??
because baby,
you did that shit—
and this?
this is the fucking reveal.
it’s a goddamn countdown.

tick.

tick.

bring a lawyer,
bring a fucking oatmilk latte—

boom.