functioning alcoholic starter pack
aka
🧃 two dudes in one body
choose ur fighter
—
sober u?
almost sweet.
plays with my kid.
remembers i’m human.
lowkey almost endearing.
could maybe pass for safe.
almost.
key word: almost
but then
🍺 version 2.0:
two drinks in?
boom.
voice drops.
empathy leaves the room.
we’re doing
“why aren’t you as successful as me”
like it’s bar mitzvah karaoke night
for white boys with too much audacity.
and then
🥃 final form:
evil troll unlocked.
my baby = “financial liability”
my trauma?
“bad choices.”
my mom helping me fund a cut of my escape plan?
”abusing the elderly”
my protective order?
“why did you pick him”
—
it’s truly giving—
prep school.
little league legacy.
trust fund delusion goggles.
true petty dickhead with big fantasies
and still
you turn around like
“why didn’t you make it as far as me?”
(aka: truck management with a golf flex with a co-signer)
that co-signer?
let’s talk about her.
your wife.
because if you talk to me like that—
on my worst day—
while i’m holding my baby—
still fucked up from a man i had to legally escape—
then what the fuck
do you say to her
when no one’s watching?
psa:
i don’t give a singular fuck
if she’s not perfect.
no one deserves that shit.
and i would fight you
if i ever saw it.
on. the. spot.
try me.
you essentially called me too stupid.
told me to quit law school.
said i’m too old. too slow.
”be an adult, get a real job”
meanwhile,
you’re out here
serving gender role delusions
like it’s 1952
but forgot to bring the “provide” part
(or the fucking protect part, damn)
my bad.
let’s get one thing real straight:
you are not
a brooding intellectual
with trauma depth.
you’re a mean white man
with a good SAT score,
a chip on his shoulder—
and a bottle in his hand,
weaponizing your privilege
because it’s the only thing
you’ve got left
that makes you feel big.
—
you chose your ego over me.
every time.
then punished me
for being hurt
that i ever tried to love you.
you had a six-figure head start.
one abusive dad.
and you made it your full-time personality
to punish every woman
who reminded you of feeling small.
newsflash:
you still are.
but now?
you do it drunk.
you do it louder.
and you punch down.
you don’t punch up.
you punch sideways and down.
at women.
at minorities.
at people
who didn’t get the golden fucking ticket.
you drink like it’s your job.
but when you do?
you turn into a petty, mean, little bitch
in a golf tee.
—
and let’s be real:
you’re not rich enough
for the rich rooms.
but too privileged
to sit with the ones who mop the floors.
so you float.
bitter.
in no man’s land.
—
and even when i was holding my baby,
fighting to survive,
fighting for literal safety—
you couldn’t help yourself.
you still had to belittle me.
(???? bro— i am your little fucking sister.)
as if i asked to be hit.
as if i asked to be left broke and bleeding
by a man who stole my credit and cracked my face.
and you—
your instinct?
was to blame me.
to shrink me.
to mock my pain.
that’s why you’ll never know my daughter.
and that’s why you lost your sister.
and maybe next time—
don’t scream about law school being a scam
when you wouldn’t last
one hour
in my life,
with your white boy stats and cardboard spine.
—
anyway—
enjoy the whiskey.
you don’t have a niece anymore.
or a sister.
just your ego,
your hangover,
the golf gifts you said you already had—
and that tiny, screaming boy in your chest
who still thinks hurting women
is the same thing as healing.
good luck, bud.
stay hydrated. 💅
