the taliban? nah—just titties.

✶ boobies, not bombs ✶

(a totally and absolutely made up story about: how a combat vet blamed PTSD when he was just hiding an insurance handjob from a phenotype tragedy with a legacy login ⚔️)

xxx
totally, so, not a real story—

so like—
here’s the story.

picture it:
heavily pregnant.
paying the bills.
cleaning up after a 150lb dog
he swore was “part of his healing.”
buying his socks.
defending his outbursts.
calling it trauma.
calling it war.
calling it love.
publicly giving grace
blaming iraq,
bin laden,
what-the-fuck-ever.

and him?

“hmm. i could take accountability for my bullshit…
or i could just throw her into a wall and blame afghanistan.”

and suddenly everything clicks.

baby—it wasn’t ptsd.
it was panic.

you disgusting, dusty, dickless coward.

i really sat here
and wrote pieces
defending you.
"he’s traumatized," i said.
"he’s broken," i said.
"it’s the war," i said.

baby,
it was the embarrassment.

not “you fell in love” embarrassing.
not “you were lonely” embarrassing.
not “midlife crisis” embarrassing.

like… bruh. HER? embarrassing.

????? so…
(to recap; checks notes)
not the trauma.
not the triggers.
not the fucking taliban.

nah,
low-grade titties????

that were so career-less,
charisma-less,
so flop-coded
that telling the truth
would’ve ruined him faster
than strangling me did
(?!??!!)

you chose violence
because you were fucking a loser.
and you knew
if i ever said it out loud—
if anyone knew—

you’d be clowned.
publicly.
permanently.

so instead of adjusting—
leaving,
owning it,
or, stay with me, not banging a mid in the cubicles—
you almost killed me.

to protect your ego.
not your trauma.
your ego.

and now?

it all makes sense.

you couldn’t take the L.
so i took the blows.

because that’s the real timeline, right?
you didn’t start punching me when shit got hard—
you started when the lies started closing in.
when your liability-claim-coworker loser-ship
started looking like something you couldn’t explain
without getting laughed at.

but baby—i’m laughing now.

sweetie—
you blamed combat.
when really it was coitus.
with a glorified lifetime policy flop.

you know how fucking pathetic that is?

to gaslight someone who has survived
actual, childhood, no-exit, no-pay trauma
into believing you’re having flashbacks
when really you’re having guilt convulsions
because your side chick wears cropped slacks and no opinions?

that’s demonic.
that’s deranged.
that’s domestic terrorism but make it dickless.

and the worst part?

i gave you the benefit of every doubt.
i forgave shit no one should.
i made excuses for the bruises.
because you served.

baby.
you didn’t lash out
because i triggered your trauma.
you lashed out because i threatened your cover story.
you knew that if i ever even saw a picture,
it’d be a wrap on your whole little tough guy illusion.

and so what did you do?

you escalated.
you got violent.

and that’s it, right?

it wasn’t the war.
it was the shame.

babe.

i was your wife.
pregnant.
providing.
protecting.
and you were probably spending your lunch breaks
getting neck massages from a living linkedin profile
named emma or ashley or “oh she went to [insert ivy] too!”

a woman so aggressively average,
you had to commit felony-level deception
just to pretend she was a prize.

and when i started catching on—
when the timelines didn’t make sense,
when the phone never left your hand—
you turned violent.

not because i was dangerous.
but because your story was.

you needed me to look crazy
so your lie could stay intact.

you needed me to scream
so no one would hear you.

and now,
looking back?

i can’t believe i was mourning for a man
who was just trying to protect the fact
that he risked a family,
a marriage,
and a living, breathing child
for an underachieving nepotism hire
with the face of a retired field hockey coach
and the networking skills of a girl who thinks a patagonia vest
makes her “one of the guys.”

bro.

you almost killed me
because the truth
was that humiliating.

like baby,
you didn’t come home from war broken.
you came home horny.
(and apparently desperate as hell.)

you didn’t see an ied.
you saw some b-minus boobs
and decided it was worth the risk.

baby, you weren’t suffering.

you were just scared
you would be disgraced.
because even your infidelity was pathetic.

so anyway—
yeah, he cheated.
with someone who peaked at her dad’s amex limit
and thought my downfall
was gonna be her redemption arc.

and somehow,
instead of just confessing like a man,
he tried to choke out the truth.
literally.

and now he’s yours.

the debt,
the tantrums,
the delusions,
the fact that you had to pay him to play house
and still ended up the side character
in someone else’s story.

you won! 🥳
(couldn’t tell you were competing, babe.)
$$$$
ping!

anyway—
tell him i said hi.
or don’t.
he’s blocked.

🖤

legally & spiritually.


✶ legal vibes babe ✶
this is an artistic rant, a speculative satire, and a therapeutic roast penned under my constitutionally protected right to drag fictional losers for sport. any similarity to actual people—living, dead, ghosting, or still paying off their Columbia flex—is a cosmic coincidence, not an admission. statements herein are opinion, hyperbole, or parody (pick your favorite), delivered for commentary, catharsis, and public interest in clown accountability. if you feel personally targeted, kindly consult a trauma-informed therapist before forwarding this to your attorney; emotional damages aren’t billable here.

*take a seat, call your therapist, and maybe stop being so mid.