a true fucking nightmare ✨
sorry y’all
as i digest
the totality
of this
fucking bullshit—
my mind spirals
a little.
from the fucking
ptsd
of having
to
relive
this
fucking
near-fucking-death
era in my life. ✨
and let me
just say—
this is a fucking:
psychotic
violent
dangerous as fuck
narcissistic
financial
professional
fucking nightmare ✨
because
babe—
i don’t know shit.
but if it’s even
.01%
as bad as it looks—
✨picture it ✨
nah.
he didn’t just need gas money.
he needed my
whole-ass fucking car.
he needed $800
in a month
cash-advanced
off my fucking credit cards.
my debt
maxed the fuck out.
my fucking name.
my entire financial
fucking risk profile
to fund his little
broke-boy
fucking delusions.
and let’s not
sugarcoat this shit—
this wasn’t
one bad month.
this was a
whole-ass pattern
of financial fucking abuse,
built on manipulation,
entitlement,
violence,
lies,
and fake fucking ambition.
and yeah,
i let that shit slide—
because i was pregnant,
because i was fucking scared,
because i was trying to believe
he wasn’t the violent piece of shit
he kept proving
he absolutely fucking was.
but now let’s talk facts.
if even one fucking dollar
of what he
stole off me
was spent on anyone else—
especially someone
who had a fiduciary duty to me,
we’re not talking
about drama anymore.
we’re in:
fraud.
breach of duty.
potential conspiracy.
career-ender shit.
because if—
he wasn’t in that cubicle?
8 hours a day?
5 days a week?
for most my pregnancy?
while i was funding the dream?
if that financial representative
was receiving him
on her property,
communicating with him
off the fucking books,
knowing factually
that he was living
with his pregnant wife,
willfully disregarding
obvious dv indicators,
and never once
disclosed that relationship?
that’s a conflict of interest.
that’s willful non-disclosure.
that’s professional negligence—
at best.
and if she benefitted
from that financial exploitation?
bro. lol.
🙏💀🪦
if a single dollar i paid
to keep my household
fucking functioning
ended up subsidizing
their private
fucking connection?
girl.
we’re crossing lines.
civil.
ethical.
potentially fucking criminal.
this ain’t petty.
this ain’t fucking speculative.
this is fucking traceable.
financial statements don’t lie.
cash apps don’t lie.
ip logs don’t lie.
policy documents don’t lie.
and if you benefitted?
we’re talking complicity in financial abuse.
girl, you were assigned to
protect my fucking finances,
not flirt with
the fucking liability
bleeding them dry—
while kicking their fucking ass.
god damn.
you had one fucking job.
don’t fuck my money.
don’t fuck my life.
don’t fuck my abuser.
pick literally one.
and yet you fumbled all three
for a man who
couldn’t even pay
for his own damn
socks—babe!
like girl—
he needed my login
to uber to work.
that’s who you risked
your license for?
be fucking serious.
and let’s get this real clear:
if i find out
there was one smiley face,
one “lol ur so crazy,”
one late-night message,
while he was living with me—
or before that TRO hit—
you’re not just on blast.
you’re insanely liable.
because nah,
he didn’t ruin my life.
he was already
a human trash fire
with a violence kink
and a savings account
balance of
negative fucking
seven hundred.
you?
babe,
you jumped in
that fire willingly
in a tragic pantsuit
and a fucking compliance badge.
and for what?
some pathological,
un-employed never-again
finance bro
with unmedicated rage issues
and a toddler he abandoned?
girl.
you didn’t steal shit.
you attached your career
to a man who couldn’t
afford a fucking private shit
and now you're surprised
you're circling
the fucking drain?
are you insane?
nah.
this ain’t “messy.”
this is professional malpractice
with a side of
absolutely deserved
public humiliation.
because you are a danger. ✨
so yeah—
go ahead and hope
it wasn’t a motel. ✨
hope those payments
were innocent. ✨
hope those texts
were professional. ✨
but just know:
if even one does?
i’m not mad.
i’m fucking ready.
and discovery is
motherfucking war.
