mid-level mean girls: corporate insurance edition™
aka “pyramid scheme karens go feral”
lol.
listen, bitches.
you know why
i truly didn’t
catch you all
at first?
because i was operating
under the assumption
that threats
were at
my level
or higher.
i was scanning for
real enemies—
people smarter than me,
faster than me,
hotter than me.
i sure as fuck
wasn’t looking at
the beige-cardigan crew
in a suburban-denver
mid-range insurance office—
with your sad-ass pyramid-scheme
and powerpoints, l o l—
generational-wealth affirmations,
and early-2000s A-line haircuts—
thinking,
“oh shit, yeah,
these bitches might ruin me.”
but mid-bitch alert:
the call was coming
from inside the cubicle.
—
like,
i tried to be nice.
truly.
humble, even.
because damn,
imagine peaking at
“mid-level financial advisor”
at a firm where your entire job
is cold-calling your parents’ friends,
hawking life insurance,
and pretending
it’s generational wealth creation.
imagine
being so aggressively mid,
you look at my trauma—
my actual fucking life crisis—
and see it as
an opportunity
for your sad-ass office drama
of “mean girls: fiduciary edition.”
imagine watching me—
pregnant,
cleaning houses,
supporting my
ptsd-riddled combat vet
(your newest golden recruit),
scraping by on audacity—
and still thinking:
“let’s wreck this bitch
because she’s still
hotter, smarter,
and more intimidating
than we ever could be
in our wildest,
calorie-counting-fueled dreams.”
—
🐉 the supervisor, baby:
when you sat across from me,
telling me i’d never earn enough
as a family attorney
while batting your sad little
tj maxx eyelash extensions
at my husband—
did it cross your mind
that maybe supervising
his fucking employment fraud
and blatant fucking
fidelity breaches
would have served you better
than trying to “one up” the woman
who paid the bills?
💁🏻♀️ new rep, honey:
when you dialed my phone repeatedly
as i drove with my baby
to go scrub toilets—
ignoring texts
where i literally said,
“i’m overwhelmed,
please stop calling”—
and then labeled me “hostile”
for simply existing under stress—
did you think
you were helping your bestie
or defending your professional ethics?
🧌 the og money rep,
oh this is tragic:
bro—the star of the show.
did you genuinely think
having a secret quasi-affair
with my legal husband
while you were literally
my assigned advisor—
managing my kid’s
fucking life insurance policy—
would just be
a quirky subplot
in your sad little
finance-girl era narrative?
LOL
did you think
venmo-ing him money
while pretending
to protect me financially
was “girlbossing”
or just straight-up
federal exposure?
—
see, here’s the thing,
ladies:
you didn’t actually want to win.
you wanted me to lose.
and that’s
why your downfall is so embarrassing:
you didn’t lose to
a woman who was richer,
more powerful,
or more connected.
you lost to a woman
who was literally
too busy surviving
lethal level
domestic violence
to clock your
sad,
pathetic
insurance-cult
fucking shenanigans—
until you got so greedy,
so sloppy,
so fucking reckless
that even a single mom
on fucking food stamps,
cleaning toilets
with a baby strapped to her back,
couldn’t ignore the red flags
of your collective incompetence.
you fucked up
a takedown
where the victim
was literally incapacitated,
bleeding out
financially
and emotionally.
imagine being that bad at crime.
imagine being that mediocre at evil.
—
so congrats.
you made it into
my trauma story.
not as powerful femme villains—
but as a pathetic mid-range
wanna-be-popular girl squad—
that peaked at our premiums.
and really wanted,
just like one—
hot guy.
once.
babes.
you wanted
to destroy me—
and then fucking
mock me for it.
bro—
all you did
was absolutely
categorically prove:
some women
don’t have
the talent,
looks,
charisma,
intelligence,
or spine
to get ahead on merit.
so they resort to sabotage
of their own clients—
from little cubicles,
hiding behind
cropped khakis + kohls heels—
thinking no one will see.
but babe?
i see you.
and i’m not just documenting—
i’m most definitely deposing.
okay, ladies—
let’s go.
to discovery. 🕊️🧾💅🏻
