live, laugh, lose 15k followers
yo.
shut the fuck up.
some of y’all are really out here
self-navigating to my online diary
to suggest—
politely,
passive-aggressively,
or outright—
that i
✨ be quiet. ✨
like?
are you insane?
bitch—
absolutely the fuck not.
lemme just say this slow
so the people deep in the views
but pretending not to see me—
can keep up:
👏 this is not a fucking publicity stunt. 👏
if i wanted attention?
i would've shut the fuck up,
posted a thirst trap,
done a cartwheel in a thong,
gotten lip filler and never once said the word genocide.
you think i risked my fckin mortgage money
for social suicide?
no babe,
that’s ✨ dumb-brain behavior ✨
that’s “don’t think too hard” energy.
and i need you to try harder.
bro.
the only reason
we have furniture,
diapers,
lights,
is because
✔️ i used to be a micro-influencer,
✔️ i’m white,
✔️ and i had a baddie-bestie with social media leverage
when shit hit the fucking fan.
without that?
we’d be in a fucking car
next to a strip mall
eating dry cereal with no spoon.
the only reason we’re here
is because i made the disaster visible.
but popular?
LMAOOOO.
yo.
shut the fuck up again.
run the actual numbers:
since i started telling the truth?
💀 15,000+ followers gone.
💀 reach dead.
💀 shadowbanned like a fucking ghost.
💀 my attitude does not pass the vibe check.
2016? down.
me too movement? down.
palestine? lol.
domestic violence? white women panicked.
colonization? they started praying for me.
girl—
meta flagged me for
“hate speech”
for literally saying:
“men are trash.”
you think brands wanna touch this?
dv in public?
lol.
i am a walking commerce catastrophe.
brands want “healing” as an aesthetic.
they want “trauma” like a candle scent.
they do not want
“hey this man left me with a baby, a pile of debt, and a restraining order,
while the bloodline fucked me, gaslit me, ghosted me, and said i was being dramatic.”
yeah.
absolutely fucking not.
i am radio-fucking-active.
for real—
years of stats confirming
the more honest i am,
the more invisible i become.
and y’all still think this is for attention?
bro,
i’m getting hate texts.
distant fam in the dms like
“do you really have to say that?”
girl.
i can’t even pay the fucking light bill.
i’m cleaning houses with a toddler.
debating stripping.
dancing.
selling plasma.
whatever.
and y’all really want me to go radio silent?
that’s funny.
meanwhile—
the only reason we had groceries last week
was because a real one saw a 3am story
and sent bread, milk, and gatorade
like trauma down-bitch doordash.
this shit is not hot.
there is no clout
in being openly,
publicly
fucked.
there’s no participation award.
no influencer baddie trophy.
no benefit for surviving what should’ve fucking ended you.
this is not empowering™.
this is not marketable.
this is system failure triage.
and still—
even when the stats tank,
even when the algorithm tells me to eat shit and die
(usually after i say something like
“free palestine” with my whole chest)—
i keep narrating.
because this is the only thing i’ve got.
i can’t privately explain 35 years of trauma
to 300 people one by one.
they don’t have the time.
they don’t have the bandwidth.
and let’s be real—
not everyone gives a fuck.
but if i stay visible,
if i say it when it’s happening—
the people who do care can read my sos.
and sometimes—
they actually fucking save us.
but go off—
next time you wanna snake,
“she’s doing this for pity,”
switch to the internal monologue
and ask yourself:
would you rather be dead,
homeless,
or disliked by megan from marketing
and an uncle that was always a dick?
’cause personally? same, bitch.
truth kills reach.
truth kills the mood.
truth kills families.
truth kills careers.
but silence kills women every day.
so definitely,
i could be out here—
still posting handstand pics on the beach
still doing it for the likes
still making that cash
if i’d just shut the fuck up.
but silence is dangerous.
and if the options are: disappear or disturb?
babe.
i’ll disturb.
i’ll burn it all-the-fuck down.
in high def.
with captions.
and the comment section off.
