if i were 10% dumber

bro.
here’s the joke:
i prevailed because
i’ve got the survival instincts
of a squirrel on adderall
and the resting vibe
of “bitch, try me, i dare you.”

if i were 10% dumber?
dead.
credits roll.
he gets the condo.
his girlfriend gets the commission.
the firm high-fives in khakis.

we got married in june.
he “started a career” in july.
by august he was in freefall with
access to my checking account.

unaccounted locations.
clubs on my debit card.
my adderall disappearing
like fucking m&m’s
me, begging his mom.
me, begging anyone.
silence…
except for the sound
of my fucking accounts gasping.

the violence?
didn’t start till after the ring.
because of course it didn’t.
the mask needs vows.

meanwhile:
i’m alone across the country.
the yoga crew is gone.
family?
domestic-violence starter pack.
dad out here asking me—
but “did he really punch you
as hard as he could?”

nah dad,
i actually don’t
think he did.
the black eyes were
fucking tiny
on a third-trimester chick.

but what he did do?
bitch,
he did have eyes
on my fucking condo
since day one.
too bad i made him
sign paperwork pre-wedding
like,
“hands off, broke troll.”
eight million
yoga teacher trainings
paid for that roof.
i wasn’t about to
gift-wrap it to a man
who can’t spell “equity”
and has a
credit score
below 600.

then christmas hits
and it’s full horror franchise.
bruises as décor.
murder attempts
like holiday party reminders.
accounts drained.
hours missing.
i’m floating checks
and calling in family loans
while he practices
being a ghost
with fucking rage issues.

his mom?
shows up to suggest:
“honey, you need to—
sell your condo.”
oh word?
convert my premarital asset
into marital cash
mid-strangulation season?
cherry fucking topper
of bad advice.


the math: sell it → marital pot → he gets a cut to fund… more violence. 🙃✨🌈🕊️

and the side quest?
his former “coworker” (hi girly)
setting up
life insurance policies
“for me”
that i pay for
that i don’t own
with him as the beneficiary.
while he vigorously
tries to off me.
💀💰🙃✨
no, it’s hilarious,
keep going.
she’s watching my posts
about abuse in real time
while sliding a policy
across a desk like a
murder pay out.
💌🪦✨

run the scenario:
i sell the condo
like his mom wants,
he pockets all of it.
but if—
i didn’t sell before i died?
my mom gets the condo—
(never said that bitch
hasn’t come through)
but if—
i die like he wants,
post-sale?
then he pockets the cash.
then he pockets the policy pay-out.
she pockets the commission.
and potentially some
extra desperately needed
attention & “wyd” texts. ✨
the firm pockets plausible fucking deniability.
like—
”who even was that
pregnant bankrolling bitch?”
everyone wins except the corpse.
lol.

🤰🥊💥💀💰💰

but (!)
i didn’t fall in love, babe.
not really.
thank god.
i clocked the sneaky
fuck shit every time.
i kept the condo.
i wrote the fucking rules.
i told the truth
out loud
even when
it made people fucking cringe.
i kept receipts
like a gremlin in accounting.

✨

the only reason
i’m breathing?
because i wasn’t the
dumb bitch they needed.
because the adhd squirrel lived.
because i knew what the fuck
was mine and kept it.

final punchline:
in his dream world 🤡✨🌈🕊️
i never make it to motherhood,
i never make it to court,
i never make it to today.

in mine?
i do.
and i’m fucking loud about it.

✶

fucking nightmare. 🤰✨

🪪🔒📑

(translation: prenup-ish papers, locked deed, paper trail. choke on it.)

🧮💳🧠

(translation: i can do the shit-math, even concussed.)

🪵🕯️🔥

(translation: i don’t burn. i learn—and then i light the whole fucking plot up.)