the life you could've had—if you weren't scared of greatness 🖤

okay, babe, pause.

i want you to sit with something.

like—
real quick, imagine:

it's early as fuck.
sun cracks in through our bedroom window.
i'm already awake because
your alarm wakes me before it wakes you.
but i roll over,
run my hand across your chest—
you open your eyes like,
"shit, my girl's fine as hell,"
and we fuck like we've got all day—
even though we've got like seven minutes
before the kids start destroying the house.

boom.
satisfied.
i make coffee,
and you hit those eggs
like your name is gordon fucking ramsay.
it’s sexy.
you catch a glance of me
in a crop top and booty shorts—
can’t help it,
you’re grabbing my waist,
telling me you can't wait 'til tonight.

chaos downstairs:
our kids—
already awake,
already wild as fuck.
climbing on you—
but babe,
i’ve got it.
this shit's easy mode.
you're dressed,
looking like an absolute snack.
i hand you an actual snack for work,
grab you by the back of your neck,
pull you in for that goodbye kiss
you can't stop thinking about all day.
you lift our babies up,
swing them around—
they’re laughing,
screaming,
all messy hair and giggles and shit.
you leave for work with that big
"damn, this is really my life" energy.

at work,
you bust your fucking ass.
you sweat,
grind,
get that fucking money.
you know why?
we've got vacations planned,
babe—
rollercoasters to hit,
beaches to claim with our babies.

meanwhile,
i'm home:
i’m raising these kids, babe,
and they’re fucking thriving.
killing law school.
immaculate house.
dog loyal as fuck.
kid happy as fuck.
and i’m making cash too—
but it's "fuck around and find out" money,
babe.
flexible schedule shit,
because bad-bitch lifestyle.

later,
you roll up after work,
sun just starting to dip.
i actually learned how to cook
without setting the kitchen on fire—
it's tacos or some shit.
you shower quick,
toss on sweatpants,
walk in like,
“holy shit, how did i land her?”
we sit,
eat,
laugh,
kids throwing taco shells around,
absolute chaos—
but fuck,
they’re so happy.
they watch us, babe.
they see us loving each other right.
healthy,
laughing,
safe,
alive.

babe?
sometimes we even roll up at your job
just because we can.
bring snacks.
wave at daddy.
kids proud as shit—
seeing you do cool big man things.
you flex a little,
feeling yourself,
knowing your family sees you
absolutely dominating.

sun's almost gone,
we throw the kids in the truck for ice cream
but they pass out hard,
sticky faces pressed to the windows.
we pull over,
watch the sunset,
debating full-scale parental abandonment right there—
because, damn,
we’re still fucking obsessed with each other.
we chill,
hold hands,
step outside the truck—
to hit the spliff,
listen to music,
swear like fucking sailors,
make stupid jokes,
die laughing—
realizing we genuinely fucking love being together.

back home,
we carry sleepy kids to bed,
quiet forehead kisses goodnight.
then we close our bedroom door,
look at each other like it's day fucking one,
and babe—
we climb on top of each other
like we're still teenagers sneaking around.

that’s it.
that’s the life you could’ve had.

bro, can you fucking imagine fumbling this?

i’d say “tragic,”
but honestly?
it’s just fucking pathetic.

🖤

episode: casting call closed / wtf was that???

season 1–3: the collapse of the male ego under pressure

let’s clock the progression:

✶

season 1
trauma-bonded ex.
emotionally unavailable,
but the sex eventually showed up.
the origin story.
(my classic “maybe i can fix him” arc.)
now blocked for public safety:
for now.

✶

season 2
marine vet baby daddy.
sleeve tattoo,
certified “my trauma is hotter than yours.”
lifetime achievement award—
for cheating and ghosting.
sexual chemistry off the charts,
until it wasn’t.
emotional capacity below sea level.
just vibes and military-grade shame.
(also blocked)

✶

season 3
LA ese—
spiritual gangster edition.
half holy water,
half hood rat,
all hot-mess.
fronted like a powerlifter,
delivered “retired teddy bear.”
brought roses,
a toy for my kid,
treats for the dog—
and then, plot twist:
when it was time to bring the d,
all systems failed.
(almost blocked)

…

what is this new strain of soft boy energy?
not “emotionally open.”
not “nurturing king.”
just like—dicks down, vibes up, expectations in hell.

i didn’t ask for perfection.
but like…
you insisted.
you showed up dying to just.
please.
touch me,
then got stage fright when the lights came on.

bro. you invited yourself to the performance.

and baby?
it wasn’t just nerves.
it was misrepresentation.

if i pulled the same stunts?
if i showed up looking like a bait-and-switch,
(little softer than my pics?)
or asked you to have my baby,
or blurted out my hubby life fantasy—
or couldn’t get wet,
or trauma-dumped for hours,
or gave mid-level chemistry,
and got mad when he didn’t want round two?

yo—
i’d be clowned for eternity.
truly, they would be cruel to a bitch like this.

but men?
they expect mercy.
they expect a second shot.
they expect my libido to apologize for their dysfunction.

i’m just supposed to lay there,
quietly flattered?

no, babe.

this isn’t a romcom.

…

but here’s the real arc:

they’re failing because
they know the product doesn’t match the packaging.
the body doesn’t lie—
and their dicks are snitching.

season 4?
auditions closed.

fucking pathetic.

✶

the roster: deep scroll edition

(aka: honey, it’s purely physical. i do not want your childhood story.)

babe.
i. love. sex.
love making out.
love getting lifted up.
love you being obsessed.
love. it.

so yeah. ping ping ping.
eventually you f*ckers wear me down.
(how do y’all smell when we are single? shit’s like blood in the water.)
i lasted half a year with no skin contact—
but now?
yo. let’s go.

so f*ck it.
i’m deep scrolling.
actually looking at the texts, the dms,
the weird ass “what happened to your husband” messages
because men clock that shit like a direct transmission from jesus christ himself.
and honestly?

i get it.

you never forgot me.
something about me—so real. so strange. so hot.
so…why doesn't she give a fuck? energy.
i know.
but babes (all of you, gather round):

i’m using you.
for your body.

i don't wanna do the therapy rundown.
i don't need to hear about your mommy.
i am not your emotional pivot point.
i am your reason to go silent after.
(baby, i’ll call you.)

truly?

i’ve got a full nfl arc in my dms.
fumbled in 2010,
(weren’t you on a videogame homie?)
been regretful in fb messenger since 2013.
hey baby,
shoot your shot.

flower boy?
brought me a bouquet every hangout for a month in like 2022—
now texting in invisible ink like he’s from spy kids.
bitch, i will tell her.

there’s a 5'10" plastic surgeon doing rounds
and sending “what do you need tho babe?”
(didn’t see it for 8 hours—my bad angel.)

prom king?
talking to himself in my messages like it’s his personal diary.
baby—you stole my desktop. like full stop. out my window.
i dragged you in front of the entire football team.
you are not him.

rando-hometown dudes?
“babe, you’re single now… need a hug?”
yeah babe.
i do.

but i need you to shut the f*ck up while you do it.
(and maybe take the trash out on your way out.)

law school sugar daddy?
offered to pay my tuition to hit.
(baby, didn’t i meet your mom? —
love you for that cutie.)
… lowkey?
i fumbled that one.
he was obsessed.
and kind of a hottie.
hi.

i’m scrolling through the chaos like:
ehhhhhhhhhhh idk.

here’s some guy i literally had to google.
his name popped up and i was like
“i should know who this is…”
oh, right. trauma dump dude.
i nodded.
he cried.
i disassociated.

and this is the thing:
i want your body.
the rest of you?
annoying.
zero assets.
talks too much.

you’re loud, soft, and bring nothing to the table but audacity.

like honestly,
why are all of you so…
un-smashable?

anyway—i’m back.
bored. hot. emotionally bulletproof.
screening new applicants daily.

but straight up?

vibrator supremacy.

again.
and again.
and again.

to the love of my life

(this isn’t what you want it to be)

i know you wear that title like a crown.
because you know it’s you.
but i’m here to dethrone you.

because even though you are—
the love of my life—
it’s embarassing.

because what you should know is this:

i’ve always been numb.
dead inside.
unmoved.
detached.

the grief,
the violence,
the betrayal—
they rewired me.

and the part of me that believed in you?
that was the miracle.
that was the glitch in the fucking system.
a once-in-a-lifetime fuck-up.
a weakness.

you should’ve never gotten in.
i shouldn’t have ever let you.
but you did.
and you wasted it.

so tell me—
how does it feel
to betray the broken thing
that was finally brave enough to believe you?

the weakest thing i ever did.
was to really believe you meant it.

so—

do you think of me?
be honest.

mornings?
nights?
on long drives
when you can’t sleep
when she’s not me

it’s constant, isn’t it?
the haunting?

because i remember.

i remember watching you grow.
i remember the way you looked at me—
you can’t make that shit up.

the fire.
the fury.
but also the delicate.
i never let anyone see.

so yes—
you were the love of my life.
because,
i believed you.
and that’s the only difference.

because,
i never believed any of them.
not one.
but they never looked at me like that.

and that’s how you killed me.

the betrayal
of believing
it was finally safe.

so definitely—
you broke me.
devastated me, actually.
i’ve never let myself feel that much pain.

but not because you’re magic.
not because you’re powerful.
or mythical.

you broke me—
because i believed you.

and that was your one shot.
your one miracle.
your once-in-a-lifetime access
to something holy.

and you used it
to run some epically long joke.

so i hope your greatest love story
is knowing the most untouchable,
unforgiving,
devastatingly hot,
brilliant girl
you’ll ever breathe beside—

believed every word.
but you were just fucking kidding.

so congrats.
you really had me.