you said get a babysitter.

you saw me drowning.
i posted —
paid help needed asap.
because no one would just help.
a hour here or there.
consistently.
while i cleaned toilets.
or navigated socratic method.
clawed my way out.

not even friends
who were “giving me all they had.”

aka: free outdoor gear from their job
while i couldn’t afford groceries.

you pop in:
“i just left my baby daddy. i’m free now. i can babysit.”

i was like; please let this be my miracle.
i’ll share anything i have;
just please help me survive this.

i asked you.
straight up.

can we be casual?
you’ve got a kid the same age.
they’re already coming too.
i’m not asking for favors.

i said:
“i can offer a lot—
and look, i’ll still pay you.
just… on the hours i’m not making money,
can you be reasonable?
not a calculator?”

i wasn’t asking for free labor.
i was asking for mercy.

then said:
“i can take on extra jobs off schedule—
i’ll go clean entire houses
alone with no sleep
and split the profits with you.”

so you’re still paid well.

you’re like “cool”
$200 pay days in a couple hours?
to stay back with my kid x 2?
with your shit?
dope.

but from the jump. it was—

not: baby, you’re dying. let’s trade.
not: let me show up for another single mom who’s clearly fucking breaking.
not: let’s build something.

just:
“i’m paid labor. i’m bringing my kid…how many hours can i get a week?

also yeah — we’re totally cool with:
-no cleaning
-no actual cooking
-getting paid fat when you clean houses solo
-eating your food,
-asking for your informal (unpaid)
extended + complex legal views,
-smoking your weed,
-sleeping over,
-creating extra laundry,
-making this insanely casual,
-trauma-bonding,
-extracting emotional labor,
-pretty much me getting paid to be a mom
-in your house
-with your shit
and just...
+keep yours alive
on the side.”

i said thank you.
so much.
i’m drowning.
this is everything to me.

…

day one:
you cancel.
you’re sick.

i say:
“hey, just so you know…
last time i got sick,
i had no one.
i was trapped for two weeks —
barely able to walk the dog,
change my kid’s diaper,
work,
pay bills,
not flunk law school.
i can’t get sick again.
it will break me.”

hint.
fucking.
hint bro.
damn.

day two:
you show up.
totally fine.
like yesterday never happened.
24 hour thing.
awesome.

i try to go to walmart —
to get weed, food,
return ink:
literally anything productive
so i can justify paying you.

i go to get in to my car—
i am blocked in.
someone’s parked illegally in the lot.
i try everything.
nothing works.

tears.
actual tears.
streaming down my face.
this was my one errand.
my one moment of freedom.
since february.
not in class.
gone.

i text you:
“i can’t go.”

you:
“no worries.”

i walk back inside.
you say:
“great, you’re back!
let me trauma dump now.”

we go for hours.
most the night.
mostly me listening.
reviewing the screenshots.
eating pizza,
feeding the kids—
i’m not even mad.
i’m happy to not be alone.
i’m happy to have a friend.

you monologue your custody issue,
your living situation,
honestly;
interrupt me every sentence,
ask me for more low-key legal advice.
really want me to help you figure this out*
we smoke my weed.
we eat my food.
your kid uses my kid’s toys, snacks, everything.
idgaf.
i have a friend.
you crash.

i’m fine with it.
so i accomplished less than nothing.
so what if tonight cost me resources
i don’t have to spare—
energy i didn’t get to recharge,
i’m building something.
this is the vibe.
this is sisterhood.

day three:

i wake up.
late for work.
move out cleaning.
they’re brutal.
you’re still in my house.

i ask:
“hey… you want to just stay with ryan while you’re here?”

you:
“yeah, i have plans… but yeah.”

ok i’ll hurry.
eat whatever.
do whatever.
use whatever.
sit on your phone.
at least i just
don’t have to carry her today.

i go to work.
i’m arm deep in a bathroom—
dripping sweat,
rushing.
you text me
from my couch:
“i’m breastfeeding.
i’m dehydrated.
can i have one of your gatorades?”
(my kid is asleep)

!!!!!!!
(let me explain)
bro.
bro.
broooooooooooo.
this honest cut through me.
i almost broke right there.
it was so fucking little.
so simple.
my literal only tiny teeny boundary.
(honestly i knew i was fucked from this moment.)
i offered you literally everything i had:
shower.
use my clothes.
eat.
drink.
vape on the porch.
do whatever.
but.
the one thing —
the one thing —
i asked you to please not to touch.
(joking, but serious; yo we are poor.)
in a separate fridge.
i told you.
i can barely afford air,
but i need these to feel alive.
i barely make it through most days.
(living on cold cereal, no sleep, coffee)
you nodded.

and then waited
until i was gone
first time i left.
so you could ask via text.

so you wouldn’t have to
look me in the face
when you did it anyway.

cool bro.
this hourly keeps going up.

i live on like nothing
but i grew up poor.
so i can fake it

but—

babe!!!!!
i could’ve just taken her with me.
left her in the carseat—next to me.
she naps sometimes.
done the clean.
my own condo would have stayed sanitized.
no two dozen toys for me to clean up after work—
no endless laundry from the bedding.
kept my weed.
my food.
(my full 12 pack of gatorade i traded for my soul)
my time.
my fucking sanity.

but no.
(maybe at least she won’t be a calculator about these “hours”…)

i come home—
sweaty.
exhausted.
responding to legal HOA emails,
my kid’s already like
WHAT’S UP BITCH
trying not to scream.
you’re still on my couch.
still talking.
still trauma-dumping.
still asking for free advice
as i stare at my screen.

and i say—
bro.
besides working
to now split the pay three ways
(between my cleaning teammate, you, and our toddler’s snack budget + supplies),
i made nothing.
i actually lost money.

i accomplished nothing.
and you rushed me.

i asked you for the bill:
2 hours for my failed errands / turned free emotional and legal aid, snacks, weed, the vibe til 3am: $40. (i owe, obviously)
4 hours to watch our kids while i cleaned: $80.

$120.

ok.
got it.

and then you say it:
“i love it here. we should live together.”

i blink.
maybe this is it.
maybe if you stay, we’ll survive.

and you won’t bill me per hour—
everyone told me i needed to find someone to help.

so i said.
ok sam.
you are slow dying.
be open.

i show you the loft.
you ask about storage
i say i have a garage.
oh free storage.
you go:
“wow. that’d save me $300 a month.”
i say:
“great. just help me survive.”

i say:
we can put the girls in the same room.
you can loft the office area for yourself.
we can make it cute. private.
make it work—
it’s not like i’m charging you half.

you say:
“if i have to loft it…
i just don’t think that’s enough space.”

not: thank you.
just:
“can i get your daughter’s room instead?”
the one i just built from scratch.
for the third time in one year.
aka: the same one you just openly admitted
to watching me create at 2am via instagram story?
by myself?

babe—you didn’t even send a rent offer.
ok. fuck. continue.

day four:

(you’re too busy to stop by so i could grab weed.
maybe on a paid day you said;
you’ll come early.
maybe…
thanks for smoking me up tho xoxo)

day five:

bitch and then.
your virus hits me.

the final kill shot in this saga.

alone with a toddler and a dog.
and law school.
down food.
down moral clarity.

i honestly cried.

and then
i got chills.
fever.
head pounding.
couldn’t sleep.
couldn’t breathe.

and still —
i showed up to class.
because i have to,
barely conscious
definitely absorbing nothing.

just a hot $520 a pop
via tuition—
to be so sick you can’t focus.

(same one you
already asked me
to summarize in detail
customized to you
for free
so you could text
your baby daddy
legal threats.)

class = 2.5 hours.
i end up not needing extra time
because i could barely move.
just dying on the couch
while you talk to me.

you bill me $80

**i said ok cool; i’ll have to work (while sick) tomorrow…………
with my kid on my back…..
to pay you for essentially
missing my law class today.
so you can chill.
and make money.

cool. this is a deeeeeeaaaaalllllll.
miracle. fucking fuck fuck.

+ noted. nothing i’ve contributed counts towards that hourly bottom line on the invoice.

(fucking fuuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkk
i already can’t pay tuition
and am struggling with the electricity bill)

SICK.

and the bullet to the brain:
you didn’t even say sorry.
not; let me do half this day for free—
not; i’ll come tomorrow with meds and help

i’m like.
sam; you dumb fuck—
you did it again.
fell in to the
pay-per-friend model
again.
where they think they’re an employee—
but really, they just want to charge you,
one-sided. for a bad friendship—
no benefits.

so.

i finally ask:
“hey, would you be open to trading a few hours?

you:
“i didn’t sign up for unpaid labor.”

girl.

neither did i.

no words.

ok.
babe.
deep breath.

this is part of healing,
right?
you finally crack.
you say the thing
out loud.

“i need help.”
not metaphorically.
not long-term.
not vibes.
i need a warm body.
in the room.
to sit next to my kid
so i can catch up,
clean up,
pay the bills,
study for my midterm,
take the actual exam,
and not fall through the fucking cracks.

and i said it clearly.
over and over.
any day.
any time.
literally whenever.
just show up.
sit on your phone—
watch tv
eat my food
smoke my weed,
just keep her alive
while i come up for air.

and people said:
“i got you.”
“absolutely.”
“anything you need.”

but what they meant was:
“i will absolutely offer whatever costs me nothing.”

someone said:
“i wish i lived closer 🥺”
(so… you don’t. shit. but you’re emotionally adjacent. slay.)

someone said:
“can you drop her off tuesday at this exact time? that’s my only window before break.”
…
(so… i’m supposed to pack up my toddler, drive an hour each way,
burn four hours of gas and chaos
for ninety minutes of help?
is that the math?
fuck it,
i’ll sit her
with ms. rachel)

someone said they could help during my exam.
i felt relief.
at least i have that figured out.
jk
asked if i could reschedule my midterm today.
no yeah i’m serious.
”will your prof let you take it a day early?”

seriously.
fuck my life.

but now i have
2 days
to not fail
due to lack of childcare.
thank you.
god bless.

someone said:
“playdate,
but come to me!”
but you’re in a different city.
and this is not a joke.
when i said
i haven’t slept
at all
two separate nights
in one week
that was a signal
to see if you understood
this is a fucking sos
this is not a drill
(without embarrassing myself further)
it was received more like
lol i know right

!!!!!!!!!!

someone said they’d fly in.
i teared up.
i said really?!
i begged.
i offered food.
i said i was dying.
and they said lol.
“omg, i’m sure you really need that.”
i have work though

bro—
for the love of god?!
why

and yes—
some people sent money.
and yes,
we ate.
thank you.

but the truth is—
if someone had sat with me
for two hours,
just once,
i could’ve opened the mail.
filed for the benefits i qualify for.
called the A/C company.
applied for the back child support.
figured out that grant i need for tuition.
gotten my life back on track.
escaped this loop.

but i couldn’t.
because i don’t have a second body
to make sure my kid doesn’t scale a bookshelf
or sprint into traffic
while i try to log in to the state’s broken portal.

so yes,
thank you for the $100.
it fed us.
for a week.
and we’re still here.

and here’s the real kicker:
after all that—
after all the “let me know how i can help,”
after all the “you got this babe 💖”—
i still ended up
alone,
exhausted,
broke,
behind,
and somehow feeling like i had failed you
because i couldn’t make your time slot.

and the thing is, i’ve been here ten years.
i’ve run two businesses.
i’ve overpaid people.
cleaned homes for free.
fed kids.
offered trainings.
free food.
free hotel rooms.
free labor.
free vibes.

and when i said:
“i can’t do this without help.”
not one person showed up.

not one person walked through the door
and sat in the chair
and said,
“go.
do what you need to do.
i got this.”

instead i got calendar invites.
travel offers wrapped in jokes.
cash in place of presence.
and heart emojis
where help should’ve been.

so now what?
i’m tired.
i’m sad.
i’m disgusted.
i’m past heartbroken.
because i thought if i said the thing
with enough vulnerability,
someone would meet me in it.

instead, you all offered what was easy.
you offered what cost you nothing.
and then you dipped the second it got real.

you watched me drown
and asked if i had venmo.

don’t send flowers.
don’t check in later.
don’t say “i didn’t know it was that bad.”

i told you.

jesus was not the problem. he was just misquoted.

let’s be for real—

i didn’t walk away from god.
i just couldn’t find him
between the homophobia
megachurches turning profit
and savage rewrites
of their own main text.

honestly, i was like nah.
whole thing seems like bullshit
doesn’t make any sense.

because—

i didn’t grow up christian.
i grew up nothing.
no bible.
no sunday school.
no dramatic baptisms.

first time i went to church,
they told me i couldn’t eat the bread.
said it was catholic.
said i had to sit alone.
i was eight.
i thought the whole point was sharing.

wtf are we doing here?

second time?
golf trip announcements.

third?
“jesus saves”
dropped mid-barbecue flyer
but like,
yo
i remember thinking—
wait, didn’t jesus say feed people?
did he say fuck it—
just enjoy this shit?
was that in corinthians?

cause y’all got the audacity
to lecture me on taking the lord’s name in vain—
but bro.
you and jesus had wildly different priorities.
trust.

from where i stood?
shit looked delusional.

and worse—
the vibes were weaponized.

because bro,
let’s be completely honest

some of y’all use scripture
to shame girls for surviving.
to kick out queer kids.
to justify cruelty.
to vote red like jesus had a tax policy.

but baby, it does not say that.

i watched a whole subplot around abortion
that simply,
doesn’t fucking exist in the original plot.
they’re out here
blessing war,
teaching fear,
serving shame
with a side of superiority
for their bullshit.

but here’s the plot twist:

some women made me believe again.
not in the church.
but in the point.

first: my grandma.
chain-smoking til the fucking end.
used-to-be-a-gambling-addict.
maybe still was?
this bitch could
beat your ass and then cook you dinner.
5-foot-nothing,
nerves of steel.
she said she loved jesus,
but she never used it to look down.
never preached, never positioned.

she just took me to food banks.
coat drives.
anywhere someone needed help.
that was her idea of god.

she didn’t talk about jesus.
she acted like him.

next: a girl i’ve known since the swingset.
four kids.
different universe.
opposite politics.
but golden fucking heart.

when her family faced real darkness,
she said jesus carried them.
and even though i didn’t believe—
she carried me too.

no sermons.
no strings.
just care.
just consistency.

and that?
that felt holy.

so no—
maybe i don’t hate jesus.
maybe i hate the marketing team.
the merch.
the moral gymnastics.

maybe jesus was actually—
saying real shit.
you just misheard him.
maybe what he meant was
feed the people.
flip the tables.
love without leverage.

because the people
who made me believe again?
never quoted a single verse.

they just lived it.
and that saved me.

amen.
and fuck the rest.

they would set your ass on fire for toasted marshmallows you dumb bitch.

(aka: remember who tf you’re dealing with.)

okay.
bitch.
listen.
get up.

snap the fuck out of it.

i know you feel bad.
i know you care.
you always fucking care.
like a dumb bitch.
even when someone
smashes your fucking face into the ground—
8 months pregnant.
like whoopsies.

you’re like:
“but i get it.
they’ve been through stuff.
they have ptsd.”

girl.
so do you.
and you’re not out here
fighting pregnant women
and calling it trauma.

do not be a dumb bitch.
i say that with love.
and for survival.

because
they will not save you.
they will
run you over
and
blame the streets.

like “oops” bitch.
didn’t see you there.

and still;
you feel bad
that there might be consequences
for their actual actions.
meanwhile—

they’ve been fucking savage.
they left you stranded.
no money.
fucked your car.
no groceries.
no help.
on the floor.
bleeding.
alone.
mid-fucking semester.
probably with a baby.

so let’s get real.
you never snitched.
on anyone.
ever.

not when they punched doors.
not when they broke your shit.
not when they stole hundreds of pills.
not when they manually strangled your ass—

and still—STILL—
they snitched first chance.
on YOU.
TWICE.
for what?

✦ round one:
this little bitch told people
you lied about your miscarriage.
because he intentionally
got two bitches pregnant.
and when you posted the receipts?
an instagram story.
with screenshots.
bitch he called the cops.
because the truth was so ugly
he’d rather have you arrested
than admit it.

✦ round two:
this man left the state,
abandoned his wife and child,
and when you wouldn’t illegally
ship him some pills,
he called the fucking pd.
twice.
back to back.
over not committing a crime.

and those cops?
they deadass said:
“well, he’s a vet. maybe you should.”

BABY.
you could’ve lost law school.
you could’ve gotten charges.
FOR WHAT.
for not sending pills in the mail
and posting his own fucking words.

and you feel bad?
you feel guilty?
girl be serious.

they would burn you alive
to toast a smore bitch.
and then go tat
some new chick on their arm
4 days later.

but you’re over here
with survivor’s guilt
for telling the truth?

✶✶✶

baby, repeat this mantra:

they do not give a fuck about you.
they do not love you.
stop protecting these men.

law school: america’s softest bitches

(aka: america’s softest bitches running the legal system)

yo.
y’all are silly.
i just encountered an entire law firm
that practices homeowners association law.

i am not shitting you.

not a side hustle.
not pro bono.
not “we dabble in housing rights.”

no.

a dedicated, brick-and-mortar firm
where grown adults—
with bar cards and benefits—
spend all day
writing legal threats about
windchimes and trash pickup schedules.

what kind of legal bullshit is this?

bro.
how is this a psych profile?
how did the jd pipeline lead to this???

here’s how:

📌 95% of y’all were born into this and still turned out useless.

📌 3 out of 4 law students? straight-up legacy babies.

📌 your LSAT score literally rises with your parents’ income.
(congrats on your generational vocabulary.)

📌 rich kids get tutors, editors, therapists, bar prep, bar tabs, and backup plans.
the rest of us get panic attacks and a single highlighter.

📌 first-gen students?
twice as likely to leave with over $120k in debt—
and ten times more likely to actually give a fuck.

and babe?

it shows.

like.
seriously.
really can smell the frailty
because:
some of y’all are just doing whatever.
no vision.
no mission.
just
“idk i guess i’ll be a lawyer” energy.
“my dad’s making me.”
”it’s my family legacy.”

what?

babe.
you’re a whole adult.
if you don’t wanna be here—
don’t.
like, please?

people want to be here.

and look—
if you clawed your way in
like some of us?
this shit hurts.
it’s soul-crushing.
it’s wildly unaffordable.
it’s not built
for the unprivileged.

we are surviving it.
on fumes.
on cold cereal.
on pure delusion
and late-night breakdowns.

but you?
you’re a soft little bitch.
and you know it.
you’ve never been hungry
a day in your life.
you got in with a rec letter
from someone named “chip.”

some of y’all really aspire
to wake up,
open your inbox,
and say:
“let’s ruin someone’s day over an
unauthorized succulent garden.”

like.
baby—
this is law.
this is what you’re doing
with a whole-ass jd.

bitch.
you could be fighting ICE.
you could be suing the state.
you could be throwing flames at genocide,
writing legal diss tracks in the form of amicus briefs.
you could be standing with Palestine
in court filings so savage they ban you from LinkedIn.
you could be on the ground doing
impact litigation that keeps people alive.

but instead?
you’re gatekeeping mailbox paint.
you’re going to war over a
fkn garden gnome babe.

are you dead inside?
because i would be.

what was even the point?

this is who’s running the legal system:
a bunch of soft,
prestige-chasing little bitches
who don’t know why they’re here
but definitely want a corner office
with a view of a parking garage.

congrats, babe.
you really made it.
daddy is proud.

✶✶✶

babe—this shit was a purge. not a resurrection.

that shit has been dead.
and i do not give a fuck.

this book is a graveyard.

no,
i’m not crying anymore.
and if you see tears now?
they’re runoff.

from everything
i poured out
while you were busy
not showing up.

i know you wanna say
yeah—
blah blah blah
she’s just a bitch.
just going through it

yeah bitch,
have been.

“friendship isn’t a tally.”
lol ok

cuz

my side: cvs-receipt length shit.
yours: that one time you grabbed weed and coffee.

so yeah, i cried.
draining my last ounce of loyalty hurts.
but read the slip, babe—

i showed up.

the big shit.
the boring shit.
the breakdowns,
the bullshit,
the bad days you only told me about
when everyone else
had somewhere else to be.

and
did you miss the notice
where—
i told you i had no one.

that,
i showed up
and i knew—
one day,
i’d fall.
and when i did,
i wouldn’t have anyone to catch me.

!!!!!!!

i had one parent.
with cancer.
across the fucking country.

!!!!!!!

so i invested.
in all of you.
hoping that if the floor ever dropped out,
someone
would look me in the eye
and say:
i’ve got you.

but instead,
you looked behind me
like someone else was coming.

and when you saw
there was no one there—
you just shrugged.
and dipped.
back to your full-stack support systems.

siblings.
spouses.
in-laws.
new homies.
family group chats.
holiday invites.
who the fuck ever.

you always had something to go back to.
and i didn’t.
that was the whole point.

and when it was my turn to fall?
you let me hit the ground.
and blamed gravity.

don’t act shocked
that i’m writing it down.

this isn’t drama.
this is the death certificate
and the cause of extinction?
abandonment.

and now?
sure.
summon the fucking troops
to fight me?

let’s go.
i’m here.
bare-knuckled.
alone.
still standing.
with a baby on my back
and smoke still clinging to my skin
from the last fire i walked through—

but still.

you need an army
just to take me down.

because my diary hurts to read.

you need to mock me.
make me feel small.

fine.
stand in formation.
try.

i’m right here.
and i’ve already survived
what you couldn’t handle
with backup.

so yeah—
thanks for the love.
and also?

fuck you.

🖤

when nothing becomes legal something: a flowchart.

an aesthetic PSA—clarity, not chaos; notice, not threat

someone fills out a simple aid form:

coverage ➔ assistance ➔ support

step ① — the quiet click
they complete a questionaire
⬜ zip code
⬜ household size
⬜ income

algorithm buzzes → coverage unlocked

step ② — first ripple
child auto-enrolled 🍼
next screen asks:
⬜ other parent in the home?
⬜ existing support order?
⬜ payment history?

boxes checked → system starts stitching threads

step ③ — document dive
if support exists, the file expands:
⟡ filing courthouse & state
⟡ any appearance / postponement
⟡ linked paperwork:
 ☑ divorce terms
 ☑ custody clauses
 ☑ restraining-order provisions
 ☑ sealed / open investigations

if any item sits within the statute of the current state → the file marches on

step ④ — numbers in motion
(let’s just say the lowest possible amount)
• order entered: late january
• weekly rate: $87
• today: early june

≈ $1,740 accumulating 💸
(no contempt filed; grace still in effect—clock still counting)

step ⑤ — timeline of calm consequences
✔︎ days 1-30 missed → noted
✔︎ days 31-60 delinquent flag → SSN tagged
✔︎ days 61-90 eligible → license / passport / tax holds
✔︎ days 91-180 retro fees → civil contempt filing
✔︎ day 181 + willful non-compliance → possible criminal route (especially with RO terms attached)

each checkbox ticks itself—no extra hands required

gentle reminder
one postponed hearing + a signed restraining order = locked jurisdiction.
orders stay live, obligations stay real.
even the minimum—$87/week—grows when unpaid.

no malice—just transparency.
read the paperwork,
clear the balance,
keep it simple.

because silence accrues interest,
and systems eventually speak louder than we ever will.
and we don’t want that.

(we actually don’t. zero sarcasm)
stop ducking.
it’s going to make it worse.

🖤

how a psuedo-hippie-white-girl ego hijacked my dv healing space

i want everyone to
really see you for who you are.

since my traffic is off the charts.
and you apparently want everyone to read this.
link. link. link.
omg,
she said i was…
a bad friend!
neglectful.
messy.
entitled…
lazy!

aren’t you embarassed?
no?
weird.

(bro, i wouldn’t send this shit to anyone, even if i thought it was bullshit)

so let them really read:

and let me get this straight.

you spent years pretending to be the soft one.
the passive, yet aggressive flower girl.*
the whisper-voiced “peace and love” yogi
with a chill attitude and a knitted bralette.
you burned sage,
wore beads,
and deflected everything not aligned with your chakras.
aka laziness rebranded as spiritual boundaries.

but now?
now you’re rage-texting your whole family
because in one post out of hundreds,
i said you were lazy.
that you were a bad friend.
which—spoiler alert—was true.
and suddenly?
your higher self has entered the chat?
with backup.

you didn’t like the short essay,
so you mobilized a swarm.
sent your entire lineage into my trauma journal
like it was a battlefield.
not even to argue with what i said—
just to punish me for saying it.

you didn’t try to call or text—
be an adult?
you sent nieces, nephews, SILs
truly, who the fuck knows…
i honestly didn’t read.
besides what i scrolled through
by accident.

and the irony?

you performed peace.
but you brought war.
to a space built for survivors.

you sent trolls.
they left comments so violent,
so off-topic,
i had to shut the whole section down.

and here’s what no one’s saying:

this space?
was sacred.
the comments were community.
survivors were building something there.
together.
and you silenced it—
because i described your character.

i didn’t say you were fat.
i didn’t say you were ugly.
i didn’t say you were dumb.
(i didn’t even say your name.)

i actually said the opposite.
smart. capable. but…

i said you were absent.
i said you were resourced and chose nothing.
i said you ghosted me postpartum.

and instead of apologizing?
looking within?

you tried to erase the space.

📿 babe—don’t tell me you’re peaceful
if you’re actively trying to destroy the altar
because it reflects your shadow.

🕯️ you’re not being attacked.
you’re being witnessed.
that’s what’s killing you.

so again—
sucks the introspection hurt your feelings.

but don’t pretend you're a spiritual warrior
when the first time you were held accountable
you sent in a digital firing squad
to silence women processing real shit
(not like who in our fam
is going to steal the most money—
which i listened to,
considerately. lol)
on a healing blog
you never even knew existed
until it implicated you.

again—
namaste, bitch.

you really showed exactly
who you have always been—
a fake.
angry.
empty.
dirty as hell.

a traitor.
someone who refuses to self-reflect,
and sends her clowns to shut it down instead.
hey babe!
grow up!

go write in your journal.
pull a tarot.
clean your own filthy house.

✦

sunflower home academy inc.

bro, seriously—
what the fuck is homeschooling?
and no,
i’m not talking about the curated,
pinterest-board-ass families
with structured co-ops,
kiddie yoga,
field trips,
lesson plans,
and juveniles who are basically in a low-budget
private school with better snacks.
do your thing, i guess.
kinda sounds legit.

i’m talking about the others.
the ones who woke up one day,
looked at their barely passing GPA and said:
“you know who should be in charge of
someone’s entire education?
me.”

like... low key terrifying tbh.
like…all of it?

but…

you don’t have a teaching credential.
you don’t have curriculum experience.
you don’t even have a consistent schedule.
you have anxiety, a messy living room and vibes.

and yet,
somehow,
you think
you’re gonna teach k through 12??
successfully?
math.
science.
grammar.
writing.
history.
critical thinking.
emotional development.
life skills.

you think you're covering all that?
on your own??
with your iPad and some christian guilt??

be fucking for real.
(oh the teachers don’t know shit)
babe—
they have credits.
you have…
delusion and sunflower seeds as an activity.

you flunked bio.
you never understood algebra.
(bro me either)
you haven’t read a book in five years.
but now you’re crafting a syllabus on evolutionary theory and long division?

why?
because you’re scared of school shootings?
guess what—so are we.
but you could get gunned down at the grocery store.
you could get hit at the playground.
fear is not pedagogy.
and avoidance is not an educational model.

“but the public school system is broken.”
sure. agreed.
so maybe... fix that?
fund that?
vote differently?
demand better?

instead,
you pulled your kid out
and handed them a blunt and a youtube link
about how spelling is a colonial construct.

let’s not pretend it’s about enlightenment.
it’s fear.
control.
delusion.
and probably ego.

you don’t trust the system
but you trust yourself—
with zero qualifications,
no training,
and an emotional regulation score of
“depends on the day”—
to produce the next generation of humans?

nah.
you’re not raising revolutionaries.
you’re raising socially stunted,
under-educated kids
with no group conflict resolution skills
and a deep,
unspoken belief that structure equals oppression.

you’re not anti-school.
you’re anti-accountability.

and your kid?
deserves better than your burnout cosplay.

when the enemy enters the cathedral.

bro. hold up.

is there no internal alarm going off?
did you look around at all before you entered?
did you take even one second to register the space you just stepped into?

seriously?
any context clues buzzing?

sweetie—

this is not a gossip blog.
this is not a subtweet.
this is not petty.

this is a cathedral.
built from trauma.
built from wreckage.
built while bleeding.

this is a shrine to survival.
a sacred archive of everything i’ve lived through and didn’t die from.
this is where i come to make sense of it.
to name it.
to alchemize it.

and in case you were unclear—
here’s what we’re talking about:

• domestic violence.

• sexual assault.

• reproductive trauma.

• financial abuse.

• emotional manipulation.

• gaslighting.

• coercion.

• abandonment.

• betrayal.

• parental neglect.

• narcissistic discard.

• surviving postpartum alone.

• getting punched in the head.

• getting choked out while pregnant.

• spit on.

• incest-lite shit.

• ugly shit.

that’s the material.
that’s what this space is for.

and you walked in here—
enticed,
but ultimately uninvited—
with your soft ego flaring
and your little troll squad in tow
because something i felt made you uncomfortable.

yeah, i said some shit.
honestly—meant every word.
this is my fucking trauma journal.
this is what it feels like to be completely fucking abandoned.

you wouldn’t know—
you’ve got people clapping for you when you do the bare minimum.
i don’t.
so i write it down here.

sorry i hurt your feelings.
but again—
zoom out.
really think hard about it.

am i bringing you harm?
violence?
ruin?
emotional devastation?

no.
i’m bringing you:

• years of abandonment
• fake friendship
• transactional “love”
• performative support
• silence when it mattered
• betrayal when i needed care
• and the echo chamber of me begging for help you never gave

so yeah—
maybe it’s a little mean.
but it’s real.
and it’s mine.

if you don’t agree?
cool.
write it in your journal.
maybe i’ll stumble across it someday.
(i won’t, you can link me though, or not)

but don’t confuse my truth
with actual violence.
abandonment.
betrayal.
lost income.
actual damaged assets.
lost investments.
fucking kill switching a lifeline during an escape route.

don’t confuse your guilt with my aggression.
and don’t confuse my grief for a fucking invitation.

you’re not a victim here.
you’re a tourist in a temple of pain you helped build.
and your opinion?
irrelevant.

the comments were peaceful until y’all showed up.

…

(insert: second-grade-reading-level-definitely-homeschooled- sub-plot)

the revoked comment thread in question:

”your husband left you because…”
”go clean a house”

babe what?
ok.
$600.
and he was evicted.
this is the best you could come up with—
you had unlimited time,
internet resources…
wifi.
fucking robots.
what the fuck was this?
at least come with effort.
sweetie—
you didn’t have to rush.
take your time.
think better.

make it…
at least intelligible,
relevant?
above a fourth grade reading level?
whatever.
too much. i know.
moving along.
you tried.

(but lmk if you still require a charity clean—
i know you needed those
because yikes—
petri dish with unlimited cat hair,
am i right?)

honey that’s how you do it take notes.

(back to main plot)

…

despite content being hard to digest
painful.
brutal really.
but to pay for your discomfort—
you brought the poison.
you brought the drama.
you made the space unsafe
because my narrative bruised your fragile ego.

so you tried to burn down the cathedral.
of a survivor.
trauma writing through neglect and isolation.

baby—

you already left me for dead.
you don’t get to police my tone while i rebuild.
on a website i sponsor.

(babe go build your own therapeutic rage temple—
build anything)

so once more,
i’m glad you heard it.

but—

this is not about you.
although
if the shoe fits—wear it.
and walk your ass out the door.

(and back to important things; cramming for property law)

disrespectfully: members only hoe.

comments? closed.
access? revoked.
(bro i have enough emails; i don’t need to auto-delete ragebait too)
so.

✦ welcome to the museum, sweetheart. ✦

the art is behind glass.
you can look; but not touch.

everything here is creative expression.
you’re a spectator babe.

(yo—they really sent the children to fight battles; disgraceful. deleted)
…

feel free to approach me in real life.
to my face.
would love to debate your feelings and thoughts.
hold them. give them space. lol.
jk. (you would never) but thank you for stopping by.

xoxo
i am at peace.

:)

🕯️

encore: truly; thank you…i unburdened <3

yo.

for real:
thank you for giving me the mic.
i didn’t think i’d get this moment.
but now that i’m here?
damn.
felt good to get that off my chest.

thank you for showing up.
you really could’ve kept scrolling.
you could’ve stayed unbothered.
you could have easily continued
to pretend i was just invisible.

but nah—
you didn’t
you commited to hearing me out.
<3

so thank you for clicking.
thank you for showing up with
visible ip’s and equally visible anger.

ping ping ping
babe, i’m just auto replying
to you screaming from behind glass.
(it just looks like silent screaming tho?)
and hey—
that was the point.
thank you.
i have unburdened.

(but seriously,
girl,
if it helps—
keep talking to yourself in the comment thread.
it’s almost like,
therapy right?)

you really came—
you watched.
you spiraled.
defended yourself to a creative essay—
poem at best.
you probably screenshotted it for your family group chat.
discussed. strategized.
maybe even tried to write a think piece.

i didn’t read it.
but i felt the traffic spike.
and honestly?
respect.

also—
quick question.
when you showed your partner,
your husband,
your man or whoever’s laying next to you trying to ignore the tension in your forehead—
what’d he say?

did he smirk?
did he pretend to be outraged?
like, “wow babe, how could she say that?”
(☠️☠️☠️)
was he offended for you?

or did his face twitch—just a little—
like he recognized himself?
because hey—
here’s a secret:
he knows.

he’s seen it.
he ran through the links.
he felt the read.
and deep down,
you both know I’m not lying.

(although he might
still show up in the comments
for optics…
for the love of god please do.
☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️)

this whole thing?
probably gonna come up in your next argument.
he’ll deflect.
you’ll doubt.
but that seed’s planted now,
isn’t it?

hey—
you think he’ll show his friends?
private clown-town session?
(he would fucking never!)
lol. cool. no totally.
he would never.

so again—
thank you.
for the clicks.
for the projections.
for the engagement.
for the accidental press tour.

thank you for reading my essays.
my poems.
my art.
my personal expression of hell.
it means a lot.

and still—
i should note:
this is actually a very inclusive burn book.
equal opportunity.
there are love poems.
there’s true gratitude.
there’s angelic-like behaviors,
and then—
there’s you.

the treacherous gremlins.

you deserve your little fucking corner in hell
on the sub-fucking-plot
of my link-on-link-on-link-on-link-on-link
in a dark corner of my personal website.

coded. embarrassing. unclaimed.

(why am i lol’ing? like internal monologue is giving evil villain…
damn. i’ve been studying too long…)

but still—
your attendance is noted.
your energy was clocked.
and the silence?
archived.

this has been great.
i’m healed-ish.
you’re…still you.
and the mic?
yeah, i’m keeping it.

goodnight.

the silly bitch prequel

starring: one very silly bitch w/ trauma jr.
rated g.
ronald regan or some shit.

🖤🖤🖤

honestly,
you’re irrelevant;
but the story kinda slaps
as comedic relief.

…

ah yes.
the one who came before.
the big-eyed prototype.
the emotional support party girl
who co-piloted a ptsd combat vet
like that was something you were qualified for
because—
wait—
your parents… got… divorced.

honey.

you are like thirty.
a whole-ass adult.
with a job.
and still crying like a background extra in a cw show?

bitch, this is not dawson’s creek.

this wasn’t trauma.
this was tuesday.
this was "mom cheated on dad"
babe— you’re 30
have you not experienced a real problem?
yet, suddenly
you’re doing coke in a shared van
like you’ve seen some shit.

like you’ve seen battle.
ma’am—
you survived passive-aggressive holiday dinners
and still thought that made you his twin flame.

bitch—

you didn’t survive war.
you survived a group chat argument and a stepmom.
(did someone even throw shit, any blood…at all?)

and now you think you and the vet are trauma twins?
nah, babe.
you’re just a silly bitch.

you shared a car.
with a grown man.
on purpose.
while doing drugs.
but yeah, you’re the blueprint.
you’re the “deep one.”
get a fucking grip.

yo—
his mom called you an animal at one point.
said you could barely stand
via alcoholism.
because the “shit you’ve seen”
was just that real.

are we serious?
bitch—am i getting punk’d?

yo—
he probably loved you.
because truthfully he was dramatic as hell too.
complete diva.
y’all probably slayed.
til he went home with another random bitch at the NYE party.
silly bitches.
silly prizes.

🖤

honestly? me and the starter wife
(that girl had jesus, and patience, and apparently threw a filing cabinet, i fucking salute you)
could run a relevancy panel over espresso,
compare blast radius data,
and still never bother to pronounce your name—
(like the president—or?)

because, in the immortal words of ye: “you bitches got dru-u-u-gs.”
translation: congrats on the coke-bond. trauma lite shit.

we should’ve gift-wrapped him for you—coke residue and all.
but shit—
you couldn’t even clear the ex-wife qualifying round.
despite the bathroom lines and party-girl stamina.

tragic.
because—
honestly,
you two deserve each other.

support the troops baby 🇺🇸
\\

god bless. may the devil skip you
🖤

(babe, i know u saw this—texas: ping ping. shit’s funny right? u laughed. silly bitches)

yeah, hun. you are the bitch in question 🖤 xox

🖤🖤🖤

nah
yeah, bro.
i linked it.
(yo i dropped multiple—
you’re just bitch 1, 2, 3…
or, a subplot?
fuck it idc)
yeah,
it was about you.
did it hurt?
oh—shit.
….

ok well—
you left me in utter fucking flames, bitch.
left me in ruins.
not even a second thought.
did i ruin your little scroll moment?
good.
shut the fuck up.

but hey—
could’ve been someone else, right?
could’ve been
“wow, that reminds me of so-and-so.”
except it wasn’t.
it was,
“oh. shit.
the bitch is me.”

and yeah.
the bitch is you.
i didn’t stutter.

you saw it and knew.
your hands started sweating.
your stomach turned.
not because i lied,
but because i didn’t.

and it’s gross.

(and babe—i haven’t slept in 48+ hours,
but i can still clock your epic-level betrayal
with surgical fucking precision.
because it’s that tangible.
because it still lives in my chest cavity like a nail gun.)

and now you’re out here playing shocked?
like you didn’t make every single line possible?
nah.
be serious.

this post?
this little link you’re so pressed about?
this is literally all i have left after the wreckage.
this is the closure you never gave me.
a fucking google doc with feelings.

you think this is cruel?
nah, bro.
what’s cruel is knowing how bad it got for me
and how you didn’t give a single fuck.

🖤

i gave you everything—
(probably for a decade)

and you gave me
bullshit.
abandonment.
your silence as i died in slo-mo.

but the second i write a paragraph that makes you feel personally attacked?
you’re suddenly spiritual and sensitive again?

suddenly you have time?

nah.
keep that energy.
take it back to whatever sad little room you’re sulking in.
(it’s probably fucking dirty)

🖤

this wasn’t libel.
this was just me finally telling the pathetic truth
in a way you finally couldn’t interrupt.
or ignore.

or spiritually bypass with chakras or some shit.

and guess what?
you’re still the only one who knows it’s you.

which is kind of hilarious.
and kind of fucking pathetic.

anyway—
cry about it.
or don’t.
idc.
either way, you earned it.

🖤🖤🖤

and now you’re pingin’ my fucking inbox.
leaving little comments.
typing up sad girl defenses like you’re about to get cross-examined.
girl, be so for real.

you didn’t have ten minutes to bring me a wawa coffee,
but now you’ve got paragraphs?

nah.
get the fuck out of my inbox.
go cry to your husband or whatever.
you missed your shot when i needed help—
now all i hear is delusion as you defend yourself against a poem.

go get a job.
a life.

or
get fucked.

so—
which bitch is you?
are you the hippie bitch fraud?
the jesus girl bitch who can’t read?
the bitch who got a glow-up from my true crime survival narrative?
the sub-plot bestie bitch that didn’t even make a full character arc?

mm.
sounds familiar,
doesn’t it?
all sound equally shitty—
but also…
accurate.

if the bitch type fits.
wear it, hoe.

sermon on the trailer porch

a scripture study for the sanctified delusional (aka the pick-me in her jesus era)

**fuck it, i’m on a roll. let’s go mother-mary-lite-delusion.
a lesson on jesus and the bible you never read.

i.

“the woman folly is loud; she is seductive and knows nothing.”
— proverbs 9:13

bitch, please.
(let’s go slut—
full dissection)
you quoting scripture
from a pinterest board
after raw-dogging your jailed boyfriend’s
roommate on molly?
loud?
absolutely—
because silence would force accountability.
seductive?
trailer-trash at best,
desperate at worst.
knows nothing?
girl,
you think leviticus
is a harry potter spell.

next.

ii.

“for such people are not serving our lord christ, but their own appetites. by smooth talk and flattery they deceive the minds of naive people.”
— romans 16:18

you didn’t find god—
you found an alibi.
that baby was not salvation;
it was crisis PR.
your "spiritual awakening"
is just an extended apology tour
with bad acting
and worse bible interpretation.
(girl—read)

babe,
stop preaching forgiveness
when you’re still living in a dumpster fire.

iii.

“you will know them by their fruits.”
— matthew 7:16

and your fruits?
toxic smoothies only:
— babydaddy on state-mandated exile
— child wielded like a personality trait
— stolen vibes from a woman you tried to out game but couldn't stop obsessing over
— theology built entirely from instagram quotes and low-level literacy,

congrats on turning trauma
into your manipulation mechanism.
bold strategy.
it’s not working.
you’re giving—
expired before 30.

iv.

“whoever digs a pit will fall into it; if someone rolls a stone, it will roll back on them.”
— proverbs 26:27

this bitch pissed on my grave.
but guess what?
i climbed out—
hoe.

now watch obsessively,
like a ghost haunting
your own murder scene.
ironic.
pathetic.

v.

“do not be deceived: god is not mocked. a woman reaps what she sows.”
— galatians 6:7

let’s recap your spiritual crop:
— deceit watered by molly and bad decisions
— motherhood used as moral armor against reality checks
— scripture misquoted more times than your boyfriend lied about loving you

now enjoy your harvest:
— kid who doesn’t know which dude is actually her daddy
— trailer park wifi buffering your church-wifey delusions
— moral bankruptcy while misquoting jesus

vi. closing scene:

“you shall not commit adultery.”
— exodus 20:14

“let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for god will judge the sexually immoral and adulterous.”
— hebrews 13:4

but yeah babe,
go off—
tell us again how
abortion is unholy.
—like it's somewhere in the bible
(spoiler: it's not, you illiterate mascot for bad faith arguments).

like girl—
sick rewrite.

destined straight for hell,
am i right?

amen princess.

…

so sweetie—
if your pulse is racing right now,
you feel like the subject—
it's recognition,
not revelation.
(i know you get confused while reading)

📸 screenshot this breakdown.
send it to your trailer-hubby or facetime…2nd?? babydaddy??
(idk who the kid thinks is the dad this week)
whichever one still picks up out of sheer dna-jail-regret.

🖥️ cry while they nod like,
"yeah babe… she’s so mean,"
as they mentally clock every
manipulative thing you ever did
to trap them in your low-to-mid level fading
“i’m a cool girl” facade of fuckability.
embarassing.
delusional.

babygirl—

stop stalking me.
if you weren’t watching,
you wouldn’t be crying right now
in the double wide.

it’s giving:
— pick-me pastor’s wife vibes
— trailer theology major with a minor in jesus-manipulation
— cosplay christian influencer without reading the instruction manual

🪬 halo slipping? secure it with your delusions.
📿 guilt hitting? call it conviction.
🧿 feeling exposed? good. maybe log off and repent for real this time.

light & bullshit.

(to the peace-and-love parasite formerly known as “friend”)

🖤🖤🖤

namaste, bitch.
you didn’t build a yoga business—
you co-opted mine,
slept in late,
hid behind incense and passive aggression,
and still got praised
like you were the second coming
of Shiva in lululemon.

you weren’t a healer.
you were a white-girl burnout
in a bralette
avoiding accountability
openly lazy—
with sage smoke and soft talk.
you didn’t clean shit—
physically, emotionally, spiritually.

you tagged along for the rise:
the retreats,
the trainings,
the international clout
i paid for
with blood,
sweat,
and american express.
you reaped the benefits,
then cried sabotage
when asked to contribute
literally anything.

your only skill?
being palatable to basic white women
who mistook
your avoidant little whisper voice
for wisdom.

while i negotiated contracts,
ran ads,
booked flights,
taught heavy shit,
kept the lights on,
and ran circles
around your empty-ass aura.

you used me.
not just money—my loyalty.
free rides:
europe. asia. africa.
every room i let you into—
you couldn’t even bring friendship.

you said i was “too intense.”
i was building an empire.
you said i was “too angry.”
i was compensating for your lack of drive—
while dodging men trying to drag me to hell.

translation: labor isn’t your aesthetic, babe.

let’s not pretend you struggled.
upper-middle-class.
rich daddy.
no real trauma
you didn’t chase for aesthetics.
and still—
still—
you did nothing.
not because you couldn’t.
but because you didn’t want to.

you cosplayed “healer”
while i played crisis response team,
brand manager,
and emotional landfill.
i should’ve billed you hourly.
for the fake friendship
you dragged for years.
(i meant it bitch, clearly)

let me invest in you—
while you gave nothing back.

you failed upward on my wingtips,
mistook my loyalty for weakness,
nah, babe.
it was a fucking bailout.

you had everything—
intellect, support, access—
and chose to weaponize helplessness
while surrounded by every resource on earth.

i cleaned your house.
repeatedly.
i flew in for your baby shower,
your bridal shower,
your bachelorette,
your wedding.
held your sad-girl stories.
held your kid.
and when it was my turn?
postpartum. alone. broke. bleeding.
you went full ghost mode.

even when i was down the street
surviving hell with a newborn—
after showing up for everything—
you brought nothing.
not a “need anything?”
not a visit.
nada.
zip.

i sponsored your little life like a nonprofit—
except you never turned a profit.
not emotionally.
not energetically.
and sure as hell not intellectually.

you brought zero return.
couldn’t even cross a zip code
for my kid’s first birthday.
after my partner deuced.
no text.
no excuse.
just absence.

because you’re not busy—
you’re selfish.
entitled.
weak.

you built nothing.
just a sob story and a house too filthy to fix.

honestly?
it gives white girl pathetic.

om shanti bitch.

🖤

✶ filed under: false prophets in flowy pants
✶ see also: tarot as weapon, free rides, fake enlightenment
✶ keywords: healer-for-hire, spiritual squatter, the audacity of the unfocused

blessed & highly fucking useless

*aka how to bag a life upgrade off someone else's emergency, then go quiet when it's time to pay it back

you openly saw the bruises.
you asked the question.
said your bestie clocked,
“that doesn’t look like falling down the stairs.”
and then promptly
turned your attention to my square footage—
that might be vacant,
as i escape attempted murder.

as i panicked,
postpartum,
with a black eye
and no plan.
financially fucked
from insideous level abuse—
you looked at the blood
and saw an opportunity.
a life upgrade.
no deposit.
no accountability.
just vibes.
like my trauma was a lease deal y’all couldn’t pass up.

i fled the state.
you fled a rent deposit.
you got the condo.
your bestie got the second room.
you brought your boyfriend.
multiple dogs.
your damage.

i brought silence.
a disrespectful discount.
and the delusion
that friendship meant something.

spoiler:
it didn’t.

you got a whole-ass life upgrade.
for less.
off mine falling apart.

i paid the invoices.
you left the mess.
and then acted
like you did me—
a fucking favor.

then you fucked up my job.
that kept me afloat.
five years.
flexible.
they dropped me because you
kept switching the day.
because you gave—
not a single fuck.

no apology.
just:
“can i get a bigger cut of your business?”

of my business.
the one you disrespected
repeatedly—
for you and your bestie.
(the fucking audacity, truly)
while i was fighting for my fucking life.
you weren’t already benefiting from enough.
and i let you.
because i thought you were a real one.

but babe,

when i asked for one thing—
a simple statement—
your bestie,
who saw the bruises,
ghosted.
you got “anxious.”

really?????

not anxious about the abuse.
not anxious about me getting killed.
anxious… about being involved.

funny,
you weren’t anxious about getting involved in my discounted real estate
you weren’t anxious when there was a garage to fill with your shit,
like a free storage unit—
like
a deal to bag,
a friend to upgrade.
on my assets.
while i got punched in the face.

and you remind me to say thank you.

baby—

you were just allergic to accountability.
or showing the fuck up.
(and that will be reflected in your future)

meanwhile you paid rent late.
repeatedly.
no fines.
no overhead.
nothing.
because you deserve it all,
babe.
and i deserve to die
for thinking you were a friend.

but you had time to summon
your boyfriend’s dad’s truck
to rescue backyard twigs.
meanwhile i couldn’t get help
hauling the couch
you shoved in my garage,
so your bestie could finally afford my zip code.

you knew i couldn’t pay a sitter.
you knew i was in law school.
you knew my mom had a brain bleed.
my dad was dangerous.
my ex was still lurking,
financially choking me out.

you knew i had no safety net.
just a literal prayer
and pure will to survive.

and still—you said:
“i got you.”
then dipped.

your bestie?
the one who clocked the abuse before i even delivered—
wouldn’t even text back.
i asked if she could help,
she said, lol sorry.

you both moved in on my lowest moment,
lived good off my panic,
then left me on read
when reciprocity knocked.

you got to feel helpful.
you got the optics.
you got content.

but when it came time to actually
show up?

it was just me.
with a baby.
and the ghost of your promises
fucking haunting me.

you gave me a used hoodie.
i gave you a home.
you handed over a parka—in may.
i gave you profit share and income.

you said,
“if anything ever happened to you,
i’d raise your daughter.”
babe,
you won’t even babysit
so i can make class.
when it costs you nothing.

and it will literally save our lives.

you cried about how hard your day was
while i was out here
post-trauma,
solo-parenting,
struggling to buy food,
no support,
just missing law books
missing furniture
your bullshit—
and pure fucking adrenaline.

and you still made it about you.

what the fuck is that.
really,
who raised you.

(honestly,
i wouldn’t know—
never met them)

girl—

hope you’re surrounded by real ones.
you’ll need them one day.

hope you don’t drown.

…

p.s.

but honestly,

your best friend uses people,
your man seems indifferent,

and—

girl.

you.
can.
rot.

unsent bullets ✶

(thoughts i don’t say out loud because they’re true and therefore…mean.)

➔ sprinting toward a boyfriend who won’t slow-jog to a ring—full joker parade, confetti included.

➔ no, i don’t think you’re hot—hit the gym, hit a vegetable, idk...man.

➔ baby, it’s weird—right? how your side-girl still obsessively refreshes my feed while simultaneously flunking self-respect 101—remedial clown hours.

➔ no—yeah, letting kids get abused on your watch, willingly and knowingly…makes you a bad mom. no footnotes, no sympathy credits.

➔ babe, you’re sobbing over the walmart-wife starter pack while her legal husband sleeps next to her in the double-wide. next channel.

➔ bro, i don’t need your sad-boy trauma powerpoint—can you even google “how to ask a question?” no slow clap.

➔ your son’s not misunderstood, ma—he’s incompetent. stop bubble-wrapping his spinelessness.

➔ dream girl? please. you raw-dogged her in the backseat while your babymama grew your spawn. gold star for trash.

➔ wild that you pitched “let’s make a family” then bolted like a toddler who heard the word “bedtime.” talk about babydaddy speed-run to ghost-mode.

➔ your entire travel life “arc” was my summer filler episode in 2015. skip.

➔ all that hype and your dick still stuttered—aren’t you thirty? book a doctor, seek help. no, it’s not normal.

➔ never volunteered for the mouth-to-soft-serve rescue. hard pass. abort mission.

➔ you’d crucify a woman for outdated-recycled-gym-thirst-traps, yet you rolled in serving santa-belly beta. update the files, jesus christ.

➔ jealousy isn’t a personality, babe—it’s giving incognito stalker with push alerts on. get a hobby.

➔ him? hubby folklore: absentee babydaddy, wants a wife to bankroll his broke-boy fantasies. comeback tour cancelled.

➔ insecure over a single-mom law student escaping dv? weird flex. seek therapy, not my socials.

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.

✶

✶ miracle entry: the bitch who bodied god

this one’s not for the
“let me know if you need anything” crowd.
not for the girls who ghost when the group chat gets too real.
not for the ones who send a heart emoji
when you say you might not make it.

this one’s for the realest bitch i know.
the bitch who saw the apocalypse
and booked a flight.

no sermon.
no permission.
no
“thoughts and prayers.”
she just landed in the rubble
like a fucking emergency response team
armed with hugs,
humor,
and a Costco
executive membership.

she came with receipts—literal receipts.
target, homegoods, marshalls, costco receipts.
Costco bulk survival inventory
that fed me for six months.
like she said:
“oh you need flour, oil, diapers, fruit, seaweed snacks, toilet paper,
a small army’s worth of cleaning products?”
bitch got all of it.

and not one single thing was performative.
no selfie.
no story post.
no “look how generous i am.”

she just filled my fridge.
stocked my cabinets.
handed me air when i couldn’t fucking breathe.

and here’s the wild part:
we hadn’t even seen each other in years.
she didn’t even ask for the saga.
she just remembered who i was.

she remembered every single small way
i’d ever shown up for her.
the dishes.
the babysitter.
the late night texts.
the love letters i wrote into acts of service.
she clocked it all.
held it like treasure.
and when the storm hit me?
she brought the ark.

this bitch took my baby to Target.
took her to the park.
held her like blood.
while i stood in the corner of my own life,
trying not to disintegrate.

she built the fucking furniture.
every. single. piece.
i watched her at 1am,
screwing in the legs to my new beginning
like my stand in husband
with an actual braggable dick.
like i mattered.
like this whole thing wasn’t a disaster—
but a rebirth.

and she showed up again.
and again.
and again.
never once with conditions.
never once keeping score.

when i looked like grief,
she saw gold.
when i looked like a charity case,
she saw a friend.
a warrior.
a mother worth saving.

and look—
she’ll brush this off.
she’ll downplay it.
laugh at the words.

but i know what she did.
and if there’s a god,
she was taking notes.

she is a one-woman salvation army.
a renaissance painting with a debit card.
the half i didn’t marry.
the safety net i didn’t dare dream of.
the miracle i never saw coming.

so let me be clear:

give her a fucking crown.
give her a national holiday.
saint real bitch of survival.

i hope she reads this.
i hope she ugly cries.
because the world will never deserve her.
but i got saved by her anyway.

✶