subject: ✨not-an-opp✨ form

self-assessment for ex-consultants
still stalking the legal wifey’s page:

please complete the form to confirm whether you're a neutral observer, a full-time op, or just absolutely-delulu-level-obsessed with me.

📜🔎

👀 if you're in the views, you’re in the audit.
no opt-outs. no disclosures. just receipts.
status: lurking. muted. clocked.

…

hi babe,
since you're still watching my stories like they’re case studies,
just thought we’d go ahead and get your internal review started.
this is not a conflict—it’s just some ✨light paperwork✨.

✨ instructions:
please check all that apply.
this is a legally protected exercise in ✨recollection✨.
you may return this form via dm, email, or by exiting my story views for once.

…

✧ section i: communication ethics, or whatever →

while you were a “neutral third party,” “friend of the family,” and “professional co-worker", did you:

⬜ call my husband regularly after hours 👠⛓️🧎‍♂️
⬜ facetime him regularly like you were his emotional HR rep
⬜ text him like it was part of your comp package
⬜ continue contact after he relocated cross-country to my childhood bedroom
⬜ while he was texting you from my dad’s backyard
⬜ while we had a newborn
⬜ while only knowing him ~6 months prior to leaving
⬜ while he was married
⬜ while he was still in my camper in my mom’s front yard
⬜ after we were estranged
⬜ while actively acting as our professional contact point
⬜ while consistently watching my socials like 👀 👀 👀
⬜ while literally… knowing me: pregnant, new mother, his legal wife. (you’re yucky girl)

↳ please explain how this wasn’t a conflict of interest.
(use the white space provided below to lie boldly.)

✧ section ii: financial intervention or emotional subsidy? →

during your time as the direct contact girlie to our family, did you:

⬜ cash app my hubby multiple times
⬜ while he was unemployed and/or unpaid and weirdly confident
⬜ while i was fronting utilities, groceries, and doggy daycare
⬜ while he was buying gas with my money, driving my car
⬜ while he was using my credit card without telling me
⬜ never sent support cash (what were those for, again?) to the wife directly (me)
⬜ or the child you “cared” so much about (because it was about our family, right?)
⬜ discontinued cash/emotional/advisorial support once g.i. dickhead dipped
⬜ but continue viewing me daily like it’s your own personal mini-series? (i literally was like, but…why is that girl still here tho, lol?)
⬜ become silently and covertly obbsessed with me? 🫣🪨

↳ checks notes:
so just to confirm—
you were casually sending money,
calling,
texting,
and facetiming my husband...
while we were legally married,
living under the same roof,
with a newborn,
during my postpartum bleedout era—
for…friendship? babe?
🥀

is this, like, a daddy’s money 💀 version of friendship?
because i’ve been around plenty of wealthy women.
they don’t even make eye contact, let alone cashapp married men.

↳ please explain with your full chest in white space:

✧ section iii: let’s circle back to that little policy pyramid you helped architect →

⬜ did you set up the cute family policy?
⬜ did you get my baby’s legal details like you were building a legacy and not auditioning to be a bonus wife?
⬜ did you smile sweetly while onboarding the whole fam like this wasn’t a soft launch for your HR crush?
⬜ did you “advise” both of us—or were you really just managing one client’s emotional returns?
⬜ did you ghost the file post-estrangement, like we’d all just forget your name wasn’t on the contact sheet anymore?
⬜ did you tell the firm it was “too awkward” because pretending you weren’t triangulating yourself into a married man’s life was starting raise liability?
⬜ was that awkwardness new—or did you just finally realize it was ethically and legally pathetic?

↳ because babe—
if it was about policy, why did the professionalism vanish the second he did?
if you were really about our family, why’d you ghost the moment i got left holding the bag and the baby?

honestly, i would’ve forgotten you existed—
but then again, here you are:
👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀
girl—are you okay?

like blink twice if you need help
or if you still think proximity to my husband might make people notice you.
(pick me!!!!!)

✧ section iv: post-plotline behavior →

⬜ viewed my stories non-stop like a full-blown stan 👀🌳👤
⬜ watched me go public about the violence
⬜ stayed silent
⬜ watched me clean houses—with toddler, on literal back
⬜ never said a word
⬜ never followed up
⬜ never sent help
⬜ never even acted confused
↳ if you were waiting for your cue to be the hero: baby, you’re the kinda woman people warn each other about.

(babes—she’s insecure, desperate, will try to ping your man while you’re pregnant and funding the delusion. lol!)

🌳👀🌿

✧ final section: who tf were you really →

⬜ family friend
⬜ lurked/probably contacted my abuser when i said “domestic violence”
⬜ said nothing. did nothing. not even a fake “u ok?”
⬜ watched me struggle with a baby on my back like it was reality tv
⬜ kept showing up in the views like loyalty meant lurking
⬜ never offered help
⬜ never even tried to lie like, “oh i didn’t know…”

↳ if you thought i was lying: babe, what exactly were you studying so closely?
↳ if you knew i was telling the truth: how on-brand for you.
↳ was the wife’s life just a networking inconvenience to your little “i don’t usually get hot guys” savior complex?
↳ your energy was giving: troll babe. it’s giving straight troll.
↳ like… what did you think was gonna happen? that you’d get away with it because your daddy once paid for a rowing coach?

baby, that makes you less likable. not more.

🖤 this has been a formal baddie audit.
🖤 your responses will not be reviewed, because babe—
🖤 why are you even here?

💔

legal-ish disclosure for the easily scandalized:
this post is a personal narrative and satirical opinion piece, protected under the first amendment and applicable fair use/parody doctrines.

• no names were named. if you think it’s about you… that’s on you, babe.

• not directed at an employer, coworker, or firm. if your company gets involved, it’s because you involved them.

• not a statement of provable fact. this is recollection, rhetorical questioning, and lived emotional experience—not defamation, just documentation.

• not public targeting. this site is privately maintained and not distributed to any audience besides people who voluntarily seek it out.

if you feel indicted, that’s between you and your search history.

a tag-team exposé on america’s most dishonarable vet 🎤 💥 🥊

🎤 💥 THE EX-WIVES TAG TEAM: LIVE FROM FAMILY COURT & YOUR WORST NIGHTMARES 💥
streaming exclusively on "how tf did two women with mortgages fall for a walking red flag?"

🥊🥊🤼‍♂️🥊🥊

⚖️ legal-ish disclaimer for the overly invested:

this post is a work of satirical opinion and artistic expression, protected under the first amendment and applicable fair use/parody laws. any resemblance to real people, places, or emotionally stunted men with delusions of grandeur are entirely intentional and fully earned. statements reflect personal experiences, interpretations, and trauma-informed humor—not verified court transcripts (though we’ve got those too, babe). if you feel personally attacked, that’s between you and your moral compass.

*in other words: if the combat boot fits, lace it up.

💥

🥊 IN THIS CORNER: THE EX-WIVES™
two separate court dockets.
two separate mortgage approvals.
one shared delusional deadbeat trying to rebrand as misunderstood.
zero remaining fucks.

👩‍⚕️ WIFE ONE:
advanced-practice rn.
surgical-tier income.
homeowner.
throwing hands and filing cabinets since deployment #1.

professionally trained to save lives—
accidentally married a man committed to slow psychological manslaughter.

let him in.
he unpacked nothing but excuses,
war stories,
and a pill habit held together by va denial letters. *unverified
cheated,
gaslit,
maybe experimented with the squad— *uncorroborated.
left behind a trail of empty promises,
deflated masculinity,
and pabst cans that saw more action than he did overseas.

she didn’t just leave—
she evacuated under tactical threat.
then launched documentation like missiles:
to the church.
to the courts.
bcc’d the next poor bitch (hi).

📚 WIFE TWO:
law student.
entrepreneur.
actually punk.
hot. smart.
out of his league.
legally annoying people for fun.

he showed up like:
“hey you got a wifi code and a blanket?”

he came back from war with no tools and a god complex.
survived pregnancy.
survived head trauma.
survived him thinking he was still the main character.

planned baby.
unplanned domestic violence.
(aka: allegedly getting emotional support... orally. in my subaru.)

☠️ OPPOSING CORNER: TEAM FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT

🫠 THE EX-HUSBAND:
aka: mr. "i fought for this country but not for custody."
aka: combat veteran with a trauma fetish.
aka: pussy ptsd.
(it only flares when accountability enters the chat.)

serial cheater.
serial squatter.
serial soul-sucker.

says things like:
“you’ll never understand what i’ve been through.”
correct.
i’ve never abandoned two women,
a child,
and four phone plans
while blaming iraq.

wants credit for “service”
but couldn’t even hold down a service industry job.

💀 HIS TAG TEAM PARTNER:
aka
not a baddie.
not a soulmate.
just a rotating cast of bad decisions

✨ team flop era includes:

• the unpaid child support balance

• the “emotional affair” office gremlin who pinged his phone while legally married *all claims denied

• his combat-induced entitlement complex

• and every job he quit before the w2 even printed

📉 MATCH STATS:

TEAM EX-WIVES™

• 2 degrees

• 2 mortgages

• 1 planned child™

• 47 pdfs labeled “starterhubbywtfwasthat.pdf”

• 1 google drive of no-the-fuck-he-didn’t docs
  

  🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆

TEAM SADBOY BULLSHIT:

• 2 failed marriages

• 0 days a week with the baby

• 0 documented income since trump took office

• 0 backbone, 0 accountability, 0 times he’s been loyal

• 1 order to stay the fuck away from me *full faith and credit baby

• 1 emotional wallet with a family tree shaped like a question mark *

• 3–7 unknown numbers, a trail of “u up?”s
  from dudes with too many heart emojis, (allegedly)
  and at least one “accidental” nude he swears is contextual.

🏆 honorable mentions:
– dishonorable discharge from every responsibility ever
– still thinks “being misunderstood” is a personality
– tried to gaslight two wives who both owned property. bold.
– last seen editing his linkedin bio instead of his parenting plan

🎤 dropped.

“this piece is a satirical opinion entry.
all events are based on personal experience.
any resemblance to real people
is entirely intentional and deeply unfortunate.”

the taliban? nah—just titties.

✶ boobies, not bombs ✶

(a totally and absolutely made up story about: how a combat vet blamed PTSD when he was just hiding an insurance handjob from a phenotype tragedy with a legacy login ⚔️)

xxx
totally, so, not a real story—

so like—
here’s the story.

picture it:
heavily pregnant.
paying the bills.
cleaning up after a 150lb dog
he swore was “part of his healing.”
buying his socks.
defending his outbursts.
calling it trauma.
calling it war.
calling it love.
publicly giving grace
blaming iraq,
bin laden,
what-the-fuck-ever.

and him?

“hmm. i could take accountability for my bullshit…
or i could just throw her into a wall and blame afghanistan.”

and suddenly everything clicks.

baby—it wasn’t ptsd.
it was panic.

you disgusting, dusty, dickless coward.

i really sat here
and wrote pieces
defending you.
"he’s traumatized," i said.
"he’s broken," i said.
"it’s the war," i said.

baby,
it was the embarrassment.

not “you fell in love” embarrassing.
not “you were lonely” embarrassing.
not “midlife crisis” embarrassing.

like… bruh. HER? embarrassing.

????? so…
(to recap; checks notes)
not the trauma.
not the triggers.
not the fucking taliban.

nah,
low-grade titties????

that were so career-less,
charisma-less,
so flop-coded
that telling the truth
would’ve ruined him faster
than strangling me did
(?!??!!)

you chose violence
because you were fucking a loser.
and you knew
if i ever said it out loud—
if anyone knew—

you’d be clowned.
publicly.
permanently.

so instead of adjusting—
leaving,
owning it,
or, stay with me, not banging a mid in the cubicles—
you almost killed me.

to protect your ego.
not your trauma.
your ego.

and now?

it all makes sense.

you couldn’t take the L.
so i took the blows.

because that’s the real timeline, right?
you didn’t start punching me when shit got hard—
you started when the lies started closing in.
when your liability-claim-coworker loser-ship
started looking like something you couldn’t explain
without getting laughed at.

but baby—i’m laughing now.

sweetie—
you blamed combat.
when really it was coitus.
with a glorified lifetime policy flop.

you know how fucking pathetic that is?

to gaslight someone who has survived
actual, childhood, no-exit, no-pay trauma
into believing you’re having flashbacks
when really you’re having guilt convulsions
because your side chick wears cropped slacks and no opinions?

that’s demonic.
that’s deranged.
that’s domestic terrorism but make it dickless.

and the worst part?

i gave you the benefit of every doubt.
i forgave shit no one should.
i made excuses for the bruises.
because you served.

baby.
you didn’t lash out
because i triggered your trauma.
you lashed out because i threatened your cover story.
you knew that if i ever even saw a picture,
it’d be a wrap on your whole little tough guy illusion.

and so what did you do?

you escalated.
you got violent.

and that’s it, right?

it wasn’t the war.
it was the shame.

babe.

i was your wife.
pregnant.
providing.
protecting.
and you were probably spending your lunch breaks
getting neck massages from a living linkedin profile
named emma or ashley or “oh she went to [insert ivy] too!”

a woman so aggressively average,
you had to commit felony-level deception
just to pretend she was a prize.

and when i started catching on—
when the timelines didn’t make sense,
when the phone never left your hand—
you turned violent.

not because i was dangerous.
but because your story was.

you needed me to look crazy
so your lie could stay intact.

you needed me to scream
so no one would hear you.

and now,
looking back?

i can’t believe i was mourning for a man
who was just trying to protect the fact
that he risked a family,
a marriage,
and a living, breathing child
for an underachieving nepotism hire
with the face of a retired field hockey coach
and the networking skills of a girl who thinks a patagonia vest
makes her “one of the guys.”

bro.

you almost killed me
because the truth
was that humiliating.

like baby,
you didn’t come home from war broken.
you came home horny.
(and apparently desperate as hell.)

you didn’t see an ied.
you saw some b-minus boobs
and decided it was worth the risk.

baby, you weren’t suffering.

you were just scared
you would be disgraced.
because even your infidelity was pathetic.

so anyway—
yeah, he cheated.
with someone who peaked at her dad’s amex limit
and thought my downfall
was gonna be her redemption arc.

and somehow,
instead of just confessing like a man,
he tried to choke out the truth.
literally.

and now he’s yours.

the debt,
the tantrums,
the delusions,
the fact that you had to pay him to play house
and still ended up the side character
in someone else’s story.

you won! 🥳
(couldn’t tell you were competing, babe.)
$$$$
ping!

anyway—
tell him i said hi.
or don’t.
he’s blocked.

🖤

legally & spiritually.


✶ legal vibes babe ✶
this is an artistic rant, a speculative satire, and a therapeutic roast penned under my constitutionally protected right to drag fictional losers for sport. any similarity to actual people—living, dead, ghosting, or still paying off their Columbia flex—is a cosmic coincidence, not an admission. statements herein are opinion, hyperbole, or parody (pick your favorite), delivered for commentary, catharsis, and public interest in clown accountability. if you feel personally targeted, kindly consult a trauma-informed therapist before forwarding this to your attorney; emotional damages aren’t billable here.

*take a seat, call your therapist, and maybe stop being so mid.

✶ Q&A: how to fumble a planned pregnancy & call it a trap ✶

the “she trapped me” saga—
fact-checked by the girl
he begged to marry,
got pregnant on purpose,
obsessively stalks daily,
and yet somehow still got blocked.
for legal, literary, and psychological purposes.

…

Q: did you trap him with a baby?
a: babe.
i was actively vetting sperm banks.
like, institutionally.
i advertised the position of baby daddy with a full exit clause.
(i am not kidding; dating bio explicit)
he applied.
multiple times.
this wasn’t entrapment.
this was an audition.
i blocked him.
ping. ping. ping.
ignored for months.
starts emailing.
”what dude?”
”have my baby?”
🥹❤️

Q: but didn’t you get married just because of the baby?
a: that’s adorable.
i told him to go away.
but he literally proposed with a paper ring.
he sat and made.
i still have it.
because at one point—
i think he thought, for one second
maybe i can be…not a piece of shit.
then followed up with his grandmother’s vintage heirloom.
(10/10. stunning.)

he begged to marry me.
i said “eh.”
he said “please?”
i said “sure i guess—for the kid.”
we eloped.
i liked that part.
i almost thought he loved me.
but honestly?
he was already texting some bullshit.
pulling some bullshit.
so yeah.
the baby didn’t trap him.
his own lies did.

Q: so...he wanted to leave you?
a: not once.
not ever.
not until the very end when he realized
i wasn’t gonna bankroll a private condo
so he could beat my ass
and traumatize our toddler in peace.
i moved us back into enemy territory.
and when he said, “maybe i should go,”
i said, “bet. you mean it?”
he didn’t.
but i did.
and that’s when he started pinging.
phone. text. email.
blocked.
ping. ping. ping. ping. ping.
until i filed that order.
he broke it.
to beg for me back.

Q: why doesn’t he talk to his kid then?
a: depends who you ask.

he was given options.
literal wide open call zones—dates. times.
passed on all of them.

only hit me up for pills.

was handed a checklist.
easy access if you give a single shit—
simple. short.
he never opened it.

i made contact with me a crime.
not the toddler.
but narcissism loves a loophole.

he told himself he was the victim.
and believed it so hard
he forgot she existed.

shit part?
she won’t forget.
kids are funny like that.

Q: but did you hit him first?
a. 🫠 babe.
i was pregnant. like visibly.
throwing up 30x a day.
waddling.
couldn’t even roll over without a full strategy.

he?
combat vet.
special ops.
6 feet.
trained to kill with his pinky.

but sure.
he couldn’t take two steps back from a 150lb woman in socks
crying over my feelings and prenatal vitamins?

make it make sense.

**btw—
y’all know
scratches
are how they ID murderers
who tried the wrong bitch,
right?

but yeah.
go off,
csi: incel edition.

Q: were you guys even in love?
a: define love.
maybe. in another universe—
we were best friends
before the narcissism metastasized.
before the ptsd turned into violence and deflection.
before love became a hostage negotiation.

but real talk?
if love is asking
to get you pregnant
opt-in to ball&chain
to you forever?
then yes.

if love is someone
destroying your peace
once you stop solving their problems?
then also yes.
we were in love.
his kind.
not mine.

Q: is it true you still talk to his mom?
a: absolutely.
in another world we did yoga on sundays
and went shopping.
and she taught me to cook.
in this world:
we text about cute outfits
about baby steps.
about how she should probably
slap her son.
i still love her.
i told her i’ll never cut her out—
and unlike her son,
i keep my promises.
she can come to christmas.
he cannot.

Q: why are you saying this now?
a: because someone has to tell the truth.
and because you (hi, sweetie!)
probably got the sparknotes.
some sad husband rewrite.
the “she trapped me / she’s crazy” edit.
narrated by a dude
who begged for the role.
and you’re dying to believe.

but you missed the real plot:
he had exactly what he asked for—
a baby. a marriage. a shot.
he fumbled all three.

because it was never about love.
it was about power.
access to stable resources.
and when that was gone,
when i told him to get it himself?
he ghosted his own kid.

Q: but do you think i’m different? do you think he loves me?
a: babe. lol.
if he’s with you…now?
that means you were desperate—
this is his flop era.

he’s obsessed with his own reflection.
and girl,
you absolutely understood the assignment.

pathetic.
clingy.
excessively eager.
low threat.
low standards.
low ab count.
but highly available.

he only chases women
he thinks are better than him.
you said yes?
in this economy?
girl, you were the absolute last option.
not picked.
proxied.
when no one else with options
would touch a broke red flag
with a toddler he ghosted
and a wife he legally can't text.

but hey—
maybe he’ll change for you.

Q: why didn’t it work? ✶
a: because he needs therapy.
intervening. serious. rehabilitation.
that is not a joke.
he didn’t want a partner—
he wanted an audience.
a pretty wife with glazed eyes and a smile
while he fucked around.
someone to clap
when he entered the room,
nod when he lied,
and shrink when he raged.

he called it “love.”
i called it “nah, not for me.”

the minute i stopped clapping?
he folded.

🖤

no closure. just content.

functioning alcoholic starter pack

aka
🧃 two dudes in one body
choose ur fighter

—
sober u?
almost sweet.
plays with my kid.
remembers i’m human.
lowkey almost endearing.
could maybe pass for safe.
almost.
key word: almost

but then

🍺 version 2.0:
two drinks in?
boom.
voice drops.
empathy leaves the room.
we’re doing
“why aren’t you as successful as me”
like it’s bar mitzvah karaoke night
for white boys with too much audacity.

and then

🥃 final form:
evil troll unlocked.
my baby = “financial liability”
my trauma?
“bad choices.”
my mom helping me fund a cut of my escape plan?
”abusing the elderly”
my protective order?
“why did you pick him”

—

it’s truly giving—
prep school.
little league legacy.
trust fund delusion goggles.
true petty dickhead with big fantasies
and still
you turn around like
“why didn’t you make it as far as me?”

(aka: truck management with a golf flex with a co-signer)

that co-signer?
let’s talk about her.
your wife.

because if you talk to me like that—
on my worst day—
while i’m holding my baby—
still fucked up from a man i had to legally escape—

then what the fuck
do you say to her
when no one’s watching?

psa:
i don’t give a singular fuck
if she’s not perfect.
no one deserves that shit.
and i would fight you
if i ever saw it.

on. the. spot.
try me.

you essentially called me too stupid.
told me to quit law school.
said i’m too old. too slow.
”be an adult, get a real job”

meanwhile,
you’re out here
serving gender role delusions
like it’s 1952
but forgot to bring the “provide” part
(or the fucking protect part, damn)
my bad.

let’s get one thing real straight:

you are not
a brooding intellectual
with trauma depth.

you’re a mean white man
with a good SAT score,
a chip on his shoulder—
and a bottle in his hand,
weaponizing your privilege
because it’s the only thing
you’ve got left
that makes you feel big.

—

you chose your ego over me.
every time.
then punished me
for being hurt
that i ever tried to love you.

you had a six-figure head start.
one abusive dad.
and you made it your full-time personality
to punish every woman
who reminded you of feeling small.

newsflash:
you still are.

but now?
you do it drunk.
you do it louder.
and you punch down.

you don’t punch up.
you punch sideways and down.
at women.
at minorities.
at people
who didn’t get the golden fucking ticket.

you drink like it’s your job.
but when you do?
you turn into a petty, mean, little bitch
in a golf tee.

—

and let’s be real:
you’re not rich enough
for the rich rooms.
but too privileged
to sit with the ones who mop the floors.
so you float.
bitter.
in no man’s land.

—

and even when i was holding my baby,
fighting to survive,
fighting for literal safety—
you couldn’t help yourself.
you still had to belittle me.

(???? bro— i am your little fucking sister.)

as if i asked to be hit.
as if i asked to be left broke and bleeding
by a man who stole my credit and cracked my face.

and you—
your instinct?
was to blame me.
to shrink me.
to mock my pain.

that’s why you’ll never know my daughter.
and that’s why you lost your sister.

and maybe next time—
don’t scream about law school being a scam
when you wouldn’t last
one hour
in my life,
with your white boy stats and cardboard spine.

—

anyway—
enjoy the whiskey.
you don’t have a niece anymore.
or a sister.
just your ego,
your hangover,
the golf gifts you said you already had—
and that tiny, screaming boy in your chest
who still thinks hurting women
is the same thing as healing.

good luck, bud.
stay hydrated. 💅

not even mad. just… embarrassed.

[…………………….]

wait.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

noooooooooooooooooooo.
you hit me with the—
$0.43 per day
payment
and a
”i’m trying”

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

yo
🤣

i’ll put that towards the air she breathes.
🦗🦗🦗🦗

but
was that…
a bribe?
hush money?

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

ma’am.
did i hit a nerve?
a trigger?
a utility auto-payment?
a sugar mama pullout clause?
no—
wait…
…really?

babe—
i was joking.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
and here i thought
you were purely superficial:
but you’re out here being utilitarian.
girl—slay. **

deep dumpster diving—
like, did y’all think there was a cute rollout? 😭😭😭
were you really dreaming about a soft-launch
of your trauma-bonded insurance fraud romance?

girl please doooooo.

😭👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

honestly?
if this is real?
perfect.

you really said
fuck it
i’m out of options
i need a bag
a man’s gotta eat
💰💰💰💰💰💰—
and resorted to
“mousey girl vibes”
whose personality is "i ski in europe"
and whose only communicable skill
is generational wealth.

and babe?
you get that sponsorship.
this isn’t even revenge.
this is a documentary.
“the human version of a failed nepotism hire turned wifey delusion.”

babe.
i know.
i made you live in the trailer.
i made you sleep in the front yard like a bridge troll
guarding the driveway.
for what, a season?

big deal.

i know that hurt your little feelings.
i know you didn’t expect me to say
“cool story—
now get the fuck out of my car
and out of my camper
and out of my bank account.”

while you ping ponged like a dipshit
back and forth
between
threats
and
”🥹❤️ babe. please. just call me.”

but you kept costing me money,
babe.
cha. ching.
but when she found out you left?

broooooooooooooo
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

what’d she say—
“wait… you left…her? for ME???”
babe.
o.k.
what was your story?
he will fuck anything
for that rent check.

and her?
the volunteer emotional support fund?
did she say:
"i’ll quit my job.
i’ll meet you down south."
🥹❤️

girl.
i had to hide in the enemies’ zip code
to finally make him go away.

but fuck it,
she needs to feel important too.
so she’s probably
still out here
thinking it’s a true love story.
screaming into her throw pillow
kicking her feet like
"he left his wife and child…
for me."

sweetie.
i get it.
(i don’t)
it’s hard when you’re…
homely, awkward, basic.
genetically…
struggling.

and sure—
your outfit doesn’t serve,
your skin’s complicated,
your hair is giving seasonal depression.
but girl!!!
he’s choosing you!
✨✨✨

(i guess? i mean…
should i try to call him?)

but seriously—

does that make you feel pretty?
because… men don’t… usually… notice you.
do they?
unless you say the phrase
real estate license
nyc
daddy
legacy admission
3 x fast.
like a trump kid—
that you gotta pretend is interesting
so you can use them for the proximity tab.

but girl.
you were a blur.
i. am. sorry.
it took me—what?—eight months to remember you even existed.
and only because you were out here—
like…

“👀”
“👀”
“👀”

yeah babe, you are the one.

anyway.
be well.

thank you for this.

xoxo

men that tried to fight me.

[she’s “you might be able to kick my ass, but i will also swing on sight” energy]

been that bitch since birth—
just built different.

they think just because i say,
“nah, that little troll has a homicidal wish,”
just because i register the threat
like a walking true crime episode,
that you’ve gotta be passive or weak.
baby—
two things can be true.
yeah, he’s dangerous.
yeah, he could kill me.
and also?
the audacity makes me wanna swing first.

welcome.
a multi-generational,
multi-abuser,
multi-era beatdown by me:
a hot,
sleep-deprived
apex predator
with a vendetta
and an attitude too big for my body.

i’ve been fighting men since before i lost my baby teeth.
since before i knew what a trauma bond was.
and somehow—every single one of them
looked shocked when i hit back.

like oh nooo she’s hostile.
no, bitch.
i just don’t take getting my ass beat—
lying down.

so yeah—
i’ve been dialing up this fight playlist
since i was a kid with
skinned knees and big moods.
got into it with my dad first—
didn’t phase me.
he threw…everything.
always breaking and brutalizing.
so—
i threw hands with a kid’s rage
and my brother’s metal baseball bat.

then came mr. long-term bad attitude™,
the little man energy.
his strategy?
“pin her down,
maybe she’ll shut the fuck up”
lol, honey,
i scrapped back so hard
he paused mid-pin and went,
“damn, you’re strong.”
like it was a compliment
and not the sound of him
being a punk ass bitch.
but bet.

next one didn’t hit—
but he told me once
he thought about it.
you really said out loud
“i thought about hitting you”
like that was something to share.

like—
you little bitch,
i’m like a buck twenty.
imagine standing across from your girl
thinking, “damn, i might have to fight her.”

congrats, babe.
you passed the world’s lowest bar.
the “didn’t commit felony assault”
club is very exclusive.

next one tried to fight me pregnant.
yup.
you heard that right.

full belly. baby kicks. maternity sweatpants.
and he looked at me like it was go time.

like “what would really spice up my war crimes résumé?”
oh, right—WWE’ing a woman
in her third trimester with a slight wobble.

and bro—
6’ full grown
when he came for me with my baby inside?
feral.
i was like game,
fucking.
on.
motherfucker.
i fought for my fucking life.
he won.
i got my ass kicked.
over
and
over.
but best believe—
i would’ve died trying.

listen,
i used to climb kitchen countertops
for a tactical advantage over
my dad.
you think you scare me?
nah.
i was choosing which bat to grab
at age nine.

i’ve been battle-ready
since the era of light-up shoes.
trauma taught me how to throw hands.
you’re not scary—
you’re just loud and emotionally underdeveloped.

you raise your voice?
i’m already calculating exits.
you step forward?
cool.
i’ve got a flashback,
a plan,
and a grudge.

i’ve fought men who were legally allowed to tuck me in.
i’ve fought men with combat experience,
with marriage licenses,
with little man god complexes.

you think you’re dangerous
because you did some pushups and slam doors?
lol.
i’m the fucking consequence.

you think it’s wild i didn’t die?
babe.
(me too)
i thrived.
you fed me violence
and i said,
if you insist.

so yeah—
you went full geneva conference violation
on a woman bankrolling you
while trying to make your child.
how strong you feel, king?
big man.

and pop?
you really did that.
swung on an 8-year-old
like your masculinity was hanging by a thread
and my 3rd grade homework was the final straw.

congrats. match. set. slay.

but don’t get it confused—
just because i name the threat
doesn’t mean i don’t still daydream about
laying them out in a
fucking waffle house parking lot.

multiple truths.
duality.
balance.

because—
these men are dangerous.
and also a tiny car full of clowns.
yes—lethal.
and also deeply,
laughably punchable.

things i need to say to mothers; letter no. 003: my emergency interrupted her gardening

(thank you for the mortgage and the emotional abandonment)

dear mother,

thank you for your service
as the emotional support ghost
i never asked for.

you always said the right things:
“that’s awful.”
“i’m so sorry.”
“how can i help?”
and then—immediately—
you’d start a landscaping project.

like your sympathy was seasonal.

i told you the man you picked
twice
was exposing himself again.
you said “oh no,”
[made a weird hand gesture]
and then dug up decorative rocks for a corner plot.

i fled barefoot,
with a baby,
a dog,
and no cash.
(sound familiar mom?)
you were mowing the fucking lawn.
(this is not an exaggeration)

like maybe if the grass looked good,
the trauma wouldn’t stain the sidewalk.

you knew i was absolutely fucked,
eating gas station muffins to survive midterms,
in a mathmatically impossible scenario—
and raising a child while dodging hazards
from men you still entertain.
and your move?

💸 a polite little mortgage payment
🌸 and a text about your new lavender plant.
girl,
firstly—thank you.
genuinely.
because it’s more than nothing.
and it means something.

we don’t live in a car.
not like your sister had to,
with two kids,
god bless.

so yes—i am grateful.
because it got real fucking close.
and your money kept the lights on
when everything else was off.

but let’s not confuse that
with you showing up.
(translation: the patio needs power washing.)

because when i was calling you from the driveway,
with a screaming baby,
after fleeing a man you knew was dangerous,
you were—checks notes—
gardening.

when the cops were being called on my dad—again—
you were “finishing up at work.”

and when i stopped calling?

you were fucking mulching.
deadass.
factually accurate.

you love to look engaged.
but you’ve always been
just busy enough
to miss the emergency.

you perform empathy in passing—
with a soft voice and a half-charged phone—
then get back to your regularly scheduled coping mechanism:
home improvement projects no one asked for.

i learned young:
your attention is chore-based.
you’ll do anything
except what actually needs doing.
you’ll say you’re sorry,
but you will never sit in the discomfort
of being part of the damage.

and now?
you want comfort.
connection.
a role in my story
you never earned.

and yeah—
i’m still grateful for the money.
after you watched me,
again,
grab my daughter and run.
knowing what he was doing to us.
knowing why i had to come in the first place—
again.
fleeing a scene, you stopped acknowledging
only once it stopped being your problem.

depsite raising us constantly on the run.
sacrificing entire childhoods
in the name of danger
so you sacrificed us,
to save yourself.

(brava)

—but the silence?
the inaction?
it cost more than the debt ever did.

you didn’t lose me.
you just kept playing busy
until i learned not to dial your number
in an actual emergency.

ma.
you didn’t lose a daughter.
you just ran out of ways to fake being the hero
without ever actually showing up.

i wish you well.
and by “well,”
i mean:

may your hydrangeas bloom
and your daughter stop calling you from hell.

…

p.s.
i’m sorry you’re going through crisis.
thank god,
you have support.
<3

why do rich kids always look like their family tree is a circle?

(thanks for the venmo, dumb bitch.)

girl.
honestly,
i was relieved.
i took one look at you,
and was like;
damn—
for real, why does
“my dad owns property”
always come with a face
that screams recessive gene speedrun?

oh thank god, that’s the girl?
the “omg hiiiiiii”

yooooooo
please. take him.
you looked like someone who’d actually pretend to like him.

and you did.
baby—
you sent venmo
to my husband
while i was pregnant.
like you were sponsoring a rescue animal.
and baby—he was the raccoon.
and you were the trash.

and the worst part?
you were so mid
i didn’t even register you at first.
i thought,
”not with that face.
not with that voice.”
but then?
ping. ping. ping.
calls. facetime. lil texts.
venmo.

???????
girl.
god damn.
truly—
never seen this shit in the wild.
only hear about it on animal planet.
like y’all really exist.

and girl.
i did your math in 3 seconds.
i just didn’t care.
because from the minute i saw your
ski-trip selfies and gap-year side part,
i knew you weren’t why he was cheating.
emotionally, physically, how the fuck ever.
he just needed someone with no taste and no boundaries
to let him pretend he was still impressive.

you fit the job.

baby,
buy some self-respect.

your brain still register embarrassment?
truly humiliating chronology—
never in the marriage.
just cc’d on the emotional handjobs.

and girl—
you really made it

like life policies in
the 19th biggest city
made it.
girl.
cut the shit.
even your daddy’s last name couldn’t carry that flop.

a whole ass adult whose entire identity
was “i went to [insert legacy school]”
and “my dad knows a guy.”

and baby—
if you think this is about jealousy,
let me clarify:
you’re not the type anyone envies.
you’re the girl they pity,
then forget,
then re-meet three times without realizing it.

and he loved that about you.

you had the money.
(he loved that more)
the degree.
the networking events.
and still—
you couldn’t even make “insurance sales” stick
in a mid-tier city
with your daddy’s contacts behind you.

jesus christ.
boring. standard. uninspired.
the walking embodiment of what happens
when generational wealth forgets to mix the gene pool.

congrats,
babe.
you really proved the theory:
you’re living proof that evolution isn’t about fitness—
it’s about who had the most cousins on the marriage roster.
natural selection took one look and said,
“nah, let her through. we need a control group.”

you’re not survival of the fittest.
you’re an evolutionary mutation producing a mid with a trust fund.

but i mean

fuck it—
thanks for the venmo.

congrats.
you bought access to a man i was begging to leave me alone.

**pure fictional comedy; not based on any real life events :)

congratulations on being fake-nice, i guess?

yo—
what kind of conflict resolution skills are these?

so let’s be clear from the top:

passive-aggressive is not “nicer.”
it’s not “gentle.”
it’s not evolved.
it’s just uncourageous.

it’s true weak shit.

you didn’t say the mean thing out loud?
✨do you want a medal?✨
a girl scout badge in tone-policing?
a weighted blanket and a podcast for that?

because wow—look at you go.
you swallowed the truth,
faked a smile,
and hit me with the most loaded lie in the female language:
“no worries!”

bro—just get that shit out.
say what the fuck you mean.

because babe?

that’s not neutral.
that’s not helpful.
it’s just vague enough to fuck with me.
but polite enough to keep your hands clean.

you’re not a boundary queen.
you’re a silent chaos demon
in high-waisted denim and
judgmental energy.

you knew you were annoyed.
you just didn’t want to say it out loud
because then you’d have to own it.

so instead, you gave me
scheduling curveballs,
dry-text energy,
and let me spiral while you pretended everything was chill.

it wasn’t.
you weren’t.
and now i’m the one left overthinking a situation
you were too emotionally avoidant to clarify.

and girl—don’t blame patriarchy for this one.
yes, the system raised us to be small and nice and smile through it.
but you’re an adult.
you have free will and group chats and access to therapy.
you can say “hey, that didn’t sit right with me.”
but instead?
you chose psychological warfare with bad branding.

this isn’t conflict avoidance.
it’s conflict outsourcing.
and it’s manipulative as fuck.

so no—
you don’t get points for being “chill.”
you don’t get to pretend you were helping.
you don’t get to ghost your own discomfort
and act surprised when it bites me instead.

you just get clocked.
for being a fake-nice,
boring ass liability
with a soft voice and a mean streak.

xo,
the girl who’s not decoding your tone anymore

🧃🧃🧃

✶ this is financial abuse.

let’s run it back.
keep it factual.

before him?
800+ credit score.
paid-off car,
$100 car insurance,
no student loans,
a stacked savings account.
and zero drama.
i was chillin. thriving. soft-launch stable.

then enters broke boy, stage left.
no car.
no income.
just delusions of adequacy

this broke boy with big broke-boy talk:

“i can transfer my GI Bill.”
“three years left.”
“i’ll get you both health insurance. i got you.”

spoiler: he did not “got me.”

but bro.
i believed him.
because i was pregnant, underfed, overworked,
and still dumb enough to think “we” meant both of us.

so i said bet.

i gave him my paid-off vehicle.
we financed another—guess whose name it’s under?
he promised he’d cover it.
because at that point,
he’d contributed exactly $0.00 to anything that mattered.

then he drained my savings.
ran up my credit.
started using my debit like a trust fund.
cashed a $7K refund check and “invested” it
into the abyss of his non-existent career.

this man turned my financial future into a bonfire and lit the match with my last fucking nerve.

then, once i was fully underwater?

“wait… i might not actually be able to transfer the GI bill.”
“you should just take out loans.”

might need to “fill out a form or something.”

oh. word.

you took the car.
ran up my bills.
drained my savings.
fucked my credit.
left me pissed off and financially fucked.
and now you’re outsourcing your failures to me?

bro.

he promised healthcare for me and my kid.
i ended up postpartum, uninsured,
fighting the fkn Marketplace
with a newborn on my lap and a prayer.

but peak deserving of full dick removal surgery?
you wanna know why he bounced?
he dipped the second i said
“nah, i’m not liquidating my IRA
to bail you out of coke-debt van payments
from delulu binge-mistakes with your ex.”

that was his exit cue.
ghosted.
booked that flight.
left every bill still auto-drafting out of my name.
his loans. his phone bill. his mistakes.
all of it.
still draining me.

left me with a $600/month
in car payments for a vehicle i didn’t need
insurance spiked through the fucking roof
'cause babe?
he wrecked that paid-off ride
three months after he got it.
then ghosted like a broke magician
that fucked up the trick.

then this mf’er
refused to report any fucking income—
despite getting a baby income bump
from that god bless america check,
cool babe.

this bitch
owed literal pocket lint in child support
and still said “nah.”
like the whole time—
naaaaah.

venmo’d him for food money once—
he said,
go fuck yourself.

meanwhile?
i’m the one people side-eye.
the single mom “who should’ve planned better.”
who can’t “just budget differently.”
who’s “struggling for no reason.”

nah, babe.
i planned.
he lied.
i worked.
he leeched.

this wasn’t bad luck.
this was financial abuse.
it wasn’t an accident.
it was a violent blueprint.

i said “yes” one too many times
to a man who saw my stability
as his personal fkn bank roll.

this wasn’t a love story.
it was a heist.

this is financial abuse.
and if you're not scared yet—
you haven't seen the receipts.

✶

he didn’t just leave.
he left me holding the entire financial bag.

✶

call it: “how to go broke believing in potential.”

📝 legal disclaimer:
all statements herein may or may not be
based on true events, personal experience, and documented financial records.
any resemblance to your favorite emotionally stunted, financially abusive man is purely intentional.
names may be omitted, but the IRS knows exactly who tf you are.
you owe me money, babe. 💋

fuck you for watching me fight for my life.

fuck you
for seeing me in crisis
and calling it "inspiring,"
like my survival inspired your moral clarity.

fuck you
for looking at the chaos i was born into—
the bruises, the calls to 911 from strangers,
the begging adults who weren't my parents to save me—
and just nodding like it was tragic backstory,
not active fucking neglect.

fuck you
for knowing i spent my childhood
waiting on sidewalks for someone else's mom,
because mine couldn't be bothered to leave work.
for watching me explain how my own mother left me
with the same people she knew were bruising babies,
and replying:
"tragic, really."

fuck you
for acting like you gave a shit
when i called you about the strangulation—
when i told you yeah, you’re right—
he gave me those black eyes.
because i knew, i fucking knew,
he was going to kill me,
and your only response was:
"oh my god, dad did that too."
or ”wow i’m here, just not to write a statement.”

fuck you
for every friend who saw the bruises,
saw the marks on my pregnant body,
saw me literally get beaten right in front of them,
and decided silence was safer.
that it was still ok to charge me extra.

fuck you
for hearing that i fled a predator
with a baby, my car my husband fucked, and $300 in my pocket
and telling me how "strong" i was
instead of sending help.

fuck you
for pretending you didn't see
when i literally couldn't afford food.
and fuck you twice
for thinking i'd ever let that affect my kid.
i lived on coffee and spliffs
and pure fucking spite
so she would never feel hunger.

omg, you’re so hot.
lol. yeah. it’s called fumes
and financial abuse bitch.

fuck you
for sitting comfortably
in your uninfected, calm house
texting me about gardening
and drama
and shit your mom said,
while i quietly starved,
quietly panicked,
quietly drowned in paperwork and debt and desperation.

fuck you
for watching me do survival math
in real time—
childcare i couldn't afford,
classes i couldn't miss,
money i didn't have,
help that never fucking arrived—
and responding with silence
or shallow fucking anecdotes
about someone else's dumb-ass boyfriend drama.

fuck you
for seeing me on the second floor,
literally suffocating in heat,
and telling me you "left the ac unit" in my garage,
like it was generosity.
when you knew exactly who would have to
do the math on how to carry it upstairs,
alone,
with a toddler—
and you still congratulated yourself.

fuck you
for pretending you were my friend,
pretending you cared,
pretending you were anything more than another bystander
hoping the fire would burn itself out before you had to get involved.

fuck you
for letting me tell you
that i was about to physically collapse
and choosing that moment to say,
"actually, i have dinner plans."

fuck you
for all the times
i explained exactly what i needed,
and you treated it like optional listening.

fuck you
for treating my life
like a show you didn't feel like finishing.

fuck you
for hearing emergencies—
actual fucking emergencies—
and deciding your comfort was more important
than my survival.

fuck you
for being part of the reason
i had to learn, from infancy,
that nobody was coming.

fuck you
for pretending you didn't know
exactly how close i came,
over and over and over,
to not making it.

fuck you
for making survival something i had to do alone,
then clapping
when i made it to shore.

fuck you,
especially,
for calling that applause love.

fuck you
for all the times you saw exactly what was happening
and chose to pretend you couldn’t.

fuck you, genuinely,
for making it this clear:

y’all would’ve let me fucking die.
you did.

fuck you for watching me fight for my life.

this is not a joke. pay attention.

they nod.
they smile.
they say “damn, that’s crazy.”
and then go back to their little lives.
like i didn’t just hand them
a warning label
on my own.

they hear the words.
they just don’t want the responsibility of understanding them.

but she does.
my best friend.
because she was there.

she was there when
i transferred my life insurance
into her name.
as trustee.
not just in theory—legally.
because if i get fucking offed,
somebody has to raise my daughter
who isn’t a monster
or bloodline adjacent.

she was there when we ran scenarios:
do you come now?
or do you stay put,
so that if something happens,
you’re not collateral damage—
you’re the one who survives.
and gets her.

she was there
when i rewrote guardianship letters.
when i sent her PDFs, passwords, plans.
when i said,
“this isn’t just in case.
this is likely.”

and she listened.
because she knows
i don’t say this shit lightly.

you think i’m spiraling?
nah.
i’m installing extra ring cameras.
reinforcing gates they made me take down.
price-checking glocks.
researching shooting ranges.
calling shelters until they answer the phone like,
"hey sam."

you think i’m being dramatic?
cool.
you ever lived in the same condo
where he beat the shit out of you
while you were nine months pregnant?
you ever had the thought flash across your brain—
(mid rapid-fire punch to the head)
“his child is fully formed inside me and he’s doing this…
so what the fuck is he gonna do when she’s out?”
you ever looked at your toddler and thought,
i need five more years of surviving
or she’s going back to him?

but sure.
tell me again about
your “wellness boundaries.”
or your busy schedule.

you think i’m paranoid?
i think you’re clueless.
or comfortable.
or both.

you said
“just file a protection order.”
bitch?
is that a joke?
i did.
and guess what?
paper doesn’t stop rage.
(or manipulation)
paper doesn’t lock a door.
paper doesn’t save your fucking life.

so no.
this isn’t a cry for help.
this is the record.
this is the notice.
this is the fucking deposition.

and if something happens to me,
ask her.
she has the receipts.
she has the screenshots.
she has the timeline.
she has the documents you all skimmed
like it was a fucking side plot.

i made it easy.
i spelled it out.
i literally handed you
a step-by-step update
on how at risk i am.
and you said,
“lol. yeah. got it. good luck.”

really, bitch?

when you act shocked later,
just know—
this was never a mystery.
this was the memo.
you just didn’t read it.

blocking my entire family felt fucking incredible.

seriously.
sometimes i forget i even did it—
until i remember how stupid i used to feel
waiting for a text.
a crumb.
a half-assed “how are you?”
from people who’ve never once shown up when it mattered.

yo. you would not notice,
or fucking care
if i were
on fire
by the side of the street
as you drove by.

i know that for a fact.

blocking isn’t anger.
it’s refusal.
refusal to keep circling the drain of people
who only remember i exist when it’s convenient or performative.

no, i don’t want your “thinking of you” text.
i don’t want your pity emoji or your once-a-year “what’s up”

i want nothing,
and blocking is the only way to get that clean.

i’ve blocked my whole family.
i’ve blocked like 13 dudes from bumble in 4 weeks.
i block and unblock my exes like a petty little godspeed ritual.
ask your question, get your answer, goodbye again.

because the second you’re blocked,
you don’t even get to pretend anymore.
you’re not “checking in.”
you’re not “still there.”
you’re erased.

and me?
i’m finally free to stop loving people
who wouldn’t notice if i died.

i've been telling people to fuck off on purpose lately.

not out of bitterness.
not out of drama.
out of data collection.

i finally figured out the cheat code:
ask early.
ask small.
watch what happens.

i used to wait until i was fucking drowning to ask for anything.
but here’s the truth:
just ask.
some basic, simple shit.
free effort. light lift. no excuses.

most people will say no.

and it tells you everything.

like—
since you’re already asking to hang out,
can you stop by and hold something for a second?
can you help me figure this thing out real quick since you already know how?
can you just... show up for thirty minutes before you take?

these aren’t demands.
they’re micro-opportunities to give a fuck.

and almost every time,
the answer is no.
or it’s weird.
or it’s passive-aggressive.
or it’s suddenly “a lot.”

and that tells me more than any lovebomb ever could.

because these are people i’ve already loved—
and they still pause when the energy needs to go both ways.

so now i ask fast,
on purpose.
because i’m done waiting six months
to find out someone can’t even carry
a grocery bag without resenting me for it.

if you want access to me,
show me you can lift.
lift a moment.
lift a mood.
lift your fucking weight.

and if you can’t?
you’re not being cut off.
you’re just revealing yourself too early to make it worth my time.

ask early.
ask small.
watch what happens.
then believe it the first time.

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.

✶✶✶