🚨 open door policy, but make it traumatizing

🚨 trigger warning: familial sexual misconduct, trauma reactivation

not graphic.
but it’s real.
and it’s fucking disgusting.
read with caution.
skip if you need.
this is for survivors who know
the exact acoustics of a nightmare being normalized.

…

shit started after the divorce.
this dumb-fuck got his own place
and magically forgot doors existed.
never closed one again.
ever.

and i’m not being fucking dramatic.
i’m being dead-inside accurate.

we got dropped off
some random ass weekend—
him? thrilled.
new nikes.
fast food.
chill vibes only.
me?
just trying to disappear into the walls.

so we’re trying to sleep—
like first night.
then we fucking heard it.
the sound.
you know the one.
the kind literally no child should ever hear from their parent’s room.
and we just stared at each other
blinking, like:
yo, what the actual fuck was that?

but it happened again.
then again.
then louder.
then more often.
then—
fuck—
it became background noise.
our new soundtrack,
no consent required.
like a fucked-up sitcom
laugh track i couldn’t mute.

thought that was bad?
nah, we went global.

first-ever duo trip.
i’m studying abroad—
he’ll take full advantage of that.
(my mom paid my tuition/all fees)
this man books a hostel in london.
fucking side-by-side beds.
right
fucking
over
there.

same sound.
same trauma,
international edition.
like, congrats—
my abuse has a passport stamp now.
and it’s incestuous.

i’m like a low-level adult now.
i think: surely now, people will listen.
i try explaining.
i get the classic remix:
he’s just weird.
he doesn’t realize.
he’s narcissistic.
it’s not intentional.

funny how no one calls me
a fucking liar.
just dramatic.
just sensitive.
just,
you know,
ruining the vibe.

so i stop trying to explain,
because explaining makes it real
and reality ruins
this dumpster-fucking-fire of a family.

fast forward.
full grow up.
fall in love.
get pregnant.
get trapped.
get punched.
a lot.
run for my life.
where do i land?
back in this hellhole—
with my baby.

surely now he’ll stop.
i’m an adult.
i have a fucking child.
he’s literally a grandfather.

nope.
just hits pause.
waits until my counterpart’s asleep.
waits until it’s just me,
washing bottles,
folding tiny-ass clothes,
telling myself
“it’s not gonna happen again.”

buzz kill: it fucking does.
full-body freeze.
trauma flashbacks
like a greatest-hits compilation from hell.
and me standing there,
silently begging the air for mercy,
as if the air ever heard me before.

then we hit a bonus round of hell
i didn’t even know existed.
(!!!!!!!!!!)

because now—
get this—
i’m literally caregiving for this man.
me and my toddler
bringing tea,
making snacks,
like some twisted domestic goddess shit
i never signed up for.

middle of the fucking day.
eyes closed.
door open.
zero shame.
full visual.
pretends:
not to notice us.

i freeze.
i hide.
i dissociate so hard
my soul leaves my body for a smoke break.

and again, i try telling someone—anyone.
their response?
cue the remix again:
i got jokes.
i got weird hand gestures.
i got—
oh, he probably doesn’t even notice.
oh, you’re probably misinterpreting.
oh, it’s his house, you know.

right.
i noticed.
my nervous system definitely noticed.
but sure.
i’m the problem.
got it.

trapped between a dude who beats me
and a father who weaponizes
silence and sickness like a professional victim,
i try to find air.
try to pretend cleaning will erase it.

so i scrub carpets.
vacuum stairs.
disinfect counters.
i keep smiling at my daughter
like the world isn’t on fire.

now we’re alone.
baby-daddy dipped.

then one sunny sunday,
vacuum humming,
child behind me,
i pass the fucking door again,
FUCKING CASUALLY.
and there it is—
AGAIN.
and my soul?
leaves my fucking body again.
stands in the hallway with me,
dead-eyed and dry-heaving.

(I FUCKING HATE YOU)

and the bonus,
the absolute punchline
of the whole fucked-up joke?
i’m the one they call angry.
i’m the ungrateful one.
i’m the one that got—
kicked the fuck out.
with a baby.
in january.
me.
not him.
not them.
me.

i repeat:
we confronted him.
he increasingly got more violent.
and kicked us the fuck out.

left with whatever
we could fit in the subaru.
six months—
one bag of clothes.
me.
a dog.
a baby.
repurchased—
every.
single.
thing.
my daughter needed.
**thanks to:
my best friend.
and instagram.

as if anger isn’t the only sane response
to this absolute fucking demon-circus.
as if survival isn’t exhausting enough
without being told you’re doing it fucking wrong.

that night,
washing sippy cups,
thinking about how this man has never actually seen me—
not as a daughter.
not as a mother.
just a prop,
a set piece in his performance of integrity.

a fucking body.

just something to step over on the way to his next fucking victim.

so yeah.
does this shit make you feel sick? good.
that means you’re paying attention.

i still feel sick, too—
and he still has all our shit.

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

okay, babe, pause.

i want you to sit with something.

like—
real quick, imagine:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bro, can you fucking imagine fumbling this?

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

🖤

damn babe: karma really slapped you upside the head.

(honey, you really manifested this shit)

but nah girl—
the vibe is:

can you imagine if i was your ex?

like,
imagine losing me
and living with that knowledge

not just the body
not just the brain
but the entire experience—
the rare combo of
baddie,
mother,
best fuck ever—
genius,
face card that never declines,
and woman who actually gave a shit about you
when she had absolutely zero reason to

nah
even in my worst chaos era
you fumbled
and i was just learning how betrayal lands
so i could come back sharper
less forgiving
and impossible to replace

years ago?
maybe i cried
maybe i begged
maybe i tried to reason with boys who don’t read
gave too many second chances
too much benefit of the doubt
to men with no benefits
and no doubt they’d fold under pressure

but now?

bro
even mid-apocalypse:
my home is immaculate
my kid is glowing
my gpa is climbing—
my dog’s got better judgment than you
i don’t lie.
i don’t cheat.
i don’t scam people out of love, money, or pity.
i don’t need to manipulate—
my personality is strong enough to carry me, babe.

you hope you upgraded?

baby—
your girl looks like a fan
who follows me on instagram
like—
lowkey hater
highkey obsessed
👀 watching my stories
like it’s bad bitch homework she’s failing
in the bushes like
“babe who is she?”
while i'm in your hoodie,
unbothered
and she struggles
to emotionally regulate in target.

(damn homie, embarrassing)

sweetie—
you’re not in love
you’re in hiding

and me?

still that mom
you wish your kid had—
still hotter than ever.
still fuck better,
still smell better,
still feel better,
and it still definitely haunts you.

but you’re just out here
still scrolling—
still
👀 👀 👀

…yikes,
babe.

sweetheart—
remember,
you don’t miss me
you miss the version of you
that felt less mediocre
next to a legend

and now?

now you get to love women
who ask less.
who need less.
who think less.
who mother—less.
who remind you of this version of yourself.
because that’s what boys choose
when they can’t grow up and claim a dime-piece.

how pathetic—

so here’s your compensation prize:
babe—

you get to tell people
you knew me.
once.

but not really.

🖤

💀 universal laws for the emotionally irresponsible.

a nonchalant science recap for the delulu & dramatic:
aka ☁️ physics for people who lie recreationally

1. newton’s third law
(the fuck-around-and-find-out doctrine)

yo—
let’s simplify:
every action has a reaction.
for every ghost,
there’s an equal and opposite glow-up—
and the universe sends you
a certified “wyd” at 3 am.
you lie about who you're with?
→ your "boys night" ends up tagged
on tiktok as a “do you know this man?”
hits the timeline like a meteor, babe.
nature’s clap-back:
you threw shade → they got brighter.
it’s basic drake physics:
"started from the bottom, now we here."
⚖️

2. the butterfly effect
(small fuckups, colossal L’s)

homie,
let’s talk causality.
you send one “u up?” at 2:17 am → 3 years later
you’re choosing nursery paint colors
with a girl named after an essential oil.
micro-mistakes multiply exponentially, babe.
one tiny lie
and suddenly your whole narrative
is sponsored by
anxiety meds
and paternity tests.
it’s giving “wtf did i do” energy
sincerely,
chaos theory.
tiny flap.
massive storm.
oops.
🦋

3. schrödinger’s cat
(the quantum dm slide theory)

bro—
the unread message
is both “seen” and “unseen”
until you click it.
it’s simultaneously chill vibes
and a 7-paragraph monologue
that’ll ruin your life.
leave it unopened: anxiety.
open it: confirmed chaos.
welcome to the quantum mechanics
of your inbox—
where every notification
is a fuckin existential crisis
waiting to drop.
the cat’s already dead.
so is the vibe.
📲

4. entropy
(everything trends towards chaos)

everything falls apart
unless maintained.
and babe—
you didn’t maintain.
same shit applies emotionally.
you start narrating bullshit and leave it…
unresolved?
babe—
suddenly you’re living
in an emotional haunted house.
the sloppy chronology piles up
until you’re sleeping on unresolved drama,
unpaid emotional support,
and too many “it’s just complicated” texts
clean up your shit—
or watch it deteriorate into chaos.
⚡️

5. occam’s razor
(angel, just stop fuckin lying)

short version:
the simplest explanation
is usually the correct one.
(shout out to the hubby)
your girl catches you:
option a: “my phone died.” (probable, mildly sus.)
option b: “i got kidnapped by crypto bros in cancun and they deleted my contacts.”
(creative, highly entertaining, deeply full of shit.)
lying requires hella footnotes, baby.
the truth?
uncomplicated.
cut the shit.
✂️

6. the first law of thermodynamics
(bullshit is eternal)

energy cannot be created or destroyed—
only transformed.
aka: “real hot-girl shit.”—
(thanks, megan)
so the dramatics you stirred up
thinking “lol really fucked up that love story”
nah babe,
it transformed into emotional warfare
and is now fully weaponized against you—
the insecure bullshit never evaporates;
it only evolves into trauma responses
and an emotional shitstorm—
everytime the jealousy spikes.
you’re reminded—
because that shit is forever.
🔥

7. quantum entanglement
(two lies, one notification)

scientists say two particles
linked together react instantly across distance.
translate this shit:
you send one shady dm in boulder—
her best friend’s crystals vibrate in alabama.
energy’s real, king.
and so’s the screenshot.
(jk—but don’t test me)
🔗

8. karma
(the spiritual “fuckkkkk”)

yo—
to quote the words of
saint cardi:
“the karma for you is gon’ be
who you end up with.”
translation:
every lie,
ghost,
or fuck-around = shiiiiiit.
karma’s just waiting for you
to post a thirst trap—
then sends it to your boss,
your mom,
and your spiritual advisor.
🪬

9. sunk cost fallacy
(doubling down on dumb shit)

”got 99 problems...?"
and more specifically…….
it ain’t love—
you’re just embarrassed.
you stayed because leaving meant admitting
you wasted years on a delulu theory.
and now?
you’re committed.
so you’re out here doubling down on stupid.
sending more texts,
fabricating timelines,
inventing fake scenarios.
congrats, honey,
now we all take the hit.
shit’s just bad math.
💸

10. roi of truth
(the index fund of vibes)

truth isn’t hot—
it’s fuckin slow-metamorphosis.
boring as shit,
but stable as hell.
lies are a crypto currency:
quick hype,
then crash harder than the 2008 stock market.
truth is the 401k of emotional investing:
compounding quietly,
zero panic attacks at midnight.
buy in early, bro.
🌪

the recap:

physics doesn’t care about your feelings.
and the universe isn’t chill.
it’s just patient.

bless up.
truth out.
🧃🧠🧃

intention deficit disorder 💀

ok like—
help me out here y’all.
(i’m serious)

i’m genuinely trying to understand
how people can move through life
with this bizarre skillset
of saying emotionally intimate shit
they don’t even slightly stand by.

like seriously,
i don’t think you realize
i logically cannot wrap my head around
the cognitive dissonance of that.

like
genuinely
can someone explain to me
how people have entire hidden motives
and don’t short-circuit from the sheer cognitive load of that??

like bro
i say what i mean
and i mean what i say
not because i’m above-it or evolved or whatever
but because i literally cannot keep track
of a fake personality
plus my real one
plus the logistics of daily survival

if i told you i cared—
i meant it
if i let you in,
it wasn’t a test
i wasn’t trying to manipulate you into staying
i just actually fuckin liked you
and thought maybe this would be safe

so when people say one thing
and then actively do the opposite
i’m like
bro.
genuinely.
what was the plan?
like was it a game?
did you win?
was the goal to get close to me just to dip??
congrats i guess?

like i am trying—
truly trying—
(this is a generalization)
to comprehend how someone
can look you dead in the eye
say “i love you,”
and be actively drafting their
fuck around and find out chaos
or dumpster fire of an exit strategy—
the same fucking second.
like…
did you dissociate mid-sentence or are you just evil?

my guy—
i’m sitting here like
a tired ass bitch with a toddler
a police dog drop-out and a google calendar
trying to figure out
why the people who swear they fuck with me
keep moving like kanye post–vma interruption
loud, chaotic, and not about me actually

like bro.
i’m not taylor.
you don’t get to hijack my stage
say you care
then bounce
leaving me to accept an award
for surviving shit you induced

and this isn’t even romantic at this point
this is across the fucking board
family, friends, people who “wanna help,”
people who “care so much,”
and then completely fuck you
or ghost harder than my serotonin every time the
delusion disintegrates

and bro, truly—
it’s not that i’m out here on some high-road saint shit
it’s just like
i don’t have the neurological capacity
for multilayered interpersonal deceit.

it is actually confusing to me.
because why not just—
disengage?
not waste energy fucking with people?

because honestly—

you think i’m scheming?
babe i’m googling “is it normal to forget to eat and also cry while folding laundry”
i’m maxed out.
i don’t have a secret folder of false identities.
this is it.
this is the whole presentation.

if i love you, you’ll know it.
if i’m mad, you’ll hear it.
if i say “i care,” it’s not a pr stunt.
it’s because i meant it with my whole unhinged little chest

so when people say shit they never plan to keep solid—
like “i’m not going anywhere”
then dip harder than jay-z during the diddy trial.
i’m just like
ok.
cool.
so yeah
if you told me one thing
and then did the complete opposite
i’m not mad
i’m just… confused.
like deadass.
because…
what was the reason?
why even say it??

it breaks my heart
and honestly, it’s giving:
“i love you but only if it costs me nothing”
”i was always trying to manipulate you”
“i’ll always be here” (except when you’re sobbing)
”you matter to me” (until i get challenged or uncomfortable)

and it’s not even that deep anymore
i’m not spiraling
i’m just looking around like
bro. seriously?
was this your plan??
this??

idk

seems unfulfilling.
i’m just sitting here
blank-faced
asking the universe:
why?

like did it make you feel powerful
to pretend you were safe for me?
did you just wanna get the behind-the-scenes access
before lighting a fire and dipping??
did you just wanna feel something?

—you practice your exit in advance?

because.
yo. be serious.
i know i’m intense
but i’m consistent.
and it’s wild that
me—trauma-coded,
adhd fried,
hanging by one thread of executive function—
is somehow the most honest bitch in the room.

idk man
maybe y’all are built different.
maybe your capacity for false intimacy is
a feature, not a bug.

maybe y’all are the intelligent ones.

but over here?
i’m incapable of pretending
i physically cannot perform affection i don’t feel
it would be mentally exhausting,
feel unproductive—
and i refuse to buy-in
to this casual intentional cruelty
y’all pass off as standard.

it’s weird.

so yeah.
i’m perplexed.
not raging.
just genuinely, neurologically
and spiritually
confused as fuck

i meant what i said.
and you didn’t.
and apparently
that was the intention.

odd af.

“yo, just stfu”

i know i know,
you’re like:
girl—
just
shut the fuck up.

listen—

y’all really think i’m out here
for the optics?
on some survivor girl,
victim bullshit?
like this is some petty drama?

yo—
on my daughter, my dog, my life:
i’d rather do anything fucking else.

bro, hear me out:
i’d rather literally have any other scenario.
you think this shit is amusing?
like cool character development arc?
some random theatrics
i do because daddy didn’t love me enough?

lol.

nah.
please be serious.
this shit ripped my heart out.
i’m writing about pain when
i was already fucking drowning.
when life was already so fucking heavy.
and all i wanted was someone to be
fucking nice to me.

but some of y’all just see drama.
attention seeking.
whatever.
i don’t give a fuck anymore.

here’s the truth:
my whole life?
lived in silence.
in the fucking shadows.
right where everyone could fucking see.
i promise you—
millions out here,
trapped in the same brutal bullshit,
all because they convinced us to
shut the fuck up.

that’s the whole fucking plot, my dude.
pretend that shit didn’t happen—
or wait,
it just wasn’t that bad—
or like,
not like that.

but nah bitch—
it was
exactly like that.

brutality.
violence.
manipulation.
sexual abuse.
real nasty shit.

and no,
i’m not talking about some ex
or some bitch who smoked my weed.
that’s just shit that hurt my feelings.
i’m talking the real—insidious level shit.
the soul-killing,
skull-crushing,
generations-long,
financially and emotionally obliterating shit.

and all they want—
is for us
to
shut the fuck up.

that’s the only way
this shit
survives.

if we are:
so scared.
so depleted.
so overwhelmed.
so ashamed.
so isolated.
so broke.

that we:

shut the fuck up.

bro—yeah,
i gotta say it out loud,
even if it sounds ugly.
betrayal,
abuse,
all the fucked shit
they told me
to keep my
fucking
mouth
shut
about;

but yo—
from my deepest parts of my whole heart:

i just wanted one of you to love me.
i know dude—
sad violin.
i know you’re skimming this part.
don’t wanna hear it.
i know y’all don’t give a shit.
shit makes me wanna cry.
because—
i know:
i’m not perfect.
i know i fucked up.
and honestly?
i would’ve told you that.
i tried to tell you.
i tell y’all when i fuck up.
i tell you i’ve seen shit no one should see.
and i’m still trying.

i still gave you my whole fucking heart—
even the ones i wasn’t
like—all in love with and shit.
just riding that homie wave,
ride or die—
forever.
or whatever.
some real shit.
i still loved y’all.
really.
fully.
my whole chest.

so why the fuck
couldn’t you just not stab me in the back?
not leave me fucking alone—
why couldn’t you at least try?
because it’s so pathetic,
honestly makes me so fucking sad—
because,
truly:
till the end,
i’m always still holding out hope
that someone’s gonna turn around and be like,
“nah, just kidding.
i’m not this shitty.
that was a mistake.
i’m sorry.”

bro.
(fuck—i might cry)

they don’t.
because they fucking suck.
or what-the-fuck-ever.
and it hurts
so.
fucking.
bad.

to be alone.
and told it’s your fault.

y’all think i’m trying to play the victim?
please.
i’d rather be
fucking chill,
normal.
not fucking
short fucking circuiting—
for no fucking reason.

and i healed so much—
i don’t shake.
i don’t coldsweat.
i don’t lash out.
i always see the good.
i don’t feel like—
the world is fucking caving in.
i’m finally ok.

and everyone’s gone.
or shit.
or just really far.

seriously—
please hear me:
this is the hand i was dealt.
so don’t tell me to shut the fuck up
all i’m trying to do is survive
without turning
in-to-a
piece
of
shit.

i fight that ghost—
every
fucking
day.

if i don’t say it,
if i shut the fuck up?
babe—
they win.
all that darkness stays
hidden,
unpunished,
reaffirmed.

disappearing?
that ain’t the move.
that’s how
generations
of women
evaporated.
vanished.
went fucking insane.

speaking out?
brave as shit?
scary a shit?
worth it as shit.

believe me baby—
i fucking swear:
that’s
the only
way
this shit stops hiding in the dark.
my guy.

this is how i save the girls
not even born yet.

i have to.

so couldn’t you
just not be
so fucking mean?

i’m already scared as fuck.

vibrator ’til death do us part 💀💀

aka: bro. i tried.

yo.
i’m not even gonna lie to you.
by the time i was full arms-swinging
out of my whole-ass marriage—
wrecking-ball energy,
toddler + emotional support dog in the subaru—
i remember thinking:

there’s no fucking way
i’m bringing my kid around these dudes

(my single-girl roster averages like 5–7 per fiscal year)
times… what? 18 years?!
do the math—shit.
that’s like…100+ failed male experiments?!
and a little girl thinking “eating men alive”
is just mommy’s quirky lil hobby.
i couldn’t do it.
so—
i had a moment.
not like spiritual awakening.
just, like… clarity.

the kind you get while
microwaving dinosaur nuggets
and staring at a wall.

and somewhere in my stupid lil lizard-girl brain
i was like—

okay.
if there’s one man i’d risk it all for—
(full heartbreak, full exposure, full “will he pass the stepdad vibe check?”)
it was him.
my one real regret.
my personal myth.
my what-if-that-was-the-real-one-and-i-just-fucked-it-up.
so when that shit imploded
in a way so profoundly pathetic???
(10/10 wouldn’t even pitch it to netflix, it’s too bleak)

i just kind of… recalibrated.

i was like, okay. plan b:
friends with benefits.
low drama.
casual only.
no feelings.
chill.
just vibes + orgasms.

men should love this shit, right?
wrong.

like yo—
these dudes were confused.
like—deeply confused.
i was offering a win
they did not understand the assignment.

i said:
casual. cool. detached.
come over.
go down on me.
don’t be weird.
don’t propose.
don’t tell me about your estranged stepbrother named brad.

but what did they do?
all of the above.
in that order.
twice.

brooooooooo.
when i tell you—
i auditioned these men.
i shit you not—
full casting couch energy.
just being like—yo:
read the script.
stay in your lane.
act like a person.
don’t cry after.

and still—

my dudes
could. not. handle. it.
not the logistics.
not the vibe.
not the silence.
not the detachment.
not the fact that i didn’t need their life history
on fucking slide deck 1 of our friendship.

homie—
i told you this was a recurring guest star role,
not your main character arc.

and these gremlins were out here
bleeding their whole childhood into the storyline.
telling me about their deadbeat dads
and stepmom trauma or some shit—
baaaaabe.
please be serious.

it’s honestly incoherent—
how few men are emotionally qualified
to be even
a casual situationship.

bruh.

y’all can’t even not fall in love
or not emotionally collapse
under the weight
of exactly what you claim to want.

like—
why are you being weird after we kissed once
in between my kids’ bath and bedtime?

and the actual sex????

like—
jesus christ.
it’s giving…
sixth-grade fan fiction energy
with the stamina of a 90s dial-up connection.

and the worst part?

they still think
they’re bringing alpha energy.
like—
brooooo.
this is not what you think it is.

so in conclusion:
un-fucking-believable.

it’s looking like:
✨ vibrator until the sun explodes ✨
✨ god’s loneliest soldier ✨
✨ celibacy, but make it tragicomic ✨

final diagnosis?
men are not emotionally qualified
to be even the casual relief character
in the subplot of my
post-divorce sexual renaissance.

because apparently
you either get:
once-in-a-lifetime, soul-shattering,
timeless love story shit—

or

you get a fucking
man-child
with two positions and a neck tattoo
who’s crying into his hands
because you didn’t text him “🥺” after he got home.

and guess what?
i got neither.

so yeah.
the myth’s dead.
the fallback plan’s a fucking joke.
and it’s just me,
my vibrator,
and a delusional little dream now.

🪦✨

lmk if someone emotionally literate
with dick game above a 3.7 becomes available.

💀

not a threat. just a fucking deadline.

look baby girl—
some of you are high-key spiraling
because your little feelings got hurt
by something i wrote in a fucking internet-diary.

good for you.
welcome to emotional terrorism
in the mildest possible form.
a sentence.
a punchline.
a mirror.
lil bitch.

but let me be precise:
this isn’t about you.
fucking relax.
you are not the story.
you are a supporting clown in the background circus
of much bigger crimes.

this isn’t about your bruised ego
or your limp dick energy.
this is about felonies.

real fucking criminalities.

nah, babe—
this isn’t me threatening you.
this is me reminding you
the law is patient.
statutes have clocks.
and i?
i know how to read a calendar.

some of you are out here
living like the credits rolled—
like the drama's done,
like my silence equals peace.

LOL. 🤡🤡🤡

nah.
my silence was strategy.

you thought i was healing?
i was organizing.

you thought i moved on?
i moved jurisdiction.

i don’t need to name names.
you already popped up in the visits like
oh shittttttt—
you think she remembers???

yeah babe. i do.

✶ the hubby–advisor duo?
the one-two punch of emotional warfare
and financial fuckery?
hi y’all!!
nice to see you stalking—
it’s giving allegedly fraudulent
with a side of “lol, is this relationship even legal?”
you girlies really thought you were leo in wolf of wall street,
but nahhh, shit was the goddamn titanic—
full blown disaster,
trying to invoice me for the fucking iceberg.
bold strategy, ladies.
let’s see how it plays in front of a judge.

✶ the east coast predator
you invited me across the country,
fucking terrorized
and let’s be real— commited crimes
against me and my child—
anddddd still have all our shit?
yo—
you’re lucky possession isn’t nine-tenths of the soul,
because i might be coming for all of it.
possibly your 401(k),
your couch,
and your fucking Costco membership.
lil bitch.

✶ the rapist?
baby,
new jersey doesn’t do expiration dates.
criminal sexual assault?
no statute of limitations.
zero. zip. forever.
press charges tomorrow?
or in ten years.
or on your grandkid’s birthday—
depends on my google calendar;

you’re not safe, babe—
you’re just unprosecuted.

👼🏻👼🏻👼🏻

so nah—
this ain’t a threat.
this ain’t some cryptic post.
this is your legal prophecy.
i’m just letting you know
some of you are on borrowed time.

and not in the spiritual way.
in the legal way.

babe.

✶

thought i’d forget?
bitch, i was writing things down.
i’ve got the names, dates, fucking screenshots—

because baby—
y’all earned this.
it’s not petty.
it’s divine retribution.

the rest of you?
pure clownery.
real petty bullshit.
sadboi background dancers.
a little betrayal here,
a little abandonment there.
do i remember? yeah.
do i care? not enough to file.

so y’all
that are losing it over…???
…feelings???
sleep better at night.
go find a new guilty obsession.
stop stalking me.
you are not the main character here.

but a few of you?

oh, sweetheart.
you’re not in my past.
you’re on my docket.

fuck around
and
find
out.

you absolutely fucking
deserve
it
all.

✨ divine timing, baby.

this is it, babe. shit’s cosmic.

(not a metaphor. not a mood. a fucking metaphysical law.)

yo.
you’re not getting this body back.
not this nervous system.
not this weird sleep schedule.
not this exact longitude, trauma, or fire.
this is the only time you will ever be you.

in christianity?
your whole life is a test.
not a hot one.
a soul-on-the-line kind of shit.
and the test doesn’t ask what you meant to do.
it grades what you actually did.
"i just didn’t know what to do" ≠ passing.
babe—ask jesus.
you get one timeline.
then it’s heaven or hell—
not another go at healing your daddy issues in therapy.

in eastern philosophy?
let’s get real.
you do reincarnate—
but not as “you with better boundaries and a skincare routine.”
nah.
you come back as whatever—
matches your karmic momentum.
your next self won’t remember this self.
you’re a vibe spark of the universal engine.
you = a cosmic ripple.
so those quiet little non-choices you make?
the “eh”s, the “maybe laters,” the ghosting yourself daily?
they are shaping your rebirth, baby.

the upanishads literally say:
"as your desire is,
so is your will.
as your will is,
so is your deed.
as your deed is,
so is your destiny."

so if your daily deeds
look like passive scrolling and avoiding shit—
guess what your destiny looks like?
yeah.
same shit, next life.
or worse homie.

in yogic philosophy?
action is identity.
not dreams.
not intention.
karma = “action.”
not good or bad—
just cause and effect, babe.
you are what you do.
and you’re doing something all the time.
even in stillness,
you’re voting with your energy.
your fear is voting.
your avoidance is voting.
your silence is voting.
and the universe?
it’s always counting the ballots, baby.

in existentialism? (shoutout sartre and the sad french baddies),
you have radical freedom—
but also radical responsibility.
you’re not a victim of fate.
you’re a co-author.
and guess what?
not writing = still writing.
non-decision = decision.
there is no “pause” button
on becoming, sweetie.

even astronomy fucks around:
you are made of stardust.
carbon, nitrogen, oxygen—
all forged in the collapse of ancient stars.
and what do stars do?
they burn.
they act.
they explode and become galaxies.
they don’t wait.

so no—
you don’t get to sit this one out
and pretend the universe isn’t watching.
it’s you, bitch.
you’re the spark.
you’re the ripple.
you’re the math.
you’re the reason it shifts.

the day i saw that rainbow—
the one right before i conceived my daughter—
i knew.
it was a portal,
not a promise.
not “everything will be okay.”
more like:
"everything will become what you choose next."

and i chose.
i chose chaos.
i chose motherhood.
i chose my own cosmic ass way.
i chose to rule my karma, not be ruled by it.

you don’t need a burning bush, babe.
or a reincarnation spreadsheet.
or a horoscope with your name on it.

you just need to realize:
this is it.
this second.
this fork in your soul’s road.
no do-over.
no clone-version of you.
no spiritual uber home.

act.
or let the algorithm of your own fear calculate your future.
either way—
the math is happening.

your move.

childhood homes, babe. a tour.

(aka places i survived, not lived)

house zero
age 0–2.5
first RO happened here*
just know it was a little ranch near the ocean
middle-of-nj blur—
philly left, nyc up, beach right—
lots of rage, slept at the daycare to hide
yes, shit was insane, bro
vibes were ✨ feral ✨
don’t remember—
thank god.

house one
age 2.5-10~
cul-de-sac
felt like a trap
the house my parents built
by “built” i mean:
• dad got giant white colonial pillars to feel like he was a colonizer
• mom got beat for trying to buy furniture on a sears credit card
there was primer on the walls for a full presidency
mom dumpster-dived trash-day furniture
sanded those bitches into matching sets
meanwhile dad always had cash
mom paid for groceries with change
and a calculator.
dad?
money just for flexing and funding my brother’s golden-child lifestyle
for his trophies & little-league glory
us? nada
backyard pool: literal danger zone
my dad turned that shit into the beat-your-ass olympics
version of jack nicholson in the shining
glass beer bottles flying like fucking mario kart shells
tried to swing at him more than once.
911 on speed-dial,
i remember sleeping
in a car, rv, shelter, grandmas—
adrenaline on tap
one time, he threw all our toys—
in the front yard,
broken.
huuuuuge raging dickhead.
broke my mom’s hand.
barricaded ourselves in 1 room—
for a year.
friends allowed? absolutely not.
sleepovers? if you wanna hear homeboy lose his shit.
survival rate? low.
shoutout to that one girl who wokeup with me
and said—
“it’s okay. my dad’s like this too.”
girl.
child abuse soulmate.
hated this place.

—
divorce
another RO
court-appointed therapist =
smokes weed with dad.
says he’s chill.
judge agrees.
custudy!!!
—

house two
age 14~
mom moves out,
house goes back to dad
trades my child support <3
can’t pay the bills.
because… logic??
nah—abuse.
she brought our shit to my granny’s like yooooo
shitty pull-out couch in her dusty office
freshman year coolgirl-vibes,
minus the home.
dial-up, no space, hated-it
dad kicked the first dog to death
mom ditched dog #2 because grandma’s a cunt
i bounced to my field hockey bestie’s house
her mom had three daughters and took me in
like an undomesticated stray
i thrived, clearly.

house three
age 15–18
still high school
mom bought a ranch out in fuck-nowhere
she needed a yard
not a condo
not the school district
a yard
it rotted for ten years
she was working 24/7
we moved in: no beds, air mattresses
furniture stacked like tetris in one room
chaos. plywood. bullshit.
i’d get dropped off at dad’s from school—
zero fucks.
sit there like live-fuck-you-bait
by sophmore year
i picked up a full grown adult man—
to pick me up from the bus-stop,
in a van.
he wrote a screamo song
called—
“how i managed to fuck a 15 year old”
very hardxcore.
but i mostly lived out of my car by then
crashed at boys’ houses + friends’ houses + party houses
anyone with couch and a lock on their door
last 911 call—dad fought a cop.
went to jail.
didn’t come to graduation.
home was wherever

college escape
freshman year
zero contact with daddy issues; blessed.
week 1: friend dies = jackson car crash.
fucking brutal | existential crisis
depression.
brother’s hot navy friend hurts my feelings.
(hits me up for the next 15 years)
nj felt like a casket.
ran away.
dipped to texas
austin. ut.
because babe,
my childhood homes were not giving
but freedom?
yeah,
she hits different.

hated them all.
loved texas.

why do people act like i owe them shit?

serious question.
not even fake-deep.
just, like,
real talk.

why does everyone expect you to ride for them,
forever, no matter how many times
they try to throw you under a fucking greyhound?

i mean—be for real.

like—baby, what part of “i don’t owe you” didn’t you read
in the terms and conditions?

because honestly,
i’m the last honest bitch left standing.
never snaked a friend,
never cheated,
never staged a betrayal.
i’m not even messy unless you hand me a mop.

i say what’s real,
even when it burns me.
even when you clown it.

but some of y’all?
y’all want full coverage,
no premium.
protection,
discretion,
the whole witness protection package.
all while acting like i’m disposable.

like i’m actual garbage.

tell me why—
after you disappear mid-crisis,
leave me on read,
turn survival into a spectator sport—
i’m supposed to keep your skeletons safe?

you think i want to be out here
writing trauma diary posts on the internet?
nah, babe.
i’d rather have someone to call at 3 a.m.
without feeling like i’m live-streaming my own public execution.

i actually believed we were on the same team,
but turns out—you’re out here
“accidentally” ghosting me while i’m drowning,
and then surprised when i start narrating from the deep end.

y’all create the content,
called me crazy—
and then left me with the fallout,
but hey—don’t talk about it, right?
how embarrassing.

it’s wild how the worst offenders
are always the most terrified of the truth.
like, my dude,
you didn’t want your profile in my memoir?
maybe don’t audition for the role of the monster.

here’s the reality:
i never out anybody who keeps it concrete.
but you pivot to the opposition?
watch me bleed,
throw a rock?
literally turn on me?
then expect me to sign a non-disclosure?

that’s not loyalty.
that’s you trying to copyright my silence.
that’s manipulation, babe.
and not even clever.

newsflash:
i don’t owe you secrecy.
i don’t owe you invisibility.
if you want safety,
maybe offer some.

the ones who made me promise discretion—
but dipped when i needed backup?
now losing their shit
because my side of the story—
exists?

are you serious??
babe—
y’all don’t care when i’m actually—
fighting for my life,
but write a lil art-piece about it to
ease my own trauma?

and now i’m disrespectful?

baby, it’s not me embarrassing you.
it’s you.
i just own my shit.

the minute you leave me for dead,
ignore every “yo, i’m drowning” text,
decide your comfort is worth more than my life—
you think i owe you silence?
dedication?
a carefully manicured reputation?

LMFAO.
like…no.

i promise you this—
i don’t lie to manipulate.
i never out anyone who keeps it 100.
but you come for me,
ghost me,
break the contract,
break the code?
then start freaking the fuck out
when i say what happened out loud?
please.

don’t ask for a pact you’re not built for.
don’t expect silence after abandonment.
don’t beg for “discretion” while you’re—
actively fucking me over.

that’s not loyalty, baby.
that’s self-preservation—for you.
you want protection, offer protection.
you want my silence, tell the truth.

otherwise?
nah.
i don’t owe you a fucking thing.
not my voice.
not my trauma.
not a single,
solitary secret.

so yes.
i will keep writing.
i will keep healing.
i will keep telling the truth.

and if you’re embarrassed?
maybe next time,
don’t give me a story worth telling.

✨

mean girl energy

word homie
very fucking emotional of you.
like girl—relax.

but damn dude—
just opened your manifesto.
lil hate text.

dramatic as hell.
absolutely-delusional.

reads like—
low key still obsessed
for a dude i deleted off the roster—

“you hurt me by moving on”
—a memoir.

but okay bestie.
but i know…big feelings.
always have—
always will.

oh babe…so—

…
you think i’m mean?
(disrespectful,
two-faced,
rude
blah blah sad violin
cries in white boy)

okay!!!
let’s play that game!

was i “mean”
when i found out you had
a secret side pregnancy
and said go be with her—
with my whole chest, no sarcasm, just… blessings?

**despite being mid-let’s-make-a-fam, ”you’re my only girl” fantasy?

was it mean?
when i bowed out?
bled out our child
from the stress—
instead of imploding your life?

baby—
was i “mean”
when i clocked the lies,
realized you were soft-launching emotional adultery,
as the most bizarre ass babydaddy co-star—
and still said—go ahead, king.
have fun with your weird lil trauma twin.

was i mean—
when you full on
begged for baby #2,
then 👻🚶‍♂️mid daydream
and i still didn’t post the receipts?

when i:
—didn’t say your name.
—didn’t give context
and the only one that could decode it
is a fucking stalker,
obsesseing over every line?

was i mean—
when instead of correcting
the delulu behavior
acting like a man
signing a fucking form—
you played like a scared lil bitch
and ran?

was it mean
when i took the hit
even after your lil boys in blue stunt.
and instead of revenge—
i gave you… dignity.
(lol. for what.)

was i mean
when i emotionally supported your girl—
mid carrying your own seed
while you went awol?
[checks timeline]
for an entire incubation?

(don’t worry, i’m sure you both blocked that one out)

no but reallllllllyyyyyy,
was i mean????

when i planned an entire pastel-coded,
goth & bubblegum,
emotionally labor-intensive
“she-deserves-love-and-support” baby shower
for a girl who blocked me a week prior—
after using me like a rent-a-bestie?

like fuck—don’t worry no one threw one for me.

was i mean
when i didn’t “out” her crazy ass
after i spent a grand—
on the ugliest decor i’ve ever seen—
and she goes:
”lol sell it on fb marketplace”
GIRL. nobody wants this shit…

but really!!
was i mean?
when i venmoed her flight money
for a girls' weekend
that never happened?

was i mean
when she blocked me,
only to pop back up years later like
a toddler with amnesia—
and i still… double tapped?
“likes”
”hearts”

just to get:
🌳👀🌿
🌳👀🌿
🌳👀🌿

lol. ok.

was i mean?
when i thought,
“they’ll work it out…
i’m not a threat”
lol. no.
apparently—
i was a threat.
to both of y’all’s fantasy world
where i’d stay silent and self-delete.

was i mean
when i didn’t post the truth
in real time,
but let you fumble the bag in peace
while i quietly mourned
my own standards?

was i mean
when i gave space
instead of dragging?
when i offered privacy
and loyalty?
you never gave me?

sure.
maybe i'm mean.
or maybe y’all just mad
i finally said it out loud.

and i could never—
ever—
move the way y’all do,

(exits plot forever)

✨🖕🏼✨

have fun in hell.

p.s. i’m the only one—
that didn’t act like
a piece of shit
in this whole
tragedy.

now it’s yours.

dramatic? bro, you rage harder than my toddler.

bro.
men are the drama.
like, professionally.
full-time.
salary + tips + pto.
union-protected.
they got a linkedin for it.
“emotional chaos coordinator, 2013–present.”

literally always crying.
about some bullshit.

these dudes are really out here
treating “blocking” like a sacred ritual.
like—
“i didn’t ghost you, i was protecting you…
from me.”

take the fucking award bro. 🔥

the man. the myth. the menstrual energy.
my trauma is cured.
we thank you for your service.
you’re so fucking strong.

girl—truly.

✨ jesus. fucking. wept. ✨

meanwhile—men will literally
nuke a nation before naming a feeling.
you could just say
“i’m insecure because my dad was mean to me.”
instead you’re drone-striking afghanistan
because your ex laughed during sex.
get help.

why are you so emotional?
for real?

they be in dms like:

“hey”
“you there?”
“guess not.”
364 days later:
“u still mad?”

yes, babe. i’m still mad you exist.

honestly—he’s probably spiraling
because i said “maybe don’t be a pussy.”
and now he’s pacing the room
like a bbl influencer who lost her ring light.

they’ll leave you on read,
bomb a country,
and slide back in like:

“i just think it’s crazy how…”

NO, SIR.
what’s crazy is you thinking
i didn’t know you were watching my story
from a burner while crying in a dark room.

like—you wanted discretion.
but gave me depression.
unfair trade.

you’re not being attacked.
you’re being accurately described.

and let’s be real—
they don’t want a woman.
they want a mute button in lingerie.

say “bro—be serious” one time
and they’re in their notes app like

“you’re toxic and two-faced, just like my mom.”

fun fact?
it was actually chill
until you made it weird.

and now?
you are the weird.
scrolling my shit
peeping me trying to not fail out of law school
and keep a whole ass baby alive—
while you?
throw tantrums.
get big feelings.

y’all choose chaos.
i just wanted to go shooting—
and maybe get decent-ish head.
like a fucking patriot.

you’re out here handing out drama
like inta-likes
then crying when someone clicks “unfollow.”

jesus fucking christ.
you’re supposed to:

provide.
protect.
but nah—
petty bullshit.

i’m the problem?
nah, king.
i’m the mirror.

💅🏽 stay delulu.
men always do.

soft hands can’t hold smoke

i’m counting the ghosts i don’t bother to haunt—
hundreds, easy.

that inbox?
a fucking graveyard.
whole galaxies of opinions
left on read,
left to rot,
left to talk to themselves in my dm’s.

yet here you are,
fingertips shaking over the search bar,
hand-carving a internet trail
straight to my corner of the cyberspace
just to piss yourself off.

→ user flow reminder:

1. open browser.

2. type my name.

3. click the link already feeling salty.

4. rage-scroll until your vision tunnels.

5. blame me for the headache.

nice.

listen—
get thicker skin, babe.
like— this is a personal, avoidable, trauma bitch blog.
like—are you gunna be ok?

like—yo.
i’ve taught yoga while fielding death threats.
solo mothered a baby
while the comment section begged for a public stoning.
people talk shit to me just to feel something.
to my actual face.

not this coded,
evadable,
dim-lit-artistic bullshit.
like??????
your lukewarm, emoji-heavy tantrum?
background noise.

just tell her to get a new hobby, honey.

context is a real thing, babe—
try reading past the first brutal metaphor
before you declare moral war.
because spoiler:
ninety-nine percent of this journal is coded like a cold case file.
no names, no tags,
just shadows wearing vibes.
so if a paragraph hits you square in the teeth,
that’s a mirror—
not a bullet.

meanwhile i’m busy ignoring:
— the bored ex-friends who orbit for sport
— the drive-by therapists in your mom’s comment thread
— every fragile spectator who cries “too harsh” but never heard me whisper “wtf help me”

pro-tip:
there are seven trillion webpages you can troll instead.
go knit.
go learn italian.
go alphabetize your trauma somewhere more peaceful.

because i promise,
i’m not stalking anyone
i believe is irrelevant.
if you rank as background static—
i slam mute and forget you exist.
and if doom-scrolling my grief karaoke
feels like self-harm?
close the tab.
touch grass.
block me.

otherwise, welcome—
grab a chair made of cactus and pretend you’re the victim.
i’ll be over here,
writing my way out of hell,
one razor-edged line at a time.

doesn’t land; babe— i’m dead inside.

bro.
please.
say it with your full chest.
say it so i get all misty eyed and shit.

nah.
see—
i want to cry.
but honestly,
respectfully—
you’re late.

i’ve already been fucked up.
damaged goods.
oddly chill about horrific shit.

this ain’t new.
this is tuesday.

i learned from the very beginning—
crying's for bitches who get rescued.
blanket.
teddy bear.
someone saying,
“what happened, sweetheart?”

lol.
i cried once from sadness—
instead of rage,
and got told to shut the fuck up.

yoooooo but—
what were they gonna do?
rescue me?

lol.
never.
not once.
no one.

nah.
i just stood there.
learned that love comes with
a knife in your fucking back.

imagine—

my dad called me a wench at 8.
like full on meant that shit.
in front of another grown-ass man.
just standing there.
not even embarrassed.
no real reasoning bro.
nobody said shit.
wasn’t even the wildest part of the day.
definitely didn’t cry.

then flash forward:
this dumbfuck told me flat out:
get the fuck out of my house
over and over and over:
all january
with my baby.
yo
it was so bad
my mom had to sleep over
because he got more violent
the more we realized he was a predator.

you want me to cry?—
my actual fucking brother
deadass—
looked at me 36 hours after
getting mocked by men
trying to explain the—
”i fell down the stairs”
ER report—
my dude, no hesitation—narrates that:
i’ve never had a job.
that i brought the chaos home.
and of course:
he totally gets why my husband bailed.
“why should he support you?”

because yeah—
why would he stay
while i worked pregnant
scrubbing toilets to keep us alive
while full prepped to spit in my face?
(twice)

righhhhhhtttttttt.
cool.
thanks for fucking being here crew.

baby—

i didn’t learn my times tables or grammar.
none of it.
total blank.
still catching up.

spent
a whole
ass childhood—
fleeing
without shoes—
dead of night—
because
some truly wild and violent shit
6 years old.
showed up to school
next morning like,
“wuddup fam.”
pencils out.
let’s fucking go.

you think i’m irritable?
yeah girl.
maybe i am.

babe. i wish i could cry.

but like—
a week before my kid popped out
my husband busted my whole ass lip open—
gave me two black eyes.
i literally wiped off the blood,
picked up the vacuum,
full pregnant belly.
and went to fucking work.
told them i slipped on ice.
lol.
next.

did you know—
some random ass dude
trying to hit
told me
the way i say
“he strangled me”
with zero emotion—
was fucking scary.

lol, i know bro right?

wanna laugh?
i flew a loser to italy
thinking that bitch was proposing.
instead he openly talked shit.
in the middle of the street.
about how i was dumb af
to think he would want to marry me.
(he was actually an L)
babe—
i’m saying
after getting dressed for a ring
literally tears streaming.
zombie walked
full-scale berated—
loud af down the cobblestone—
while tourists wandered by.

(babe i full on sobbed in public that time)

so when you say all the meanest shit you can think of?

you think that lands?

bro—
i wish it did.
truly.
i wish i could feel it,
instead of just—
that’s white noise.
that’s elevator music in hell.
like eyes glaze over.

and i remember every time i’ve heard this shit.

i used to reach out.
just a little—
just to see if it was safe.

not to be pathetic.
not even to fix shit.
just to feel something that wasn’t
dead air
or a fucking threat.

and what’d i get?

“i hate you. like really, i hate you”
“my life is better without you.”
“don’t ever speak to me again.”

word?
tight.
cool story.

my dad’s been threatening to kill me since i was 5.
L O L

bro—
i was driving up the canyon
passing a donut to a baby
dog barking in the back
car full of kids going to summer camp
bro.
trying to hold it the fuck together.

and you hit me with
“you’re the worst thing
that ever happened to me.”
casually.

lmao
pass the aux cord, bro.
i’m not even mad.

it’s just comic.
the way people
really wanna make you cry.

i’m just trying to survive y’all
without driving into a tree—
full speed.

but that’s a joke to you.
like when you called the pd—
and i looked for a building to
jump off.
i mean that literally.
had to call a friend
to talk me down.
**wuddup girls—
you saved my life.

but that’s my problem.
not yours.

nah.
you’re all reruns.
same script.
different mouth.
intentionally cruel.
cold and indifferent.

truth is—
i’m not asking anymore.
not for help.
not for softness.
not for anyone to understand
why the fuck i turned out like this.

because if you really knew—
if you actually knew—
you wouldn’t ask why i’m a fucking bitch.

you’d ask
how the fuck i’m still alive.
how i didn’t turn in to an evil ass hoe.
how i still get up
and handle shit
with a baby
a dog
all the bills
and no one that gives a single fuck.

me?
never cheated on NOBODY.
not even
lil fucked up texts.
ever.
it kills me to hurt people.
even as they’re fucking me.
so i don’t lie to get my way.
even if it feels ugly.
say it;
full heart—
when i’m hurt.
still love.
still try.
still say that shit out loud.

i’ll bleed in front of you.
i don’t give a fuck.

you can’t hurt me with cruelty.
that’s the fucking standard bro.

you broke me because you loved me.
that was unique.
that fucked up my day.
that broke my heart.

that had me sobbing bro.

some people get
soft landings.

me?
i get rage.
shame.
a fuck-you list.
and then
another tuesday.
just like this one.

who’s next?

baby—
you’re just the most recent
“dude who needed to see a girl cry to feel alive.”

god bless.

is this what you wanted? fine.

this is what you’re waiting for,
right?
the reaction?
the— look i told you she’s crazy bro spin off?
to whatever the fuck that was?

yo, seriously—
you could've just texted,
"i miss you"
”this fucking sucks”
”i’m lost”

because yeah—
dude.
same.
always.
bro wtf.

you didn't have to
fucking missle launch
mid-morning summer camp run.
i'm out here with a car
full of innocent-ass kids,
dunkin donuts on the brain,
a random dude named
"maybe: idk" blowing up my texts—
and then there's me,
chillin,
opening a random old ass wallet.
finding some ancient-ass business card
from the before-we-ever-fucked-times,
sending it like
"lol, remember this shit?"

homie,
i wasn't even OUT HERE like that.

i’ve been ducking dudes—
and trying to forget
what the fuck you turned in to.

babe,
i literally asked you
to help me learn
how to shoot the fucking glock
like, hold my arm like this?
girl—like the range,
i was serious.
like two weeks ago and 👤👻.
and honestly my dude?
i didn’t notice.
i wasn't mad.
i was just confused.
worried, even.
like brah—
you good?

and then one fucking pussy joke later.

and it’s BRRRRRRINGGGGGG—

full nuclear.
me blinking stupidly
looking at the eight year old
next to me like—
nah wait,
bro, what?
yo,
is this the wrong number?
what's happening?
why are you so mad,
dude?

kids just staring ahead like
damn—
that full-grown man
is angry,
auntie.

but listen, babe:
i’m taking the gloves fucking off.
because wow.
what the fuck was that?
hey—listen.
this isn't me throwing punches.

this is me admitting,
straight up,
you got me.
is that what you needed?

ok.
you broke me, man.
you really fucking did.
and it wasn’t this morning—
yo, i didn't even know we were at war.

so—fine.
here it is:

you were always the love of my life.

so what.
does that help?

i left an entire marriage
barely blinked,
just like yeah, cool.
whatever.
but my guy,
when you ghosted—
just one text,
one half-assed
"let’s do this"—
shit left me shattered, bro.
like full stop.
pathetic.
on the floor,
crying for months.

bro— i smoke signal confessed
my full love arc
to your whole ass ma.
”like yeah, i say this shit with my whole chest”
fully shameless.
because idgaf.
so yep. it was like that.
devastating.

like a stupid little bitch.

and yes—
it was fucking gross.
and i can’t be so fucking weak.
and i hate myself for it.

and all this time,
i've just been trying
to get the fuck over who you used to be.
honestly.
genuinely.
i was just out here living,
fucking random dudes,
trying not to feel the fucking pain.
bro.
i wasn't scheming,
wasn't raging.
i was just surviving.

but yeah, babe.
be so mad.
because maybe somewhere
i said the fucking truth.
because yes—
want me to say it?
i detest her.
i probably always will.
big. fucking. deal.
anyone who got their whole ass wild,
fucking disgustingly beautiful
fucking future
literally fucking looted?

by some fucking random girl?
who clearly makes her whole
fucking identity
”ruining your day
because sam exists”
and she’s can’t let go.

bro—you think that’s normal?
okie doke.

so?
yeah she fucking won.
she stole everything and you fucking know it.

so we both lose.
so she can—
whatever the fuck
she does.

so i’ll make a formal statement:

you know our worst version of that family
was nothing compared to these
independent nightmares we both now live,
stuck in the graveyard of our epic-level romance,
something we'll both die wishing we were brave enough not to abandon.

and i fucking was.
i bled.
pathetic.
and i don't even care
to say it out loud,
like nah,
i ain't embarrassed.
i’ll repeat.
would have spun the fucking planet
opposite direction for you
but you COULDN'T DO ANYTHING.

you just let me fucking die.
and i can't.

you do realize what we actually lost, right?
every fucking beautiful,
magical,
soul-inspiring thing we could’ve built—
traded for our own worst version of hell.

so what—
are you mad because
i wasn’t talking about you anymore?
baby, i had to.
i had to stop
or i wasn’t gonna survive it.

i told you that.
i begged you to stop hurting me.
so fine.
hate me.
literally.
i can't believe i heard that shit come out of your mouth.
on some random ass wednesday morning.
but that’s fine.

because i love you.
and i don’t need anything else
besides that last phone call
to prove this is the worst fucking version of us.

but hey.
my once sweet fucking angel—
remember.
you are not mad at me.
you’re mad because baby,
you’re single
but still have to move in secret.
you don’t know the kid—
but you’re still playing some bizzare ass game.
for a prize you never intended to win.
because this fucking clownshow
is easier than signing the fucking paperwork.

you know—
the standard shit?
living a real life shit?
with a real family shit?

babe.
get mad.
because we both know—
you're mad at the bitch who trapped you
in something you begged her not to.
and you don’t even get the morning sex—
but in your lowest fucking moment—
yep, she stole everything.
and became obsessedly jealous of the girl
she knew was the kind of beyond-fictional,
blowout,
once-in-a-lifetime,
soul-shattering love story
you actually had.

she saw it.
she told me she saw it.
she heard the
”love of my life” shit
and her mind exploded—
because babe?
everyone fucking saw it.

because it was once in a fucking universe shit.

and she wanted it.

but when she couldn’t have it—
she fucking desecrated it.
stomped her fucking feet—
blamed jesus,
until both our fucking lives
were set in fucking flames.

on purpose.
she burned you down.
so now?
she’ll hold you by the throat forever,
for never being me.

and the saddest part?
i was right. fucking. here.

you picked.
a million times—
no one.

but definitely never me.

baby—fuck your way to the top.

okay. deep breath.
this is gonna sting.

but babe... come closer.
no, closer.
sit down. you’re gonna wanna hydrate.

🥂

hey, i know you know me.
want to be me.
or at least feel superior to me. (🤡)
but let’s talk woman to gremlin.

💀 he will never be seen in public with you. 💀

and yeah, i know—mean.
but babe, you earned that.

because the fact is:
he’s shallow.
like kiddie pool shallow.
like “my dream girl is a bottle service brunette who won’t google me” shallow.

and you?
you’re a four.
masking as an eight
in bad…lighting…
and your dad’s credit limit running interference.

and to him?
that’s hot—for about five minutes.
because he doesn’t want love.
he wants envy.

he wants to walk into the room
with someone every man stares at.
baby—
not someone who
got him the invite.

you?
honey.
you gave him the key.
but you were never the flex.
you were the function.

hun.
the room you unlocked?
he’ll be looking around.
babe—he’s fucking the blonde waitress.
because she’s younger.
hotter.
dumber.
and she makes him feel powerful.
and because
deep down?
he’s embarrassed by you.

(and babe… i think you know that.)

and the part that really hurts?
he knows men in your world don’t want you.
that’s why you cling
desperately—
to the nonfunctional ones.

but in that room?
with those people?
he’ll feel exposed.
embarrassed.

📉

some girls double text.
you?
you detonate your entire career. 🤯

iconic.
slay queen.
🫡💅🏼📉

let me 👏🏼 risk 👏🏼 it 👏🏼 all 👏🏼
risk my creds
risk my proxy—
for this emotionally bankrupt broke boy.

girllllllllll.
my dude does not even have abs.
like—really.
he spends three hours on the toilet
texting the next girl who gives him a hot meal.

baby—
he doesn’t even know what day it is half the time.

and you?
you gave up your entire rep to feel 🏆 picked 🏆
by someone who couldn't even commit to his own last name?

couldn’t commit to staying in the state?

babe.

baaaabe.

you will not get a loyalty award.
you will get a summons.

because once this shit implodes?
he’s flipping it on you.

guess who’s on file?
guess who has creds?
guess who’s supposed to know better?

baby.
he’s already teeing up your villain arc.
already rehearsing that
“she offered.”
“she sent the coin.”
“she came onto me”
”i’ve been to war—”
whole ass monologue in the mirror.
trust me.
i witnessed the rewrite.

and sweetie?
then he’ll call you stupid for having been so careless.

he’s not your man.
he’s a liability.
you don’t need closure.
you need legal counsel.

so when it all falls apart—
and it always does—
he’ll save himself.

and he’ll let you drown
in paperwork
and whispers
and your own bar tabs.

not because he’s disorganized.
but because he’s calculated.
and you?
were available. 🎖
with benefits.

there’s no redemption arc coming.
no plot twist.
no “damn, that was so worth it”

just this:

he used you.
it was never personal.
and now you have to live with the fact:
you wanted to be special.
✨ the exception.
✨ the girl he’d change for.
✨ the main character.

but baby,
you really didn’t need to—

set yourself on fire

to impress a married dude—
who literally described you as
a career plug.

ouch.

you didn’t get chosen.
you got utilized.
like an extension cord, babe.

🔌

not my eulogy, not my crisis, not my job.

literally… who?

i don’t care that your brother died.
i don’t care that my uncle died.
i don’t care if grandma dies.
(she’s a bitch, always been a bitch)

you want me to pause
my actual safety planning
to emotionally validate
the passing of your least favorite sibling?
the one you only talked shit about?
nah.
not this season.

you said “i had to do it all alone”
then listed four people helping.
math ain’t mathing.
but martyrdom?
solid.

so let’s cut the shit.

you don’t get to claim yet another whole era—
over people who never even gave a fuck.
you don’t get to weaponize suffering
to neglect what’s living and breathing in front of you.

because where’s that box of clothes, ma?
right…no worries.
maybe next season.
when someone you don’t like,
isn’t dying.

because i’m alive.
always been here.
and i was never enough of an emergency for you.

so now i don’t stop for yours anymore.
because no one ever showed up for mine.

so bro.
i don’t do grief on demand.
and yo—
straight up?
you should have already known.
i wouldn’t give a single fuck.
so yeah, i mean…sorry?
i guess?

because honestly—

i was filing protection orders
while my guy was actually mad
i wouldn’t stop to hear about the new www.bullshit?

naahhhhhh.

my dude introduced himself to me,
like some guy at a bar.
“hi, i’m—”

like yooooooo—can we just not.
bro i was 17.
like—okay?
cool story.
who tf are you again?

where the fuck have you been?
for anything?
holidays. birthdays. trauma. survival.
nah…just silence.
and then… introductions?

but now?
drop everything?
go full mourning gown and violin solo?

nope—
let the next one die.
call it fucking cold.
call it fucking savage.
call it whatever the fuck helps you sleep at night.

some losses hit.
some don’t.
some never even said hello.

🖤 no tears for people who never noticed i was alive. 🖤

figgy v. nickel

aka: fuck around & find out – fiduciary for dummies™
584 a.2d 69
(md. 1991)

filed under:
shit you’d think you wouldn’t have to explain in professional school but here tf we are…
[y’all too busy out here “networking?” lolllll k.]

➔ facts:
husband + wife: “pls save our marriage”
therapist = “here to help 😇”
also therapist = “bet” → immediately slides into wife’s dms
husband still paying for couple’s counseling
while therapist is prepping for—
the bachelor: breach edition: collecting marital secrets + wife’s heart
zero disclosure, infinite cringe
loyalty = “nah”
ethics = ✌️

➔ rule (aka fiduciary duty for ppl who were chronically absent during orientation)

undisclosed loyalty shift = fiduciary breach.
“but we didn’t fuck!” congrats, still illegal.
betrayal is the breach, my dude.
confidential info used for vibes or validation = intentional emotional distress

brah, this isn’t a frat—
it’s a fiduciary dipshit.

[yikes.]

➔ issue:
can you play impartial party while actively plotting on a client’s spouse & still call it fiduciary duty?

➔ holding:
court: lol girl no — ⚡ breach + iied ⚡
(no sex tape needed. just vibes, deceit, and a stupid amount of audacity)

🖤 that’s the starter pack. 🖤

➔ 2025 compare & contrast for the clowns
finance-adjacent pick-me. 🫡
risked. it. all. 🔥
🚗 cashping to hubby < 24 hrs post-ER
wifey photos looking like ☠️🔩⚡️🧟‍♂️
lol bringbring lol ft lol textextext
policies = poof

figgy in 1991: this is outrageous
ugly people in 2025: white-collar felony meets lifetime movie meets federal court.

LOL. nice move, babe. 🖤

court needed one private liaison to go defcon-1
but 2025’s giving:

• 💰 digital money trail

• 🩸 punching pregnant women

• 📵 paid policy = block + vanish mode

• 🧷 postpartum pingpingping “hiii”

• 👶 a whole fucking baby

• ⚡ corporate = yeah lol girl no—“awkward, w/ ur legal hubby, am i right?!?”

• are you dumb? short answer: absolutely.

➔ final takeaway (aka stop playing with me):

fiduciary duty ≠ “lol but i’m like a cool girl.”
pick neutrality or pick the circus.
if you pick chaos, the law picks ✨ consequences. ✨ lol.

congrats on turning “awkward” into actionable.
🚗 emoji.
✌️😌

walking biohazard, but like…hot.

bruh.

i get it—
i'm the human equivalent
of a cracked iphone screen
wrapped in crime-scene tape.
everyone sees me coming, like:
damn, here she goes again.

you wanna trauma dump for two hours
about your boyfriend—
that doesn’t seem to like you
and most definitely
isn’t about to buy the ring
but the second i'm like
"yo, my life is actually fucked, like
food-stamps-and-domestic-violence-court fucked,"
suddenly everyone’s checking notifications,
mumbling “that’s crazy,”
eyes glued to the floor,
hoping my trauma evaporates
before their own emotional labor arrives.

like babe
do you want me to lie
or do you want me to heal
pick one.

i’m the “text me if you need anything!” magnet—
except my needs aren’t
matcha-lattes-and-positive-vibes-shaped.
they look more like
real time,
real labor,
and actual fucking human conversation
that doesn’t sound like a scripted wellness insta plug.

girl.
i can’t talk yoga class drama
all like—
but have you tried “breathing?”
nah babe.
i tried surviving.
i tried telling the truth.
and y’all treated me like a fucking biohazard.

it’s wild—
i sit through your latest life drama,
literally taking notes
like i’m prepping an opening defense,
giving feedback—
asking questions—
fully engaged.
but you’re out here dodging eye contact
the minute my life sounds less like #momtok
and more like jerry springer?
cool.

but bro—
what do you want me to say?
i did not opt the fuck in either, my dude.
i did not choose this life.
this life chose me.

and it seems like—
everyone wants the vibe.
no one wants the smoke.

i get it—
i'm a walking lawsuit
and also oddly hot.
i've been through 911-level shit
and yet, still got jokes.
i make surviving this shit—
look standard.
look natural.

but every time i try to tell them—
i hurt from real shit.
ugly shit.
this is so hard.
it’s giving back—
“thoughts and prayers”
with a side of
—please shut the fuck up.*

nah.

truth is,
you like “strong” bitches in theory—
just not the shitty kanye-level-crazy
of a reality that made them that way.

so—
left to carry the trauma
every
single
day,
alone.

call me toxic,
hazardous,
radioactive,
fucking crazy
whatever—

you want my energy but not the context.
you want me filtered.
contained.
sanitized.

not angry.

and honestly?
i used to beg for that kind of love.
now?
i’d rather eat glass.

i’m not “heavy energy.”
bro.
i’m a living fucking crime scene
they never even attempted to solve.
it's ugly.

but liability?
nah.
i’m a weapon.