hyperemesis by homicide

bro.
honestly,
i haven’t had a chance
to reflect
on anything—
until right now.

i’ve been in
survival
for so long
i couldn’t even
connect the dots.

yo.
i didn’t just have
a hard pregnancy.
i didn’t just throw up.
i fucking deteriorated.
like my body was trying to die
before he could finish the job.

i threw up every day.
20, sometimes 30 times a day.
i shit you not.
by the third trimester,
i couldn’t even walk.
but i still cleaned houses.
still taught a full
virtual fucking
yoga teacher training—
seriously
my heart rate
was so high
the monitors screamed.
i had to be observed
connected to machines
for hours
all the time
alone.
my baby’s heart rate
spiked so high
the doctors sent me
to the fucking ER
alone—again.
dehydrated.
dizzy.
shaking.
suffocating in my own
fucking stomach acid.

and you know what
he was doing
while i was throwing up
in the hospital parking lot?

he was at the office.
the same office
his peers ZOOMED INTO
for a 2-hour training,
but he insisted
on staying all day.
5 days a week
my whole ass pregnancy
for no reason.
why?
no fucking idea
maybe to flirt with
an array of
cubicle work bitches?
to make no money at all?
to pretend he was “grinding”?
to prove he was a man?
while his pregnant wife—
the one who paid the bills,
paid the licensing,
paid for his fucking car—
was dragging herself
up and down the stairs
with a 140 lbs shitting dog,
in the middle of winter,
frozen second floor steps—
vomiting,
shaking,
fucking dying.

you didn’t support me.
bro—
you didn’t even fucking
check on me.
you left me broke,
isolated,
sick,
while you beat
the fucking shit out of me
and made me feel
like it was my fucking fault.
i now know
i didn’t throw up
because of hormones.
i threw up because
you were fucking killing me.

you suffocated me.
you slammed me into floors.
you strangled me.
you spit in my face.
you took me from
standing to my fucking back.
you shoved me into walls.
you pinned me on the floor
with your shins—
and covered my mouth
and nose
until i thought i’d die.
repeatedly.
increasingly.

and still
you made it about you.
you probably told
your coworkers
i was the abusive one.
or crazy?
fucking trapped you?
you most definitely
paraded into that fucking office
like a goddamn victim.
while i was at home
or working my balls off—
throwing up literal blood
and crying on the fucking floor
as i was paying for your gas
to fucking betray me.

and no one was coming to help.

and then your
fucking coworkers
enrolled me in life insurance policies.
while i couldn’t even
keep water down.
while you were punching
bruises into my skull.

you didn’t just
ruin my pregnancy.
you turned it into
a fucking crime scene.
you stole the joy,
the safety,
the beauty.
you tried to turn it
into my fucking grave.

i always wanted
to be a fucking mom.

this was my fucking dream.

i didn’t even
ever want you.

you knew that.
i told you that.
at the fucking jump.

you knew i had
just lost everything,
the baby before—
and i just wanted
one of my own
that survived.

and you fucking volunteered.

and my dumbass—
i just thought
since you asked,
since you wanted this,
since you asked me
to fucking marry you—
you wouldn’t try
to fucking murder me.

but i see it now.

and if you think
for one second
i’m ever letting
our daughter
believe this is normal,
you’re out
of your fucking mind.

this wasn’t pregnancy.
this was fucking war.
and i survived.

full lawsuit energy ✴︎ lowe v nm et al.

aka: if you see this, it's already too late.

ᕯ

dear northwestern mutual denver
& everyone still playing
corporate fucking dodgeball,

since none of you
have materially responded to me
since mid-june—
not legal,
not compliance,
not even fake-care-ass
customer service—

let me lay it out real fucking clear
for the record.

you re-enrolled me in a
new policy for my child.
a child i have sole custody of.
a child whose first policy,
just like mine,
onboarded with the
same billing cycle,
by your team,
while i was 9 months pregnant.
or freshly fucking postpartum—
relocating across the country
and openly sole fucking
income earner, ✨
of our entire fucking family—
that policy? vanished.
lapsed with no trace
despite being billed—
with the same policy
i’m still paying for?
and the ownership
of the other policy?
handed to my f✶✶king abuser,
who you knew had a
final restraining order
against him.✨

yo—
did you think
i couldn’t read?
did you think
i was fucking stupid?

i was the one
paying for it.
not once.
not twice.
since inception. ✨
on my account—
in my fucking name
on the same card.
same bank.
until i transfered them—
while he was
financially abusing us,
to maintain
fucking coverage.

which you acknowleged
in…fucking writing.

when we enrolled?
your advisors knew ✨

he was unemployed. ✨
they knew
i was giving birth. ✨
they knew
he’d left your firm. ✨
and they still let him
take ownership—
in fucking secret—
or while i was under
obvious. fucking. medical.
duress ✨ in an out
of the fucking hospital ✨
as you assigned to me—
your representative
who was in an
undisclosed ✨
personal fucking relationship
with my legal husband ✨
while she—
kept following me,
watching me,
and collecting
my fucking payments.

and he?
increasingly
BY CLINCAL
FUCKING STANDARDS
progressed towards
fucking homicide ✨

while she offered him
publicly—
(and you declared professional)
✘ emotional support
✘ constant contact
✘ private texting
✘ off site meet ups
✘ family connections
✘ nyc job prospects
✘ alumni links / events
✘ ✘ ✘ ✘ ✘ ✘ ✘ fucking public cash payments

YO.

wtf were you actually doing?
absolutely nothing, at all—
in my best interests.

while you openly
induced
me
to fund his career
pay you for hotels
fucking onboarding
and buy a fucking car—
while pregnant
cleaning houses

as he openly
increasingly (!)
publicly (!)
developed
an-in-office
emotional
personal
conflicted
money-transferring
affair-adjacent
(waiting for discovery)
fucking undisclosed relationship
with his female coworker
who you assigned?
as my fucking rep?????????

while my child and i
almost got fucking murdered????????

DUDE.

and now?
you think going silent
makes this less legally radioactive?

i’ve sent:

• pre-litigation notice

• financial timeline with screenshots

• policy communications and billing logs

• emails proving your knowledge of domestic violence and duress

and the only
response
i’ve gotten
is dead air
and auto-ghosting.
what’s that about?
too busy staging
plausible deniability? ✨
because nothing screams
“not liable”
like cutting off your
vulnerable client
the second
she starts asking
where the actual fuck—
her child’s f✶✶king policy went.

listen.
i am filing suit.
i am representing myself.
i am buying ink
with borrowed cash
because all my office supplies
are locked
in a house
i had to flee
due to ongoing fucking violence—
violence tied
directly
timestamped in fucking venmo
public fucking payments
to your failure to disclose ✨
failure to fucking supervise ✨
a personal fucking conflict
between my financial representative
and my
stangulation-while-pregnant
level-abuser. ✨

i now only have
1 out of 3 policies
that i was
documented to have
signed
and paid for. ✨

and you still won’t respond.

so let me say it here,
in case it’s easier
to forward to your legal team:

• this is legal notice.

• you are on formal record.

• your conduct has triggered
  ✘ fiduciary breach,
  ✘ negligence,
  ✘ inducement under duress,
  and ✘ policy mismanagement.

the craziest shit?
i don’t even need discovery
to prove this absolute fuckery—
i already have the receipts.
i’ve named defendants.
i’ve sent the timeline.
i’ve provided all documents
without formal subpoena.
i’ve warned you politely.

you are harming women.
you are harming survivors.
you are aiding financial abuse
and violating insurance protocol
at best—
participating in fraud
at worst.

if you're watching this
and still ignoring me?

you're not avoiding conflict.
you're confirming liability.
and i hope your compliance
logs are as up-to-date
as my fucking screenshots.

your licenses should be under review.
your names will be on the record.
and once i file—

they will be
permanently attached to this mess.

see you in court.
bring ink.
i’m fucking out.

— sam lowe

ᕯ

pro se,
policyholder,
survivor,
mother,
and

the wrong bitch to pull this on

avert eye contact with this entry in advance.

okay.
so this part is hard to say.
not because i doubt it.
but because saying it out loud
makes people fucking dodge eye contact.
and they should fucking twitch.
i’m not here to comfort anyone
out of their denial.

so here it is.
this is just my survival instinct talking.
and that bitch
has never been wrong.

in my gut—
the part of me that’s kept me alive
through some unthinkable shit—
i believe he intended to kill me.

✨ like—not a fight.
not a “got out of hand.”
i mean kill me.
and make it look like an accident.

because i had become less useful.
because he had a new supply.
because he knew
he could fucking get away with it.

i’ve never said
that shit before about anyone.
and i’ve dealt with
some violent-ass men.
but this wasn’t rage.
this was calculated fucking disposal.

and it was fucking terrifying.
this was true crime channel energy.
dateline with my headshot + spousal homicide.

i saw it.
in his face.
in his glare.
when he spit
in my eyes and mouth.
when he jumped on my belly—
pregnant belly—
to literally
choke
the
scream
out of my body.
like he wanted the air gone.
like my breath denigrated him.
like he couldn’t stand
the sound of me fucking surviving.

and the sickest part?
i truly believe
he would’ve pulled that shit off
the grieving husband bit.
military.
ivy league.
golden boy.
perfect fucking narrative.

i had been so fucking sick.
no support.
isolated.
and he was already
rewriting the fucking story.
already performing to other women.
already angling for sympathy and status.

babe—
look at this tragic veteran widow.
america’s fucking sweetheart.

no one would've questioned it.
so i told my mom the night he strangled me.
i called her and said it straight.
because if i died—
someone
needed to know
exactly what the fuck happened.

he had already moved on emotionally.
already securing his next plug.
already cashing in on my labor.
my businesses.
my home.
my life.

so yeah—i ran.
we ran.
two weeks after birth.
in a snowstorm.
my mom packed up my whole damn condo.
we left everything but the baby and the dog.
because that’s how fucking serious it was.

yo—i know
the way predators
look at you
when they’re done
pretending to love you.
i know what it means
when someone
who swore to fucking protect you
looks at you
like a fucking liability.

and babe—
i’m not writing this for sympathy.
i’m writing it for record.

because the truth is—
he never loved me.
he was just harvesting.

and when the harvest ran dry,
he was ready to bury the rest.

that’s not bullshit.
that’s the fucking autopsy—
with my name written all over it.

yeah—
we lived.
barely.

🪦
the end.
or what was supposed to be.
but i had other plans.

the vpn diaries 🥸: how not to handle a whistleblower

hi.
compliance.
legal.
c-suite.
risk management.
crisis PR.
whoever the fuck
is refreshing my site
via rapid fire
✨ concealed VPNs 🥸
(you’re invisible babe!)
in between, clearly ducking
the “ethics & compliance” trainings.

i’ll address you here—
since you’re steady
sidestepping my fucking emails.

you know—
classic indicators of innocence ✨

let’s talk.

because you had
every single legal and moral opportunity
to stop what happened to me
before it escalated
into a public disaster
with a nationally traceable
timeline of systemic negligence.

and apparently—
you chose silence. ✨
you chose cover-up. ✨
you chose protection of internal decay
over the protection of a vulnerable client
under active threat of homicide.

and now you're here—
✨ lurking.
not to help.
to gather intel.
to strategize your defense.
while a broke single mother
with fucking ptsd and an infant
fights for her fucking life.
alone.

let’s be legally clear:

i notified you—what?
a dozen separate times?

i provided:

• certified protection orders
• evidence of financial misconduct
• timeline-aligned payments
• digital surveilence logs
• hospital records
• my kid’s fucking life insurance documentation
• and records of my accounts being stripped

after disclosing the abuse ✨

and in return?

nothing.
told me;
they were never mine—
and then deleted the message.
poof—
after i sent:
litigation hold request? ✨
bro—nice. 👌🏼
like, if i somehow pass the bar,
can i get on this legal team?
seems fucking chill. 🤘🏻🤡

but look.
your entire firm
has not sent a single line
of acknowledgment to this
✨full-blown fucking crisis✨
since mid-june.

the local firm?
that fucking contracted
my pregnant ass?
complete silence.
told not to respond.

bitch—what?
how is a chick with -$7
cleaning houses
carrying a fucking baby
trying to keep her electric on,
asking a fucking
legally relevant question (!!!!!)
and challenging
where the actual fuck
her policies went—
the fucking threat?

🎯 unless y’all fucked up.

because babe—
over a month?
and—
not a compliance update?
not an internal review notice?
not even a fucking response
in over a week?
lmfao
what are y’all doing
👻👻👻
is this standard—
up to regulatory procedure?

lol hmmm
you’ve gone dead silent 🤔
while your staff clocks
hundreds of hits
to the
✨ survivor documentation website ✨
i built in fucking desperation.
from work devices. 🤔
cloaked IPs. 🤔
and known corporate hubs. 🤔

bro—literally clocking whole
ass insurance defense firms.

i guess they’re just—
personally invested,
in spellbooks✨
and trauma disclosures✨
told by the jersey shore equivalent
of a
walking,
talking
legal fucking consequence.

like? damn y’all.
do you wanna hire me instead?
one of y’all repeatedly
said that shit—
understatement of
the fucking year.
considering—
the moral fucking rot
eating this fucking institution.

but seriously,
what the actual fuck—
is going on
up in this fucking
”financial firm”

babe—
let’s call it what it is:

💥 surveillance of a whistleblower.
💥 retaliation by omission.
💥 textbook fiduciary fucking failure.

y’all—
you didn’t just fumble this.
you lit that shit
on fire
and danced around it
in a fucking
company-branded polo.

🔥🔥🔥🏌🏌🏌🔥🔥🔥

and now?
you’re here✨
instead of protecting us
because you know:
this shit?
is not small.

💥 this is explosive.
💥 this is patterned.
💥 this is fucking provable.

but nah—
you’re over here
burning payroll✨
trying to
suppress a narrative
your own silence
already confirmed.

the real question is:

how many of you already know?
how many of you
have seen the timeline—
read the disclosures—
watched the access logs—
and thought,
“shit. this is going to court.”

and instead of doing
✨what was right—
and fucking protecting us:
you vanished.
you withheld.
you waited me out.

and now?
you’re screenshotting your own fucking reckoning.

🧿 your cowardice put a child at risk.
🧿 your silence was coordinated.
🧿 your IP logs are subpoena bait.

so go ahead.

refresh the page.
clock the hits.
circle on fucking up—
draft the cease and desist.

because listen—
i’m not fucking afraid of you.
i survived a combat vet—
at 9 months fucking pregnant,
while signing up for your fucking policies.
i will survive your cubicle-adjacent asses.

and you will answer
for every
fucking second
of this.

because—
this shit is fucked✨
and you fucking know it.

🔥🔥🔥🏌🏌🏌🔥🔥🔥

✴︎

amen and subpoena me, bitch.

✨🖕🏻✨

✶ case study: pick me pathology & blatant disrespect in the feminist wild

✶

nah but like
some of y’all
are actually insane.

like,
it’s fucking comic,
because i’m out here
intentionally✨
not crossing boundaries—
and y’all
thrive off
bitches that
fucking trust
you’d never be so desperate.

like i get
the men being unfortunate.
they’re predictable.
they’re hungry.
they’re weak.
they’re built
on societal loopholes
and locked iphones.

these dudes are literally
one insta pic away✨
from risking it all
on the daily.

but the women? 😐

yo.
the women?

shit.
that’s where
the real case study lives.

bitches will center
their whole fucking brand
around feminism✨
mutual aid,
social justice,
what-the-fuck-ever,
and then go straight mute
when your life
is burning the fuck down
while they hold the fucking gas can
because
✨some dude✨
who set the fucking fire
might text them
“lol what’s up tho”

yo. can we get some self-esteem?

no, literally.
because bitches will watch
you get publicly annihilated
and not say shit.
not a single “hey girl—are you okay.”
just fucking vibes and views, bro.

yo. these girls will
ghost for months,
post about
systems of oppression,
and then casually
watch a man
they low-key still communicate with—
fuck your entire life
and be like—
lol, i’m different though.✨🥹

nah—
because at the end of the day,
being in proximity
to male attention✨
—even punch a pregnant chick
low-level attention,
still feels so fucking
real to them,
that they’d literally
blow shit up,
or fuck you over—
just to maybe
potentially,
take their shot.

yo, are we serious?

i swear to god
some of you were just
fucking waiting
for me to fall
so you could be
the soft-bitch “bestie”
who just so-fucking-happened
to be available
when my ex
needed to “talk.”

like.
is that what this is?

this awkward
back-stabber energy,
slow-motion hunger games
for the role of
“girl he temporarily
extracted resources from”
while he was actively
fucking me over?

y’all were just claiming feminism.
is this what the fuck
you thought that meant?

lol. yo. come on.

and don’t even get me
fucking started
on the girls who
are out here
just fully performing
“cool girl with no boundaries”
because i’m not
automatically assuming
you’re a fucking pathetic
gremlin-level threat.

you think i didn’t notice?

you think
i didn’t clock
the sudden shift
in energy
when being
connected to him
no longer had
to include me?

and again,
yo, i wasn’t paranoid.
i wasn’t insecure.
i was loyal as fuck.
i’ve never accused
a partner of cheating
not once.
but—
with receipts?✨💀
lol.
i wasn’t ever assuming
every woman’s
out here
trying to fuck my man.

but some of you
really did
use my existence
to build your
fucking proximity resume.
and when i bounced?
you cashed that shit in.

one of y’all literally
called my long-term partner
“babe” mid—
✨“i’d sleep in your bed”
in front of fucking clients.
bro—
flirted openly.
touching, smiling—
like it wasn’t
blatantly disrespectful.

yo, do you think i’m stupid?

i let that shit slide,
cuz GIRL—
clearly: insecure, tragic, desperate-level pick-me vibes. ✨

but babe,
what the fuck?

i never thought
he was gonna cheat.
but you?
you showed me
who you were.
and that was
fucking enough.

because if you’ll do it
in public,✨
what the fuck
are you doing in private?

let me be clear:
i no longer
fuck with women
who flirt with taken men.
i don’t chill with people
who play “friend of the homie”
while high-key praying
for him to send that
fucking down-low text.
so they can
comfort the dude
and say, babe—
“i was just there when it all fell apart.”

like bitch,
shut the fuck up.
you weren’t neutral.
you were strategic.

and don’t think
i missed the girls
who knew about
him throwing hands
and still
maybe
probably
low-key
stayed in touch with him anyway.
maybe just updates.
maybe just “lol, hope you’re okay.”
maybe just the fucking fantasy
that he might pick-you
“baby—you were the only one who got me.”
fucking delusion.✨

girlies,
you let me
suffer publicly,
so you could
fucking facetime
his dumbass
while he’s texting
three other fucking girls.

bro.
this isn’t bitterness.
this is clarity.
this is reality.✨

i am no longer confused
about where any of you
fucking stand.
and i don’t need
some weird closure
from a squad
who fucked up
basic bitch code
while texting my man
behind my back.

girlies—
you’re not supportive.
you’re not helpless.
you’re not fucking dumb
you’re definitely not fucking
“just caught in the middle.”✨

babe—
you’re fucking auditioning.
and girl—
you didn’t get the part.

the shit was a ✨setup✨

babe,
you’re not a—
✨perpetual victim
just because
you’ve actually—
seen some shit.

that’s propaganda. 😐✨

✶

💡based on—facts

when you grow up in dv,
you don’t “grow up.”
yo—you just fucking age.

and then one day,
you’re in another
dv situation✨
or raped
or financially obliterated
by someone
you trusted,
and suddenly
everyone’s like:

“have you considered that maybe you’re just… the problem?”

😑😐😑

“why do you let this happen?”
“why didn’t you leave?”
“why are you always the victim?”

and you’re like
babe.
this wasn’t a fucking choice.

this was a trap.
a setup.

here’s the fucking deal:

when you grow up
in a house
that's a literal
violent shitshow, ✨
your nervous system
is wrecked from jump.
you think
chaos is love
and
silence is abandonment.
your body's out here
chasing danger
like it's
a fucking dopamine hit—
sounds entertaining, right?

then you hit adulthood
and—
🔁✨ surprise—
you land in another fucking
violent-ass situation✨
or worse,
and suddenly you're
"dramatic,"
"crazy,"
"a liar."
even people
you love
look you
dead in your eyes
and call you
fucking nuts✨
for speaking up.

!!!
when the other
option was:
✔ get fucked?
✔ stay down?
✔ play dead?

👉🙄👈

here's the truth, babe:

this was never
your fucking fault.

let’s do the math real quick:

1 in 3 women
abused as kids
get their asses beat again as adults.
if you have 4+ ACEs
(that’s adverse childhood experiences, baby):

✘ you're 7x more likely
to be raped or sexually assaulted
✘ 5x more likely to try killing yourself
✘ 3x more likely to
end up with someone who hurts you
✘ and way fucking more likely
to struggle with
✘ PTSD,
✘ depression,
✘ anxiety,
✘ addiction,
✘ chronic illness—
✘✘✘ all the hits.

this isn’t
a vibe check,
bitch.
it's straight science.

because trauma
rewires your fucking brain:

💔 your amygdala's hyperactive: everything feels like danger.
💔 your prefrontal cortex doesn't know shit: you miss every red flag waving in your face.
💔 your hippocampus shrinks: memory loss, dissociation, zero cause-and-effect recognition.

and your attachment system?
completely fucked.

so you chase danger,
thinking it's love.
and abusers
smell that trauma
like blood in the fucking water.
they know you're
easy prey:
you probably come
from a
broken home—
no fucking backup.
🙃✨🔪

you freeze,
you appease,
you think cruelty
is your punishment
and rage is your fault.

so let me ask you something: 🤡🪞

do you think
if i came from
a family
that actually
fucking cared,
someone wouldn't
have noticed 🙃🔪
when my husband
was financially
fucking annihilating me?
do you think
if i had
people around me—
friends,
siblings,
anyone fucking
paying attention—
he'd have gotten away with
giving me
fucking black eyes,
splitting my fucking lip,
bashing my fucking face?
😑👍
do you think
if i had
a daddy’s lawyer
on speed dial
or a support system
that wasn't
fucking embarrassed by me,
i'd look this
"crazy" now?

fuck no.

i'm the fucking
poster child✨
of neglect
and domestic decay.
of course
i look insane
standing alone.

bro—
my naive-ass
realizing
✋😃
a whole-ass
financial fucking firm
endorsed him.
knew about
the restraining order
and fucking
mocked me anyway.
yo—they laughed
as they disclosed
conflicts of interest
that could’ve
gotten me fucking killed. ✨🤷‍♀️💀

lol, i’m not dramatic—
i’m the goddamn fucking statistic.

repetition
doesn't mean
you're lying.
it means
you're living
exactly
what the data predicted.
it means
your trauma
is fucking textbook.

because guess what? 😐💭

→ abusers target unhealed trauma.
→ abuse survivors get targeted again and again.
→ if no one protected you as a kid,
you’ll barely know how to protect yourself as an adult.

it’s not attraction.
it’s trauma on autopilot.

breaking the cycle
isn’t cute
self-care bullshit.
it’s fucking ugly,
painful fucking work.

let’s be clear:

you weren't dramatic.
you weren't imagining shit.
you weren't lying.

you were trained
to think pain
was normal.

you’re not broken—
✨you were never fucking safe.

but now
you see the trap.

now you know.

now you get to go break that shit.
🫶🏻🥹❤️‍🩹

mid-level mean girls: corporate insurance edition™

aka “pyramid scheme karens go feral”

lol.
listen, bitches.
you know why
i truly didn’t
catch you all
at first?

because i was operating
under the assumption
that threats
were at
my level
or higher.

i was scanning for
real enemies—
people smarter than me,
faster than me,
hotter than me.

i sure as fuck
wasn’t looking at
the beige-cardigan crew
in a suburban-denver
mid-range insurance office—
with your sad-ass pyramid-scheme
and powerpoints, l o l—
generational-wealth affirmations,
and early-2000s A-line haircuts—
thinking,
“oh shit, yeah,
these bitches might ruin me.”

but mid-bitch alert:
the call was coming
from inside the cubicle.

—

like,
i tried to be nice.
truly.
humble, even.

because damn,
imagine peaking at
“mid-level financial advisor”
at a firm where your entire job
is cold-calling your parents’ friends,
hawking life insurance,
and pretending
it’s generational wealth creation.

imagine
being so aggressively mid,
you look at my trauma—
my actual fucking life crisis—
and see it as
an opportunity
for your sad-ass office drama
of “mean girls: fiduciary edition.”

imagine watching me—
pregnant,
cleaning houses,
supporting my
ptsd-riddled combat vet
(your newest golden recruit),
scraping by on audacity—
and still thinking:

“let’s wreck this bitch
because she’s still
hotter, smarter,
and more intimidating
than we ever could be
in our wildest,
calorie-counting-fueled dreams.”

—

🐉 the supervisor, baby:
when you sat across from me,
telling me i’d never earn enough
as a family attorney
while batting your sad little
tj maxx eyelash extensions
at my husband—
did it cross your mind
that maybe supervising
his fucking employment fraud
and blatant fucking
fidelity breaches
would have served you better
than trying to “one up” the woman
who paid the bills?

💁🏻‍♀️ new rep, honey:
when you dialed my phone repeatedly
as i drove with my baby
to go scrub toilets—
ignoring texts
where i literally said,
“i’m overwhelmed,
please stop calling”—
and then labeled me “hostile”
for simply existing under stress—
did you think
you were helping your bestie
or defending your professional ethics?

🧌 the og money rep,
oh this is tragic:
bro—the star of the show.
did you genuinely think
having a secret quasi-affair
with my legal husband
while you were literally
my assigned advisor—
managing my kid’s
fucking life insurance policy—
would just be
a quirky subplot
in your sad little
finance-girl era narrative?

LOL

did you think
venmo-ing him money
while pretending
to protect me financially
was “girlbossing”
or just straight-up
federal exposure?

—

see, here’s the thing,
ladies:
you didn’t actually want to win.
you wanted me to lose.

and that’s
why your downfall is so embarrassing:

you didn’t lose to
a woman who was richer,
more powerful,
or more connected.

you lost to a woman
who was literally
too busy surviving
lethal level
domestic violence
to clock your
sad,
pathetic
insurance-cult
fucking shenanigans—

until you got so greedy,
so sloppy,
so fucking reckless
that even a single mom
on fucking food stamps,
cleaning toilets
with a baby strapped to her back,
couldn’t ignore the red flags
of your collective incompetence.

you fucked up
a takedown
where the victim
was literally incapacitated,
bleeding out
financially
and emotionally.

imagine being that bad at crime.
imagine being that mediocre at evil.

—

so congrats.
you made it into
my trauma story.
not as powerful femme villains—
but as a pathetic mid-range
wanna-be-popular girl squad—
that peaked at our premiums.

and really wanted,
just like one—
hot guy.

once.

babes.
you wanted
to destroy me—
and then fucking
mock me for it.

bro—
all you did
was absolutely
categorically prove:

some women
don’t have
the talent,
looks,
charisma,
intelligence,
or spine
to get ahead on merit.

so they resort to sabotage
of their own clients—
from little cubicles,
hiding behind
cropped khakis + kohls heels—
thinking no one will see.

but babe?
i see you.
and i’m not just documenting—

i’m most definitely deposing.

okay, ladies—
let’s go.
to discovery. 🕊️🧾💅🏻

a true fucking nightmare ✨

sorry y’all
as i digest
the totality
of this
fucking bullshit—
my mind spirals
a little.

from the fucking
ptsd
of having
to
relive
this
fucking
near-fucking-death
era in my life. ✨

and let me
just say—
this is a fucking:
psychotic
violent
dangerous as fuck
narcissistic
financial
professional
fucking nightmare ✨

because
babe—
i don’t know shit.
but if it’s even
.01%
as bad as it looks—

✨picture it ✨

nah.
he didn’t just need gas money.
he needed my
whole-ass fucking car.
he needed $800
in a month
cash-advanced
off my fucking credit cards.
my debt
maxed the fuck out.
my fucking name.
my entire financial
fucking risk profile
to fund his little
broke-boy
fucking delusions.

and let’s not
sugarcoat this shit—
this wasn’t
one bad month.
this was a
whole-ass pattern
of financial fucking abuse,
built on manipulation,
entitlement,
violence,
lies,
and fake fucking ambition.

and yeah,
i let that shit slide—
because i was pregnant,
because i was fucking scared,
because i was trying to believe
he wasn’t the violent piece of shit
he kept proving
he absolutely fucking was.

but now let’s talk facts.
if even one fucking dollar
of what he
stole off me
was spent on anyone else—
especially someone
who had a fiduciary duty to me,
we’re not talking
about drama anymore.

we’re in:
fraud.
breach of duty.
potential conspiracy.
career-ender shit.

because if—
he wasn’t in that cubicle?
8 hours a day?
5 days a week?
for most my pregnancy?
while i was funding the dream?
if that financial representative
was receiving him
on her property,
communicating with him
off the fucking books,
knowing factually
that he was living
with his pregnant wife,
willfully disregarding
obvious dv indicators,
and never once
disclosed that relationship?

that’s a conflict of interest.
that’s willful non-disclosure.
that’s professional negligence—
at best.
and if she benefitted
from that financial exploitation?
bro. lol.

🙏💀🪦

if a single dollar i paid
to keep my household
fucking functioning
ended up subsidizing
their private
fucking connection?
girl.
we’re crossing lines.
civil.
ethical.
potentially fucking criminal.

this ain’t petty.
this ain’t fucking speculative.
this is fucking traceable.
financial statements don’t lie.
cash apps don’t lie.
ip logs don’t lie.
policy documents don’t lie.
and if you benefitted?
we’re talking complicity in financial abuse.
girl, you were assigned to
protect my fucking finances,
not flirt with
the fucking liability
bleeding them dry—
while kicking their fucking ass.

god damn.

you had one fucking job.
don’t fuck my money.
don’t fuck my life.
don’t fuck my abuser.
pick literally one.

and yet you fumbled all three
for a man who
couldn’t even pay
for his own damn
socks—babe!
like girl—
he needed my login
to uber to work.
that’s who you risked
your license for?
be fucking serious.

and let’s get this real clear:
if i find out
there was one smiley face,
one “lol ur so crazy,”
one late-night message,
while he was living with me—
or before that TRO hit—

you’re not just on blast.
you’re insanely liable.

because nah,
he didn’t ruin my life.
he was already
a human trash fire
with a violence kink
and a savings account
balance of
negative fucking
seven hundred.

you?
babe,
you jumped in
that fire willingly
in a tragic pantsuit
and a fucking compliance badge.

and for what?
some pathological,
un-employed never-again
finance bro
with unmedicated rage issues
and a toddler he abandoned?

girl.
you didn’t steal shit.
you attached your career
to a man who couldn’t
afford a fucking private shit
and now you're surprised
you're circling
the fucking drain?

are you insane?

nah.
this ain’t “messy.”
this is professional malpractice
with a side of
absolutely deserved
public humiliation.

because you are a danger. ✨

so yeah—
go ahead and hope
it wasn’t a motel. ✨
hope those payments
were innocent. ✨
hope those texts
were professional. ✨
but just know:
if even one does?

i’m not mad.
i’m fucking ready.
and discovery is
motherfucking war.

✶ client transfer, babe

listen.
i know
those venmo payments
were on private.
i know
because
i was told about them.
more than one.
with vague-ass reasons.
you know,
something like
“client goals, babe,”
or
“she can actually
enroll them✨
so i’m getting
the ✨kickback, babe.”

let me spell that out
for whoever’s still trying to play dumb:

• during the time this woman
  was assigned as my financial representative,

• my then-husband—
  who was not yet licensed to manage clients—

• was receiving
  direct payments from her

• while i was
  pregnant,
  financially supporting
  his dumb ass,
  and under active legal duress.

cool?

now.
maybe i’m wrong.
maybe i
fucking hallucinated
that during
the same time
she was
fucking advising me,
and he was
being onboarded
under this magical
“family firm” dynamic,
there were ambiguous
payments sent
directly to him.

but i didn’t
imagine sending
screenshots
to the company.
i didn’t imagine
filing
multiple documented disclosures
notifying them
that the
violence
✨ escalated ✨
dramatically
as those two got closer
and the payments increased.
while i was actively
begging for support,
trying to survive,
and handling every policy myself.

and the company’s response?
“the rep will be back next week.”

✨✨

yo. lol
cool.
so no urgency
at all, right?

meanwhile,
i’m sending
memoed,
timestamped,
documented transactions
from the same
financial rep
who was placed
on my fucking account
with no disclosure
of her relationship
to the man
actively abusing me.

let me say that again.
she was my assigned rep.
he was my husband.
she was sending
money to him.
i was under
medical,
legal,
and financial strain.
and no one said a word.

i’ve now
submitted
ten + emails,
screenshots,
and legal warnings.
and no one
has denied ✨
the relationship.
no one
has disclosed ✨
the extent of it.
no one
has explained ✨
how this happened,
or how this was compliant.

✨ so just for the record:

i’ve said it privately.
i’ve said it in my disclosures.
i’m saying it now—

from my understanding,
there were
kickbacks happening
between my husband
and my financial advisor
during a time
when i was
both their client
and their target.

if that’s not a compliance issue,
then maybe your entire firm is.

✶

feels like:

“when your husband’s
side chick
manages your finances”

or

“kickback season”?

✨

✶ dear god, fuck you for this

nah

where the fuck were you?
where the actual fuck were you
when i was getting
punched in the fucking head
by another fucking liar
who said he loved me?

where the fuck were you
when i got fucking married
with your fucking jewelry on?

yeah,
babe,
i wore
one of the fucking earrings
you gave me
when you fucking swore
to fucking god
you’d never leave me
alone out here
to fucking die.

you left me
for some dude
who stole
fucking everything from me,
probably fucked a coworker,
and almost fucking killed me—
all while you knew
there was literally fucking no one
to fucking protect me.

where the fuck were you?
fucking hiding.
fucking feeling sorry
for yourself.

did you think your silence
would be quieter than the sound
of my skull cracking
on the goddamn floor?

you showed me
one fucking second
of softness.
one flash of fucking safety.
one glimpse of what
it could feel like
to not be dying all the fucking time.

and then?

you fucking bailed.
you left me
in the middle of a fucking war
you helped me believe
i wouldn’t have to
fucking fight alone
for fucking ever.

congratu-fucking-lations.
i made it out.
i fucking guess.
but i had to
fucking crawl through hell
while bleeding
from my fucking pussy,
my face,
and my bank account
just to keep a kid fed
on a single digit
fucking checking balance
and zero fucking backup.

you knew.
you fucking knew.
i didn’t need perfection.
i needed protection.
and you weren’t fucking there.

so fuck the stars.
fuck the healing.
fuck the
“everything happens for a fucking reason”
fuck god,
fuck fate,
fuck forgiveness.

fuck you
for putting this
fucking story in my hands
and leaving me to
fucking write it alone.

you know
how many times
i almost died?
and i thought—
if he knew,
would he fucking come?

but you never did.
even when i tried.
yo.
this isn’t vengeance.
it’s not a fucking
blame piece.
it’s a goddamn funeral.

for my fucking hope.

because i’m so fucking tired.
because i didn’t want
to do this alone.
because i didn’t want
to be this fucking strong.

i wanted you to stay.
and now i have
this beautiful little girl.
and i’m so fucking grateful.
but i am so fucking tired.
and every time
she smiles at me
and calls me mama
and reaches for me
while i’m fucking sobbing—
i think about how
it all started
with a miscarriage
and a man
who didn’t know
what to do with pain
except run.

if you’re still reading,
i hope
some part of you aches.

not for me.
but for the version of you
who couldn’t stay
when it mattered most.

because i’m still here.
fucking bleeding.

bruised.
brilliant.
burning.

but never fucking saved.

😭

yo—where tf did my adderall go? ✨💊

(aka: when my adderall prescription just... vanishes; at large quantities)

yo. this is
a financial services mystery
nobody thought
i would fucking notice
but everyone
should be
potentially
fucking fired over
💊💊💊✨

let’s do some pharma math, babe.

back in 2022,
i did what any legally-minded,
trauma-certified baddie
would do—
documented that shit 💫
on my then-ex mistake
for straight-up
emptying my adderall script.
(not once, not twice—repeat offender,
like he’s
running a loyalty program
for the broke
and hyperactive.)
like…yo.
not a pill or two.
not even a “bad day” 5-pack.
nah.
30 fucking pills, gone.
in 48 hours.
repeatedly.

let’s set the scene:

originally?
grad school drop-out era
let’s be real
10, 20, 30 pills? 💊✨👻
my dude,
you would literally be dead 💀✨🕊️
if you were actually
taking all that.
so unless
you’re running
on undead warlock juice,
what tf were you doing?
🤡💊✨💸

oh wait—
maybe
you were in 🤑 business school
aka
the frat-adjacent
finance bootcamp
for socially anxious rich kids
and maybe 💸✨
budget coke dealers.
so yeah,
i put two and two together:

you were most probably:
flipping my adderall
to your cohort.
like some backwards
felon-adjacent
emotionally fucked MLM.
🗣 "hey bro, my girl’s got a script—
don’t worry, she won’t notice."
LOL
she did.

and then the bitchiest plot twist?
when you left school,
babe!
it got worse.

✍🏼✍🏼✍🏼

let’s run back,
his financial bro era: ✨

✘ coke “history” (lol) 💀
✘ broke as hell.
✘ private group chats lit 🔥
✘ suddenly— shit-ton of pills go missing. 💊✨👻
✘ timing? right before he kicks my ass

lol
babe!
like—
you weren’t even
pretending✨
to be in
finals season anymore,
and you were
STILL
raiding my shit
like a raccoon in a CVS??
every time
i forgot to lock it up?
poof.
gone.
another $$$
💊💊💊✨💸
double handful of
schedule ii stimulants,
mysteriously vanished
like your fucking moral compass.

but yo—
don’t fight him
he
might
fucking
strangle you.
✨💀

but babe—
you expect me
to believe
you were taking
ALL OF IT?
your 170 lb
finance-dude frame
just casually
popping
300 mg/day
for fun? 💀💀🏥

nah.
baby—
maybe…
looks like…
you had
a pipeline. ✨

i mean…yeah,
i’m not ✨ alleging ✨
he sold ‘em,
i’m just saying,
20–35 pills gone
in two days?
math says:
either you’re
the world’s most
functional fucking corpse,
🙏💀🪦℞
or you got ✨ clients,
my dude.

oh,
and his
little ✨ work girlfriend?
babe!
you seemed very energized 😳
for someone who “just wanted to help.” ✨🤤
how’s that potential—
adderall-powered moral flexibility treating you?

i’m not saying you took it.
i’m just saying
you spent
8 hours a day,
5 days a week,
with the man
who stole my medication nonstop
and probably?
wandered his gremlin ass
into an apartment 👹🚶‍♂️🗺️
✨ five minutes away
to “decompress.”
while he’s literally
putting me in
the fucking ✨ hospital.
babe—
you tell me.
did the pills
just disappear into the ether?
or were y’all
just really productive? 🙂🚩

but you know
what’s wild?
yo,
this wasn’t secret. 🚩
💊💊✨

there was:
✘ documented shit
✘ blatant fucking warning signs 🚩
✘ babe! this shit was mentioned in court filings✨
✘ yo—like: ✨mandated drug test for visitation
✘ countless text + email receipts

bro—
y’all just
neglected
to do any
fucking
✨ due diligence.

or maybe?
any
fucking
supervision.
🙏

again ✨

i’m not “accusing”
i’m just pointing out
how 1 + 1 + “yo did you take my adderall?” +
“nah babe, you must’ve lost it” +
mandated court drug testing =
the math is not mathing.

again.
i’m not alleging shit. 🕊️
i’m just pointing out that
your “heroic finance king”
was repeatedly stealing narcotics
from his wife
while actively abusing her,
and possibly?
handing them out like breath mints
at his firm’s morning huddle.

and for
✘ the compliance crew,
✘ the corporate risk girls,
✘ the senior bros
✘ and all the other 😶‍🌫️ little ops
reading this from your VPNS:
✨talk to legal.✨
because i’m not making threats.
i’m just saying:

✘ y’all never had control of this man.
and it shows. ✨

✍🏼✍🏼✍🏼
so my girlies!
try harder.
do better.
and maybe next time,
lock your fucking medicine cabinet.

🖐🏻💊✨℞

girl, i’m crying in a wal✶mart parking lot

holy fucking shit
i’m not even gonna lie—
i ugly cried in a
walmart
parking lot today
in my fucking car.
yo.
maybe i make
this shit look
fine. 🪷🧘🏼‍♀️
(mostly pissed?)
but honestly,
this shit is
fucking war.
like—
i sat there
full ass sobbing.
like a fucking asshole
just trying to
print out
400 pages
of fucking bullshit.

babe—
i just wanted a fucking hug
and instead
i got absolutely skullfucked
by a $33 overdraft
for buying
fucking
printer ink.

🗣🗣
cuz babe!
🗣🗣
that car insurance?
you absolutely fucked?
pulled $700 out today
the credit card was $150
cuz you know,
food. 💸
and sweetie—
my actual legal husband? ✨
the fucker
is busy
skipping around 🤸✨👨‍⚖️
the fucking city
🗽👮✈️
like a fucking asshole
🤨🏳‍🌈?
avoiding
deadbeat dad jail
for absence
of fucking
child support
payments—
fucking ever.
🏆✨👑

yo,
and probably
with some fucking gremlin 🐀
who encouraged✨ him
fucking emotionally
and PING PINGingly 💸🤑💰✨
to
almost
fucking
end my fucking life.
🥀🪦⚰️

WHAT THE FUCK.

yeah.
not a fucking metaphor.
not cute.
not poetic.
literal hp-brand poverty dye
to print out 400+ pages
of legal evidence
so i can prove—
drumroll—

🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣
that a mid-tier financial firm
fucked me sideways
while i was pregnant
and then handed my account
to the dude’s office side chick
as an extra “go fuck yourself”
🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣

like congrats
on surviving
fucking full on
two hands around
your fucking throat
manual strangulation
👏👏👏👏
(third trimester, babe 🏆)
here’s a
conflict-of-interest
with a fucking trust fund
and zero fucking shame
to manage your financial portfolio 💋

and bro—
the good printer? ✨
the laser one?
the one i bought
while still delusional enough
to believe in
home equity and family??
still in a fucking box—
in my dad’s fucking basement
alongside my entire fucking closet
aka 20 years of curated,
hot-bitch outfits
i can’t touch ✨
because god forbid
i try to access
the literal fucking belongings
because
i had to
flee for our fucking safety.

meanwhile
i have a legal oral
presentation tomorrow
and i’m choosing between
leggings with dried tears
or a cropped tank
that looks like
complex fucking PTSD. 💔
but yeah.
let’s perform professionalism.

lol!
today
i had 3 hours.
three fucking hours.
to do two weeks
of legal,
academic,
domestic,
and emotional labor
and instead
i spent it
driving
to
two
different
fucking places
trying to find one—
just one—
that could print
400 fucking pages
of lawsuit paperwork
before i finally said
fuck it (!!!!!!!)
and sobbed in my car
like a fucking chick
who someone gives
an actual
fucking
fuck
about.

👼🏼 (yo. my few true angels, forgive me, i love you)

but you wanna know
the worst fucking part?

yoooooooo.
REALLY.
i just wanted a fucking hug.
💔💔💔
like for real.
not dick.
not romance.
not attention.
just a fucking hold.
full on arms wrapped around me.
just one second
of being physically not-alone
in a world
that has done
nothing but
fucking obliterate me.

and i couldn’t
even
visualize it. 💔💔💔
no man’s arms
came to mind.
not a single
fucking
one.
(now i’m crying lol)
every past hug?
fucking poisoned.
every man?
a fucking threat,
a fucking liar,
or a walking unpaid fucking invoice.
there is no safe
set of arms
left in my brain.
no one to collapse into.
no fucking shield.
no fucking softness.
just me.
and a $33 overdraft
(actually $-152
by the time
i got home
and the clothes dryer
repair invoice
hit the account)
because
BRO
i needed ink
to fight a fucking financial giant.

and my own
fucking husband.

because instead of protecting me
he fucking stabbed me in the fucking back.
🙃✨🔪

just like the rest of them.
🫶🏻🥹❤️‍🩹

but best part?
yo—
i’m still gonna fucking win.
on E, bro.
in a hoodie i hate.
with tears dried
on my fucking chin
and highlighters
i bought
with fucking quarters.

because fuck.
all i got left
is the kind of
un-fucking-hinged stamina
that makes corporate giants
shit their fucking pants.

so yeah.
i’m fucking broke.
i’m fucking exhausted.
i’m absolutely fucking inkless.
and i’m still gonna
eat them the fuck alive.
✋😃

fuck.
every.
single.
fucking.
one of them.
especially those
fucking bastards at hp.
ink prices bro?
shit should be a fucking crime.

✶

ur honor i promise i do not care, i just need her deposed

nah.
no way.
no fucking way.

✶

no, seriously.
did your daddy not—
hug you enough
or some shit?
because seriously—
this isn’t even scandalous.
it’s just...embarrassingly stupid.

like…
screaming for attention.
🥺💔

babe.

you grew up legacy cash—
got licensed to manage
other
people’s
capital,
and still—

🤯 risked your career,
your reputation,
your family money
for a married dude
with a pregnant wife,
an empty bank account
and mediocre d*ck??? 🤯

are you actually that fucking dumb??

babe!
truly—

✨inspiring.✨

because like—
seriously,
you’re not 19.
you’re not confused.
you’re not fucking new here.

you are a
licensed financial rep
watching dv disclosures
in fucking real time—
under your fucking
government name (!)

holy shit. do you even grasp the gravity?
let’s walk through the choices, babe:

✘ inserted yourself inappropriately
into an active dv situation ☠️
✘ sent funds to the abuser
while holding licensure 💸
✘ assigned yourself
to the victim’s finances 📝
✘ mos def saw insta stories
about head trauma + fetal distress 👶🏽
✘ watched policy premiums
draft from her bank account 🏦
✘ weirdly unavailable when the policies…vanish.
✘ then (checks notes) …fucking dipped?

girl!

were you serious?
no notice?
no formal recusal?
no refund?
lmfao.

and still
somehow thought
you were gonna get out clean??

meanwhile:
she’s posting her

✘ restraining order
✘ hospital visits
✘ child support non-payment
✘ bro—policy fraud?
with screenshots?!

and your instinct was: 💡

“i should watch that… again.”
👁️👁️👁️
…
under your own name.
with licensure
on file.

????????

like...girl.
girl.
this is
reputation-ending behavior.

like—what the actual fuck???

this isn’t just
⚠️ morally repugnant.
it’s psychotically reckless.

you really thought
you were gonna be the
cool auntie at the birth—
and the secret side piece
and the ghosted fucking fiduciary
and the untraceable insta-stalker
and maybe…the girl he picks in the end???

jesus christ—
girl, you are delusional. 📢

bro,
can you imagine??
being so
desperate
that with your whole public profile—
you saw the bruises.
you saw the er posts.
you watched
every
fucking
story
where i said
he left us with nothing.

and you’re like,
yeah—
she’s crazy.
i really get him.
🫶🏻🥹❤️‍🩹
lol, so
i’ll just stalk silently—
disclose nothing,
probably iMessage her
legal husband—
in real time.
babe!
are you a fucking ghost?
👻👻👻

holy.
fucking.
shit.

🤯🤯

you’ve really
been sheltered,
this fucking much—
from the
✨consequences
of your ✨ actions
huh?

💸🤑💰💖✨

damn.

baby girl.

you watched everything.
(!!!!)
did you think
you were invisible?
😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️
sweetheart!—
you are fucked.

let me be really clear:
baby—
you don’t get
to walk away from this.
you don’t get to
hide behind
legacy money bullshit
or naivety.
babe, these are—
actual grounds for disbarment. ☠️

lol

sweetie—
you are:

ivy
league
educated
🏆💫

but you didn’t know
being an
emotional office mistress
when you’re
the listed rep 💫
was gunna be
a “no-no”
??????
🤷‍♀️💀

girl seriously???

you knew.
and you fucking chose this.
you just truly thought—
you were gunna get away with it.

babe!—
you live in
delulu land,
✨🌈🕊️
where white girls
with money
+ your zip code
= get away with
✨ savage levels of
absolute fucking violence ✨
because they almost 😥 cried once.

✨ girlie!
not this time.

✋🏻🛑

now?
i get to make sure
every professional circle
you ever orbit
hears all about
✨ exactly
what your versions
of “ethics”
and “fiduciary”
look like.

🤫🔪🚗🤘🏻👹🤷‍♀️💀

baby,
no one
with a
✨ spouse—
will ever
want you
around
ever fucking again.

girl—
no one’s gunna trust you
with…shit.

because you’re that
opportunistic and pathetic. 👹

sweetheart!
you don’t get to play
the victim
when you
bet the house
on someone else’s husband
and thought nobody would notice
that you burned that shit down.
🤷‍♀️🔥💀

like… what did you think was gonna happen??

seriously?
how do you think this plays out?
you really thought i’d just...
forget…
not notice?
—settle?
💀💀💀
with you?

girl—
lol

how dumb are you?
i want your name
on ✨ public records 📢❗🚨
so the next victims?
they’re 🚧 fucking warned,
babe—
put on notice;
✋🏻🛑⛔️
of your conduct❗❗
so you
can’t
ever 🚨✨
fucking do this shit
to anyone
ever
fucking
again.
💫

sweetie,
you thought i’d quietly
let you hijack my life,
my money,
my child’s future,
and my fucking dignity?

nah, girl.
you have no idea
how girls like me play.
babe—i’m organized.
you’re sloppy.

welcome to the 🌴 fucking jungle, bitch.
we’re going to court. ✨

discovery’s gunna
fuck your shit up
transparency’s gunna
follow you into those
alumni rooms. 🙃✨

you—
the overgrown
trust-fund baby—
playing fucking sheriff
in someone else’s nightmare.

the jury?
yooooo. 💀💀💀💀
psych dive:
babe—
they’ll see a
spoiled,
entitled
steal-your-man
absolute fucking brat 💳💫👹
so starved for attention
she would literally
fuck up her
💫 entire life
to be the
likely—
secret-during-business-hours-meet-up,
emotional ✨ fuck
while his
legal wife was—
home
pregnant
and
paying for shit.
✨🤮

ok girlie—
📸 picture this:
your arrogant face
in a fucking deposition room,
screenshots flashing
one by one,
every cash payment,
every fucking weird text,
every “awkward” pick me moment.

bro—i can’t. 💀

you really thought
you were untouchable.
lol.
babe—

✨⚖️ you’re the main event in my legal action

and nothing
you do now
is gonna save you
from your
✨ new legacy.

aka: 🗣 wtf were you doing
w/ my legal husband?

✶

…or:

🗣🗣🗣
“the financial rep
who probably—
aided & abetted
violence + financial abuse
because she was
so fucking desperate
to get a broke man—
who beat his
pregnant wife.”
💸🤰🥊 ✨

the best part?

you don’t get anything.
you don’t get out clean.
and you don’t get to pretend—
this wasn’t: 💫 the most pathetic fucking performance
in betrayal i’ve ever fucking seen.

i hope the screenshots
haunt every
“yo… isn’t she that girl who…”

because yeah.
girl—
you are. 🏆

✂️

make better choices.
oh wait—too late.

neutral observations on a legacy of loss 🥀🦷 (and dental decay)

just blowing
off
some steam
in a
do not go
straight-to-jail
kinda way

🪷🧘🏼‍♀️

✶

ok
💀
hey!
my personal
spawn of a demon,
did you really
try to
out-maneuver me?
you—
💸🧌
of all fucking people?
who i have personally
outwitted
in every
measurable fucking reality.
like,
you looked at me
and thought,
💡"fuck it, i’m gonna fuck with this bitch."

lmao.
bro—why?
dire miscalculation.
💸🏦📉
bro.
the one person
who should have
known exactly
what happens
when i—
🧠💥 lock the fuck in.
oh…
my already balding,
walking regret—
let’s be honest:
there’s plenty
of radio static
buzzing
around in my skull,
but when
that adhd superdrive hits?
🧠💥 🦸🏼‍♀️👊🏼⚡

oh, babe. 🚩
it’s game fucking over.

look,
i may not be like—
legally blonde,
but my specialty?
bitch—survival.
my credentials: trauma.
my degree: not fucking dying.
my spidey-senses
go full siren
the second
i’m being set the fuck up.
i’m not the boss fight you wanted—
i’m the final boss you fucking deserved.
🏃‍♂️🦷👹🚗

yo, and let’s be clear:
🗣🗣 i do this
for every single woman
you’ve fucked over—
the exes
you stole from,
cheated on,
left a mess for.
for the legal ex
you absolutely fucked,
for every sneaky,
weak-gremlin move
that made grown women cry—
not because you’re hot,
but because
🗣 you’re a violent,
🗣 controlling,
🗣 manipulative,
🗣💥 deeply dangerous
fucking dude.
bro—
even for the ones
i never liked—
because, let’s be real,
🗣🗣🗣
you are
elite
level
destructive.

and babe,
you never got one
over on me.
i just thought,
“nah, he can’t be
that fucking stupid.”
💀 so fucking wrong.
turns out you’re exactly
that fucking stupid.

sounding
the alarm
on you and your
violent-ass chaos?
bro—never gets old.
ever.

and you
really
thought
you could poke the fucking dragon?
turn this into
some low-budget
office drama,
with the c-squad?
while getting
an emotional cubicle handjob?
from a chick
whose teeth
are still waiting
for her trust fund to clear?
🥀🦷💀

lol. wrong.

my evil king,
👹👑
you
dragged your
entire fucking financial firm,
compliance squad,
and the great
yellow-toothed goblin 🦷🐲
straight into
your own personal hell documentary.
🔥🔥🔥 starring: you.

here’s your reality check—
i’m not just
coming for receipts,
i’m coming
for maximum penalties
and a cc line
that’ll make your lawyers’ lawyers
stress the fuck out.
every regulator.
every DA.
every fucking dollar,
every policy—
i want it all.
🔥⚖️🧌🤑💸

because—seriously,

🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣
all of y’all are a danger to society.
🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣

y’all fostered
🗣 violence
🗣 and financial warfare
and then?
🗣 fucking laughed
as your
🗣 office watched,
thinking
you’d get away with it.

baby,
if you end up
on food stamps
when this is done, 😢🎻
maybe you’ll finally know
what it’s like
to survive on nothing
while everyone
pretends it’s your fucking fault.

except this time?
🏆 it actually fucking is.

damn.
like?
divine
karmic
intervention,
babe.
you punched me
in the head
at 9 months pregnant?
bet.
now the whole firm
is coming with you.
⚡💸

think of the kids—
babe,
🥺👉👈
think of my kid—
the one you abandoned?
while you played
cubicle-hubby
with your
whole closet full
of fucking
banana republic™,
and somehow?
every fit
still screams,
“hr orientation meets
dental malpractice”
bae?
tragic, babe.

but—
thank you,
beloved legally bound troll,
for being
the world’s most epic douchebag
🧑‍⚖️🦷💸🦹‍♂️
and for making sure
your entire company
and goblin bestie
crash-landed
right fucking beside you.

after all
that social climbing,
🔥 your big legacy?
punched
your pregnant wife
so many times
she ended up in the ER
because
you almost
got caught hiding
a low-level,
possibly-sexual,
high-key repulsive,
(those teeth, that face?)
office affair ✨
with a khaki-wearing,
skincare-failure queen
so desperate
for validation
she’d blow up
her own fucking life
just to feel
✨close to you—
while you were
newly married
and i was
carrying your dumb ass
(and your kid).
🤰🥊💥

✶

be proud, babe.
your dad?
🙏🪦
yeah,
he’d be fucking
mortified,
embarrassed,
and truly
rolling in his fucking grave.
🤰🥊💥
🤰🥊💥
🤰🥊💥

✶

a legacy you deserve.

🪦💀🦷🧌🔥

babe—you made like $2.84/hour? 💀 seems legit.

✶

babe,
now that i’ve been forced
to draft
100+ pages
of fucking documentation
(love that for me) 💋
i just want
to thank you
for the most
expensive
unpaid
internship
in fuckboy history.
🏆🏆🏆

the
evidence pile
is
truly
almost—
as deep as your delusion: ✨👨‍⚖️

but let me
breakdown
what i’ve realize,
now that i’m not
under
threat
of
imminent ✨ violence.

ok so.

🐀📈🧢

✘ 5 days a week
✘ “commuted” an hour
but bro—
you brought home…
like??
a single
✘ $2k commission check
✘ in…like…5 months?

iconic productivity.
🏆
⛽
👑

wait but—
the same fucking place
with a
whole fucking motto—
out here like 🗣🗣
culture for new reps:
🗣
“be in the office
for morning huddle,
then vanish
and ‘prospect’ wherever,
as long as you close.”
so like?
half the office
never sees each other
after 10 a.m.?
my dude!
you cost more
in fucking gas
than you made
in sales.
you better
have been
sitting in
that 🙃
fucking 🙃
cubicle 🙃
eigthhoursaf&%kingday
🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃
isweartof&%kinggod
✨🌈🕊️🪷🧘🏼‍♀️
lol.

yoooooo—bro is the
💸✨ economic queen.

so…
what were you doing?
5x a week.
for like…most my pregnancy
not making
a dime?
hmmmm.

maybe?

✘ badge swipe
✘ bing at the office,

then what?

✘ gone 👻
✘ location off.
✘ + 11 pm mystery errands
✘ + 300% increased homicidal tendencies?

weird—
bro.
it looks like…

✘ your office goblin
just happened to live?

✘ a five-minute walk away? (👹🚶‍♂️🗺️🏢)

✘ very interesting ✨

does this mean?—
and wait—
i could
totally
be
reading this wrong. 🤡
but like…?
✘ no car.
✘ no money.
✘ no reason to fucking be there.
✘ 5 days a week.
✘ all day.
✘ pregnant severely ill wife
✘ 140 lbs. dog shitting in the condo daily
L O L
✘ aug to dec?

so…
feels like
you’re a fuckboi
shorting the fuck out?—
👨🏻‍💻👨🏼‍💻🧠💥🔌
signaling
👨🏼‍💻 to me
fucking
dumbass
cheater code for:
👨🏼‍💻💥💥🔥🔥🔥🔥
”it took a
whole
fucking
tank of gas
to sit
on her couch—
and call it…
a job?”

because
baby—
that’s
what
✘ the fucking evidence
seems
to
indicate.

idkkkkk man.

feels off. 🤔

(bro.
i bought
a 40k financed
fucking vehicle,
so you
🐀📈🧢✨👨‍⚖️
could commute.
+ fucking interest
+
you
totaled
my
paid
off
vehicle
🤡💀🙃)

fuuuuuuckkkkkkk.

🙃✨🌈🕊️

deep breath.

but for real?
all the while,
i was in
✘ trimester two?
✘ then three?—
damn, dude.

out here
✘ working,
✘ pregnant,
✘ holding shit down,
and
✘ not physically fucking repulsive?

🤡💀🧌

lol.
bro!

yo, ok.
i don’t usually go here,
but fuck it 🫡
cuz be for real— i lost
✘ my life savings,
✘ tuition fund,
✘ vehicle,
✘ ✘ and two fucking policies.

and shit—
almost my fucking IRA.

so fuck it.
let’s do this.

office emotional goblin:
👠👹🧌💸✨
ok.
…
yikes.
ok…wait…but…
for real?!—
yes
the personality
was…
🧌💸✨ bleak.
but bro.
her skin?—
lol. yo.
seriously
rough to look at
while consuming food.
but honestly (!)
🧌 the face…
in general?
yo…like i said,
some of us
fucked
too many
cousins
on the family tree.
🧌🧌💋
—
but woof.
ok.
but…
her teeth?
🧟‍♀️🦷🧌
my guy (!)—
this girl is “rich”
(???!) 💸🧌
yo, looks like the
before photo,
and you still
risked it all—
for
that?
legendary self-esteem, king.🧌🔥👑

meanwhile me:
your 💋 “dream girl”—
you said it,
a lot—
not me.
but you literally
couldn’t stop yourself
from lying,
cheating,
or tanking our entire lives
for a fucking
dental warning story
who couldn’t
even keep you around
unless she venmo’d you
while your wifey
was home preggo?

the man. the myth.

the reality:
my dude,
you had
every ✨
fucking
chance
to just walk away. 🚪🏃‍♂️🦷👹🚗
i would have
been
too fucking exhausted
to
extensively
document
your fucking domestic crimes.
like bro—
all you had to do was:
pay something in support,
let me breathe,
move the fuck on (!)
but no,
✨ you’re a little bitch.
so of course
you picked:
scorched fucking earth,
while you built
a fake “hustle”
and a real-life
office
fucking
disaster,
📲💰🤰🥊💥
and now
everyone
who touched that shit—
is gunna get their
hands fucking
dirty
permanently
fucking
marked.
🤯
but hey
don’t feel bad
at least that shit was—
✨ funded exclusively
by my
savings,
equity,
and fucking
insurance payments. ✨

but here’s the real
fucking hilarious part:
💀
yo.
you could’ve just left.
💀🪦
you could’ve just fucking walked.
you could’ve even
kept
the awkward
side goblin
and the subsidized commute
to fucking nowhere.
but naaaaahh—
you had to fuck with me. 🐲
repeatedly.
call the boys. ✨
drain our accounts, ✨
pay nothing, ✨
lie about
everything 💀✨
bro—
you tried to erase me,
and then
steal my kid’s fucking policies,
then gaslight me
out of my own
fucking
life.

so now?
babe.
💀💀💀
lol yo.
you fucked up.
now i’m activated. 💋

my dude.
i’m tracking id logs,
recording
every
fucking
email,
my sweet, pathetic—
disdain of my life, 💋🐲
now i am
fucking out here
timestamping fucking
venmo receipts,
looking up documents,
and lease terminations.
honey,
you weren’t commuting
for work—
you were making
the world’s
most fucking
stupid,
consequential,
horrifically litigious +
financially detrimental =
side trip
of all
fucking
time.

nice work.

congrats
on your only sales record:
selling yourself
short.

and i think?…
to fucking hell.

😢🎻

💋

the boy mom agenda✨: how to raise a monster and blame the wife™ 🙈🙉🙊

aka: raised by silence, crowned by violence

✶

bro—
boy moms?
raising certified assholes 🤰✨
teaching silence = loyalty
love means looking
the other fucking way
the classic watcher
from the sidelines
“shocked” by the fire
while holding
the fucking matches
never water in your hands,
just the fucking lighter fluid

yo. truly—
boy-moms are:
the original fucking enablers™
raising true demons
telling women to
shut the fuck up
and survive it.

my mom?
bro—
L O L
covered her fucking ears,
shut her fucking eyes
while one brother
drinks himself
into fucking oblivion?
screams
the absolute
foulest shit
at every
woman
in sight?

“verbal abuse”?
lol
just noise, bro.
she doesn’t wanna hear it.
it’s never fucking real enough
to acknowledge or
even?
maybe?
stop that shit?

like—god damn.
this is your spawn. ✨

other brother?
golden boy deluxe 2.0
cheats on a pregnant wife?
babe—
gets caught (!!)
red-fucking-handed
bro—
he walks away clean
while she’s left
RIGHTFULLY—
pissed the fuck off.

and guess who’s the problem?
always her
the wife
the one left holding
the fucking mess
never the bastard
who caused the fucking
damage.

babe—
i’m the one
calling my own family out
telling them to shut their
lying fucking mouths
when they drag my
sisters-in-law
through the fucking mud
because they can’t face
their own cowardice
and
monstrous
fucking
offspring.

yo—
i shit you not.
boy moms build
empires
on silence and denial
their sons so insulated
from repercussions—
raised to hurt without
a single fucking consequence
🙈🙉🙊✨

they watch
the house fucking burn
hands soaked in gasoline
but clutch
their fucking bibles
and pearls tight
like innocence means shit

casually cancel visits
right when the law
comes knocking?
when the truth slams
the fucking door?
they vanish like the
fucking cowards they are

they heard the screams
came,
saw—
and fucking left.
🙈🙉🙊✨
never lifted
a goddamn fucking finger
never said a word
just turned their backs
and walked the fuck away. ✨

babe—
this ain’t accident shit—
it’s calculated.
it’s generational violence
disguised as love
and boy-loyalty

boy moms raise sons
built to break shit
and people—mostly women.
and when the world
finally calls them out
they play
innocent little ghosts
too scared to haunt
their own fucking mess

“i don’t wanna be involved”
means
✨ “i don’t wanna
pay for
the fucking
monsters
i helped build” ✨

fuck the boy mom agenda
fuck their silent sponsorship of violence
fuck their enabling-ass excuses

✶

i mean this—
for
fucking
real.

i am done
carrying monsters
done swallowing
y’alls bullshit

fix your own
goddamn sons.

they’re
a fucking nightmare.

🙈🙉🙊✨

💌 a brief message from the uninvolved™

aka: the math ain’t mathing, grandma.
aka: the original enabler
aka: she was never coming—just needed to look like she gave a shit.

✶

months ago:
a “visit” was scheduled.
a grandma trip to see
the baby she doesn’t know—
because why bother
when it’s easier to be
the avoidant co-signer?

babe—
my mom taught me
the same
avoidant-mom playbook.™
shit gets awkward?
gets real?
🤡🪞✨
avoid,
deflect,
fucking ghost 😶‍🌫—
(in my mom’s case:
start fucking gardening)
😶‍🌫🌱🪴☀️
pretend you don’t
fucking hear shit.
standard passive-aggressive,
lack of accountability
boy mom move.™

but get this—
this masterclass in bullshit
happened after
she had front row seats
to her son
turning my life
into a fucking
dumpster fire. 🗑️🔥

bro.
this visit was scheduled
after everything. 👏🏻👏🏻
after she ignored the bruises.
after she stayed silent
about the theft,
the lies,
the addiction,
and fucking violence.
after she watched her son
leave us destitute,
on food stamps,
court-ordered child support unpaid,
and said nothing.

and even then?

i still welcomed her.
with open fucking arms.

i let her come.
to the home her son
abandoned.
to see the child
he left behind.
to the life she pretends
she’s disconnected from
but watches anyway.
yo—
again.
i welcomed that
violent boy-mom enabler
🫣🤰🥊💥
because
i’m not
the fucking monster here.

🧠 so let’s decode this bitch energy:

this ain’t “uninvolved.”
this is the classic
mother-of-a-narcissist playbook.

it’s the “oh honey,
he’s just misunderstood” routine.
the “why are you so angry—
you’re the drama queen” bullshit.
the silent nod
of fucking approval
wrapped in
passive-aggressive
fake ass niceties

baby.
she ain’t avoiding drama—
she’s ducking her role
in the
fucking disaster.

truly—
let’s run back the
✨ timeline of the great fucking betrayal:

everyone warned her.
me.
family.
his exes.
probably fucking
strangers
on the fucking internet.
the bruises,
the negative bank balances,
the lies,
the violence,
the fucking pill addiction,
the court dockets,
the stalking,
the goddamn fucking circus.
🫣🤰🥊💥🫣

and her answer?

“hmmm…i don’t want to be involved.”

cool.
great.
thanks for the input—
you are
a
true legend. 🕊️

when you were in danger?
she stayed silent.
🫣🤰🥊💥🫣

when he is in danger?
she plays sick.
🦠🤒🩺🧑‍⚕️😷

maybe because??—
✨ the charges hit?
you know?
fucking court dates?
potentially…
arrest logs?
real shit?
because
reality really
fucking sucks—
right?

babe—
i’ve been living in it.
while you stuck
your fucking
head in the sand.

and just days before
the months-long
scheduled
“love bombing”
i’m a real grandma visit?

✨ “i have an undisclosed random health issue.”

translation:
“oh hell no,
not the consequences
of his own fucking…
actions—
not my son’s monster ass
catching real heat.”
pull the plug,
cancel the guilt trip,
and peace out like
the fucking
cowards they are.

but now that the truth is public?
now that people
might start asking
her real fucking questions?

she’s out.
quick.
quiet.
uninvolved™.
✨

what’s really going on here?

when you were alone,
bleeding,
broke,
holding the baby?
🤰🥊💥🙈🙉🙊
she didn’t want to
“choose sides.”
she was like—
nah—can’t see this shit.
but when he started
facing real…
blows?
she suddenly turned into
the delicate porcelain doll
with undescript
“health issues.”

because
📢❗🚨
being grandma
is only convenient
when it doesn’t require
actual fucking accountability.
✨

yo—
i’ve seen this
mom-move™
🤡
so
many
times.

because babe—
those
boy moms?™
the ones who say:
“he’s a good person—
deep down”
they don’t want peace.
they want
plausible deniability. ✨

sweetie—
this isn’t passive.
this is
covert fucking violence.

this is what happens
when the mothers
of a dangerous man
refuse to break the mirror
because they see too much
of themselves
in the fucking reflection.
🤡🪞✨

babe—
she wasn’t
“avoiding drama.”
she was avoiding any
fucking ✨ responsibility.

✶

yo,
truly?
this shit
is fucking
✨poetic✨
💔🤝🕊️

but hey.
thanks for
utterly failing us—
once again, ma.

🤰🥊💥

🤘hot topic meltdown: the white boy faux rebellion💀🧷🔥

lol.
this one
is purely
for my own
comic relief.

🤘 🎸 🎤 💀 ☠️ 🧷 ⛓️ 🧥 🥾 ⚡ 🔥 🏴 ✊ 📢 🔪

ok—like
can we finally fucking say it?

middle-class white boys
with every playstation update
who found
blink-182 at the mall
and thought getting a bass guitar
and a “fuck authority” sticker
meant they were
fighting the system 🤘

were actually just
emotionally neglected
golden retrievers 💀
with no bite, no bars,
just a stepdad they mildly disliked
and a fantasy of being misunderstood
because their mom
wouldn’t let them vape inside. ✊

like babe—
you’re punk?
💀💀 lol.
like??
ok. yeah.
bro—
the fucking antithesis.
you understand that—
punk was disruptive survival,
a fucking diy rebellion
against systemic injustice.
punk meant fucking
⚡ danger, my guy.
not…
🇺🇸🇺🇸🤘
signing up
for the most fucking
inflated military budget on the planet 🔥 🔥
🔥 🤘🪖🎖️💊🇺🇸
and crying about it
because you didn’t know
what to do
when the
college fund ran out.

like congrats on enlisting in
the literal oppressor industrial complex™,
just so you could
sit in a climate-controlled box
in the middle east,
eating hot cheetos
and calling it “war.” 💀🇺🇸

you didn’t survive trauma.
you survived insanely overfunded
🇺🇸 orchestrated fuckery 🇺🇸
and a couple of sandstorms
while you terrorized brown kids
with billion-dollar toys.

🫡☠️💅🍒💀
L O L

(wait but, moment of respect
for the actually fucking terrorized)
✝️

bro.
you were not
fighting for freedom.
you were fighting
to avoid student loans
and feel something.
🫡☠️

punk?
punk is squatting a house
because capitalism
shit you out.
punk is stealing bread
for your little sister.
punk is resisting the machine.

BABE.

you were the machine. 💀💀💀

grow the fuck up.
you didn’t fight oppression.
🔫 you fought wifi outages.

but punk?

punk meant screaming
until your voice broke
because the state stole
your first fucking breath.

but you?
sweetie,
absolute
never-love-of-my-fucking-life,
you didn’t grow up persecuted.
you grew up in
a four-bedroom house
with central air conditioning,
a pantry full of fucking gushers,
and summer camp paid
for by your stepdad’s job.
🍕🏡🎢🎮

and babe,
my ex-malignant—
let’s be
so for fucking real.
that is not punk.
that’s
"mom can you pick me up from the skate park"
in human form.
🤘🔥💀

baby—
punk is fucking trauma.
punk is survival.
punk is being
chewed up by the state
and spitting blood
in its fucking face.

punk is not:

✨“i enlisted because i fucked up college”✨

💀💀

and then got
a sum 41 tattoo
after moshing once
at warped tour
in 2010
in cargo shorts.

baby!
that’s not rebellion.
that’s a pale dude
privilege tantrum
in camouflage.
trying to figure out
headbanging. 💀

punk is not
a fucking aesthetic.
it’s not your nfg cover
punk is watching
your whole life collapse
because some white boy
with a guitar and a
narcissistic personality type
couldn’t regulate his nervous system
and decided to make
that your fucking
problem.

so no.
you were never punk.
you were just
a suburban misogynist
with a hot topic nose ring—
and probably a porn addiction.

but go off, king.
sing about your ex.
from your mom’s guest room.

🖕🧃✝️💀🔊🧼

things i need to say to mothers: letter no. 004 — white flag 🏳️

ok, look.
i'm gonna switch it up,
because honestly,
this rage could fucking
swallow me whole,
and i just—
i can't let it.
i'm somebody’s mommy.

and on that vibe?
i’m my best self—
so i’m writing this for you.
you’ll know.

✶

🏳️ 🏳️ 🏳️ 🏳️

and like,
this ain't even about throwing shots,
though girl,
you moved real fucking shitty.
we both know that.
but listen,
i’m actually sorry,
like deadass sorry,
that this is where we landed.
i swear to god,
even thinking about you
like? fucking chills, bro.
not ‘cause i hate you.
not ‘cause i want a fucking war.
just ‘cause...
fuuuuuck.
you
reeeaaalllllllllllyyyyyy
hurt me.
you took
something from me
a whole life,
an experience—
we both know
neither of us can ever get back.
but yo, seriously—
the most twisted part?
i would’ve given it to you.
willingly.
all fucking
heartbroken and shit.
if you hadn’t disrespected it
like it wasn’t shit.

yo. that killed me.

shit,
i swear on my fucking kids—
sammi included,
that if y’all ended up
together,
i would’ve fucking smiled
through my absolute
heart-obliteration,
because at least
something real,
something good
came from this
absolute fucking atrocity.

like—
this ain’t a competition,
it’s a fucking graveyard.
i know this doesn’t make sense,
but i would’ve celebrated your win.
even if it left me all fucked up.

and when i saw
you lock down
that new family,
quick as shit,
ring on your finger,
another baby,
i was like,
alright bet,
good for you,
truly.

also, nice work. 💅
damn—quick.
lol. i feel you.
i low key
clapped for you.
silently.
from across the fucking country.

and bro—
way back then?
like during the saddest part?
when you dm’d me?
bro—
i was running on
heartbreak fumes.
but dude,
you know i showed up.
every fucking offering was real.
i wasn’t just trying to be
sneaky or some shit.
bro—
on my heart:
i fucking loved him,
he was my family,
and that meant you could be too,
you and your babies—
our babies.
i was trying to fucking love you.

do you know how insane that is?
do you know how deeply
you have to love a dude
to try and love his betrayal too?
like maybe if i love her,
i won’t collapse.

but damn,
you never saw me.
you never even fucking tried
to understand
the weight of my loss—
planned future,
best friend,
love-of-your-life kinda shit,
torn out from under me,
left bleeding out
on your fucking doorstep.

but nah.

you cut me off like i was a liability.
after everything.
like i was the threat.
like i was the drama.

girl.
you treat everyone like the op.
and it’s not a fucking flex.
it’s not self-protection.
it’s self-sabotage.

yo—
even through the pain,
i didn't even blame you
for the initial mess,
we weren’t together,
shit happens.
but it was the aftermath
that got me fucked up—
you playing games
with all of it.
with birth certificates,
with weird criminal vengeance,
with clear disloyalty,
holding the baby hostage,
treating everyone
like they're the fucking enemy,
cutting me off
so fucking cold
when all i tried
was to give it
to you fucking straight.

like,
i know that hurt,
but,
can you imagine???
me???
like seriously.

bro,
i’m not even exaggerating,
even after everything,
the whole life,
of abandonment and pain—
this was the worst part.
because it was,
everything
that i never
ever
ever
had.

safety.
love.
security.
trust.
vision.
softness.
protection.

it was my fucking miracle.
whatever—
mock me.

and poof.
and i still tried.

shit, girl,
i spent dough on your party,
whole time,
straight tripping like—
damn,
we planned this life.
but i cried.
(for a very long time)
got up.
and amazon’ed-primed you
some more fucking decor.
bro—
my homies bought you gifts,
i truly planned shit,
and you acted like
even i—was the op?
shit.
i was the one
who had your back
when nobody else wanted to.
you fucked me up,
moved like you never knew me.
and it’s sad.
because
i wasn’t faking it.
lol—
i don’t even know
how to move weird.
all shady and shit,
girl, i out myself.
because i can’t.
feels icky.

for real.
even recently?
yo—on my baby.
i was ready to show up
for your kid.
for your other kid.
to take them with mine,
love them all.
with you.
be the fucking village.
be the peace treaty.
i even said,
“i could help her,
even love her—
even now”

but naaah.
y’all always gotta be lying.
and idk why.
truly.
like y’all give me
zero option
but to actually
have to be
the fucking
opposition.
because i’m out here,
all clueless,
and every move—
is a fucking trap
when you’re walking around
in the fucking dark.

but seriously dude,
you didn’t show up for me—
not once.
even when you came back?
and i let you back in?
hearts and shit?
refollow?
girl…
months…
nada?
but he can’t speak to me?
yo,
you shoulda just told me truth.
asked for help.
whatever.
you know for a fucking fact—
i would have
helped
you.
with whatever it was—
even if they were both being,
fucking dickheads.
even if you wanted out.
fucking duh.

but for real…
i say this from
the hurt place,
why couldn’t you see
how fucked up
this all had me?
like truly broken?
like after everything?

babe—
as an older girlie,
that used to truly
fuck with you,
you don’t win
by hoarding pain
like it’s leverage.
you win by moving clean.
by doing what’s right.
by honoring
the people who had you
when they had every right
to blow shit up.

and yeah.
he told me to go
eat shit and die.
but you?
you just acted like
i never existed.
like i was a glitch
in the simulation.
like i didn’t spend years
building something
he swore was forever.

girl,
i don’t hate you.
but you haunt me.
because we could’ve
been something holy.
but even when
i tried to make it not ugly?
you moved like i was the enemy
and now i’m just someone
you’ll avoid eye contact with
for the rest of your life.
pretend never existed.

and the wildest part?
i still want you to be okay.
i still care about
both those kids.
i still remember
every moment
that could’ve
made this easier for all of us
if just one of you
had the guts
to be fucking honest.

and if one day
you circle back—
if you ever wanna look me
dead in the eye and say,
“yeah. i moved wrong.”
i’ll be here.

but for now?
i’ll say it for you:
thank you.
for trying.
for the parts you meant.
for reminding me what love isn’t.
and for proving i can survive
epic levels of betrayal.
even when i wanna
jump off a fucking building.

i hope you,
find your heart.
find what you want.
raise your babies
in soft light,
loud music
lots of smiles.

✶

😐🩸✨
no beef.
just the imagined delusion
of what could have been.
that i wrote
all by my damn self.

—s.l.l.

the fudiciary and the likely felon: let’s “circle back” 🙃🔁✨🌈🕊️

yo.
for those of you wondering
what the fuck is going on—

✨i’m a little bit—angry, y’all✨

✶

here’s a quick lil synopsis:

my husband got recruited
by some mid-level financial firm
i was brought in-office,
given the pep talk—
support him ($$),
this will totally be worth it!
while i was visibly preggo,
working multiple jobs,
cleaning houses,
and draining my life savings
because apparently this was a team sport.

sound like?
if one party reasonably relied
on a promise to their detriment…

hmmmmm.

YO.
worst financial decision
of.
my.
life.

he drained it all,
left me with the debt—

but the extra fun—
litigious part?

turns out
there was a chick at the firm
who got
so awkwardly close to him
that even his coworkers
thought it was sus—
like so sus—
the felt fucking brazen enough
to lmk my girl had to be
removed from my account,
post-protective-order,
cuz “lol, it’s awkward”
✨🌈🕊️
l o l.
babe…when tho?
cuz like—
when she was my rep?
or when she was his co-worker?
or both?
cuz like—
not awkward enough
for y’all…to say anything
like yo—
bitch, could you
divulge anything legally relevant?
jesus christ.
like—do you not
have a fucking duty…???
to be like…
🔉🔉 hey girl— (!!!)
this man is playing you, (!!!)
stop financially
fucking yourself. (!!!)
or maybe (!)
toss out a formal
fucking disclosure or two.

the fuck???????

fun fact:
as their relationship
got increasingly weird,
so did his late-night “errands,”
the door closing when she facetimed,
and hey, what do you know—
the FUCKING severity
of me getting
my FUCKING ass kicked.

i mean,
ping ping PING,
and suddenly
lol—
📲🔁🥊💥
it’s tackling,
smothering,
strangling,
full-blown
punch-to-the-head vibes,
flat on my back,
nine months pregnant.
🤰🥊💥

y’all saw
nothing
weird, tho?
🚩🚩🚩
hmmmmm.
just another day at the office,
i guess. 🕊️🕊️🕊️

then,
january 2024,
days before i’m due.
and this chick
casually gets assigned as—
wait for it—🚩🚩
✨ my personal financial rep. ✨

because who
wouldn’t want
their husband’s
✨lil work-bestie✨
managing their accounts,
right?

💡 unclear—
i was purely worried about
staying alive✨🌈🕊️
at the above-described time.
🙃🙃🙃

and right after onboarding,
i mean like
days later,
less than
a fucking week—
i literally almost
lose my unborn kid
because 💥 violence escalated
right alongside
the FUCKING venmo pings
📲🤰🥊💥
she kept casually sliding him
with zero reasonable
explanation or context. 🥊 ✨

(besides maybe…
taking advantage
of my vulnerability?
while also my financial rep?
got it. ✨)

but again,
i guess no disclosures necessary,
team?
cool, cool, cool. 👏

i was just a hostage
🤰🤰🤰🥊 ✨
of a violent
and manipulative
nightmare 💀
but thanks for
potentially,
presumably,
possibly,

👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

✨ aiding and fucking abetting ✨
the whole fucking operation—
and
😈 ✨ concievably,
fucking with my ability
to make sound decisions around:
→ my money,
→ my safety,
→ and my fucking life.
!!!!
→ oh and my kid’s fucking policy (!!!!)
→ all while assumably failing to disclose:
an ✨ acknowledged conflict of interest ✨

👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

damn y’all.
like—
why did you gotta
potentially do me like that?

anyway.

fast forward
to when it finally hits
public record ✨
and my fucking
private socials✨—
that my husband’s an actual
violent abuser. 🤰🥊 ✨
…
with zero disclosure:
public record says—
✨within weeks,✨
miss fiduciary 👹💅
dips the fuck outta dodge
like she never fucking existed,
tells me nothing—
says nothing.
quits her job,
apartment,
whole fucking city—
bro—
leaves zero fucking trace—
besides my new rep
letting me know—
shit was awkward with
my legal husband.
💅🥴
lol!

awkward
like how policies
i was funding,
got fucked? ✨
or—
awkward like
her entire
undocumented
conflict of interest
while i fucking lost—
all 💀💀
financial stability
and almost—
my fucking life?! ✨

yooooooooo.

a fact that
that you still—
fail
to fucking disclose
in any
formal
capacity??
just vibes??
and lil “hostile” wife drops??

damn bro. 💀💀

but no worries— ✨
i’m still here
with my cute
✨ lil breach binder
that’s fat as fuck,
filled with receipts,
timestamps,
and records,
so unless
y’all got
a FUCKING wizard 🧙
to rewind reality,
i already got enough
👼 causes of action 👼
to light this firm up
like the fucking fourth of july
🧨🎪🃏🎉🎆
without even dipping
into discovery yet.

team,
besties,
fiduciaries:
🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡
if this is just
the shit i casually know
without even trying???—
i promise discovery’s about to be
awkward af for y’all. 🍿

hope you got
good counsel,
because i’m
a lil upset.
🌈🕊️👸🔥

let’s gooooo.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥


✶

🌈🕊️👸💖✨ disclaimer: i am not a lawyer—
this is purely my personal, opinionated breakdown of events based on public records, internal communications, and my lived experience. nothing herein constitutes legal advice. all factual assertions are supported by documentation in my breach binder; any statements that aren’t proven fact are clearly presented as my own hot take.