the office affair: an american femicide problem

you know
what’s fucking insane?
office-workplace-bullshit
like this?
shit’s been fucking over wives—
for-fucking-ever.

because look—
this isn’t just my story.
this is the fucking playbook.
and it’s been killing women
for fucking decades.

like what’s the most
american thing?
the hidden workplace affair.
the office “inside joke.”
the wink-wink,
nudge-nudge that a man
has a side chick
at the fucking cubicle
while the wife is home
with the goddamn kids.

and the whole
fucking office whispers.
they know.
they laugh at her pain.
they turn it into a fucking pun.
they don’t see the blood yet,
so they think it’s fucking funny.

but here’s the thing—
statistically,
the wife is the one
who ends up
in the fucking morgue.

facts don’t lie, even if your advisors do:

✘ nearly 1 in 3 women killed worldwide
are killed by an intimate partner (WHO, 2021).

✘ in the u.s., more than half of female
homicide victims are killed by current
or former intimate partners. (CDC, 2017).

✘ one of the most dangerous flashpoints?
abandonment + infidelity.

when men step out,
they don’t just fuck around—
they motherfucking escalate.
that’s the lethal cocktail:
jealousy,
humiliation,
financial drain,
loss of control.
fucking textbook.

so yeah—
this is bigger than
“lol it was awkward”

no, bitch.

they didn’t just nod along—
they played fucking chauffeur
for an affair partner
to come hold my goddamn
fucking newborn,
while my husband
was punching me
in the fucking head.
(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
you thought that was funny.
you thought that shit was cute.
meanwhile,
every fucking DV textbook
in motherfucking america screams:
this is the homicide pipeline.

historical roll call of women
chewed the fuck up by this “joke” culture:

✘ 1970s–80s: how many “mystery disappearances” of wives
were later tied to cheating executives, corporate relocations,
“awkward work relationships”?
too fucking many to count.

✘ nicole brown simpson.
ring a fucking bell?
she told fucking everyone
he was gonna kill her.
the cops fucking lol’ed.
the nfl goddamn shrugged.

✘ how many true crime
fucking podcasts start with
“he was having an affair at work”?
you goddamn assholes—
practically all of them.

the office affair isn’t just a side plot.
it’s the fucking motive.
it’s the fucking weapon.

and here i am,
a still-legal wife,
financially obliterated,
emotionally demolished,
carrying the whole fucking
house of cards on my back,
being told by a senior advisor
that my abuser and his
female fucking coworker
were goddamn “close”
and she left
the whole fucking industry
after it got “awkward?”

shut the fuck up.

like do you fucking hear yourself?
this isn’t “awkward.”
this is the exact recipe
for a homicide case file.

numbers again,
since y’all love metric
at your little frat firm:

✘ 94% of female homicide victims
killed by men knew their killer (Violence Policy Center, 2020).

✘ 64% were wives, ex-wives, or girlfriends.

✘ infidelity + separation = one of the top predictors of femicide.

you pompeous mediocre fucks—
every DV researcher
has been screaming this shit
since the 1990s (!!!!)
so tell me,
how the fuck
do you look at a combat vet
with motherfucking PTSD,
a goddamn TBI,
a financial dependency on his fucking wife,
a giggling female coworker on fucking speed dial,
and a pregnant spouse at home—
and think this is a fucking joke?

baby—
you didn’t just miss the red flags.
you chased those fuckers. ☠️🚩
🚩 you collected them.
🚩 you archived them.
🚩 you laughed at them.
🚩🚩🚩🚩
and you sent them on
a fucking field trip
to my goddamn house,
to hold my fucking baby.
🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩

so here it is, you dipshits:
this fucking lawsuit
is for every woman
who got laughed at
by the mistress in fucking HR.
for every wife bankrupted
by the “work bestie” who thought
she was main fucking character energy.
for every goddamn homicide file
stamped with the words:
domestic violence,
suspected infidelity.

⚠️🤰🥊💥💀🤡

(!!!!!!!)

this ain’t no awkward joke.
this ain’t no girlboss move.
this is fucking manslaughter by culture.
this is the patriarchy’s HR department
signing fucking death certificates
in quipping motherfucking format.

you want my legal stance?
fine.
my legal stance is that
your office culture was
a material condition of
my fucking abuse.
you incentivized it.
you fostered it.
you fucking laughed at it.
and history,
statistics,
and every homicide data set
in goddamn america
prove exactly what i’m saying:

the office affair doesn’t just wreck homes.
it fucking kills wives.

you are all culpable as fuck.

🔥 end of entry.

congrats, it’s a psychopath 🎉💀🔪

yo.
jesus christ.
lemme put you on real quick.
this ain’t “he fucked up.”
this is scary as fuck—
like, anti-social personality,
predator-with-a-pulse type shit.

because tell me how a man
can extort his own pregnant wife,
drain the bank accounts,
leave a baby without food,
without diapers—
and then walk into “school” like
he’s the fucking comeback kid? 🎓🤡

nah. that’s not stressed.
that’s not broken soldier.
that’s not a man in crisis.

that’s clinical.
that’s hollow.
that’s jesus-mary-and-joseph alarm bell psychotic.

that’s the fucking
☠️ danger meter ☠️
blowing the fuck up.

like nah,
this is the part
where the mask drops
and you fully fucking realize—
this isn’t just a bad husband.
this isn’t just a dude who “struggled.”
this is a whole ass
psychopathic personality type.
like, open the DSM,
flip to antisocial,
and there he is
fucking smirking at you.

let’s call it what it is:
people like him?
they don’t bond.
they don’t connect.
they don’t “love” in the way
typical people even attempt.

parasites don’t have relationships, babe.
they have fucking plugs.

what that fucking screams (!!)

⚠️ fucking hazard ⚠️
!!!! attention babes:

this is not a fucking drill.
this is not a sad boy story.

the profile 📂🧠
– zero heart.
– parasitic lifestyle.
– instrumental exploitation.
– superficial charm, master manipulator.
– rage when cornered.

→ no empathy, zero.
you’re a single mom,
nil help,
he financially fucked us,
left us with every single bill—
and we’re crying out here
for fucking food money,
people donating clothes,
diapers on E—
and he’s enrolling
in fucking school?
🎓📓🤡🙃📕📚😂
shut the fuck up.
bro. not cause he cared.
cause he wanted another plug,
another way to flex,
another excuse to leech.

💭💭💭💭

(and let me also say,
whoever fronted
that money
those thousands of
fucking dollars 💡
for him to walk free—
for a few weeks
before his
divine fucking intervention
with the fucking judge?
yo, the absolute,
true fucking villain that
released him from
the 💥 consequences 💥
of his own
fucking actions?
while i struggle to feed
his fucking child?—
after he exploited us?
yo.
you will
get your fucking karma.)

→ bro has no bonds.
this man never
even attempted a true
fucking connection.
with anybody—
no real friends.
no family ties he respects.
not even his own kid.
the only “connections” he makes
are whoever’s providing him resources.
you, his pregnant wife.
his office, the frat-club.
that bland co-worker side supply.
then he moves on. true parasite shit.

→ all extraction, no attachment.
marriage? extortion plan.
fatherhood? bargaining chip.
wife? fucking ATM. bed. car to drive.
daughter? prop for the pics.
tell me that ain’t scary as shit psychotic.
side pieces?
the office?
obscurity and a fucking mechanism to exploit.

yo. yikes.

→ rage as cover.
when you caught on—
when you asked,
“yo, where’s the money?”
”where the fuck have you been going?”
he didn’t answer.
he lashed the fuck out.
cause control
means more than respect.
violence is the stfu trigger.

why this is scary as fuck

cause now that it makes sense—
how he could spit in your face,
jump on your pregnant stomach,
steal your life savings,
intentionally total your vehicle,
leave you fucking starving—
with his own fucking child
then walk into that alt life every day
like he’s soldier of the fucking year
some goddamn golden boy
cause to him?
none of it’s real.
not you. not your baby.
just fucking checkers pieces
on his dumbass boardgame.

that’s not broken.
that’s fucking dangerous.
that’s antisocial personality.
that’s a man with no human wiring—
only survival and supply.

and the most frightening part?
once you see it—
you know there was
never a husband.
never a father.
never even a fucking friend.
just a dude running a long-con
with blood in his fucking teeth.

gives me fucking chills.

🩸🐍📂

some of y’all have never been punched in the head while pregnant and it shows. 💔💀

just say it.
you don’t get it.

you don’t get
what it’s really like—
watching someone
you care about
try to fucking kill you.

nah.
you really can’t even
fucking conceptualize it.

unless you fucking lived it.

because that shit
doesn’t make
any logical
fucking sense—
even at the time,
so you rationalize.

you keep your
fucking head down,
and pray
it’ll be over soon.

that maybe
he’ll get better.

so yeah assholes.
keep reading my
bad bitch diary

to legally fight me—
for almost fucking
dying while pregnant
while y’all watched
and fucking giggled.

this is the one
that fucking guts me—
because i wanted
to believe
so fucking badly
he was just fucked up.
just “lost.”
just broken by war
or his dad’s death
or fucking life
or whatever story
made it less fucking
disturbingly brutal. ✨

but no.
the only equation
that actually balances
this fucking shitshow?
the ugliest fucking one.
so here’s the part
i didn’t want to admit.
the most ominous theory—
the dirtiest,
most humiliating fucking possibility:
and it’s exclusively what compels
all that shit
to make any fucking sense—
the missing data point
that
connects
all the fucking dots.

🗡️💔💀

babe, let’s walk it.

✶

the “job” 👻🕴️

five days a week.
eight hours a day.
commute: 55–70 minutes each way, in traffic.
~half a year.

total income?
two. fucking. grand.

bro.
you don’t put in 300+
hours a month
to make less
than minimum fucking wage
and have seemingly
zero fucking clients
to show for that shit.
you don’t work
that much
and not even run
your own wife
through the goddamn
fucking system
until after you quit—
through her.
while i was financially
convulsing
fucking drowning—
waiting for those
fucking commissions,
he kept fucking promising,
pregnant,
cleaning houses,
sick,
paying for licensing,
exams,
thousands for conferences,
gas,
food,
five grand down on a fucking car,
credit cards maxed,
fucking punched in the
goddamn fucking head.
holding it
the fuck down.
yo.
the totaled vehicle?
the IRS refund gone?
the fucking money disappearing
in random ass
cash-fucking-withdrawals?
and what the fuck
did i get back?
babe. nothing.
nada.
not even my child’s
fucking life policy—
just complete fucking
systematic abandonment
in goddamn return.

so babe—
that doesn’t look like a “career.”
that looks like
a fucking extortion conspiracy.
plain and fucking simple.

✶

the money black hole 💳💸🕳️

meanwhile:
credit cards maxed.
cash disappearing.
IRS refund eaten.
him claiming $5k “income”
for the year
when reps are
“averaging” 60–70k.

lol.
in the summer?—
bitch put
”club tabs” on my card.
he’s out,
he’s not yet violent,
he’s already shady af.
but by november?
$800 in cash advances?
babe—
too filthy
to even indicate
the fucking charge?
and he’s strangling me?
where the fuck
do you think
that money went?
sweetie, it didn’t
just fucking vanish.
it was funding something
he couldn’t put on
my fucking debit card.

✶

the behavior arc 😡💥🩸
this is how it escalated:
at first, irritated.
then angry.
then hostile.
then fucking dangerous.

why?
because his double life
was caving the fuck in.
and i was noticing
shit didn’t add up.
money vanishing.
hours not making sense.
“career” going nowhere.
locations turned off.
and he knew.
he knew
he was doing
the kind of grimey shit
that he couldn’t
talk his way out of
anymore.
so instead of confessing,
he tried to fucking
obliterate me.

yo.

that’s not stress.
that’s not “lost soldier” shit.
that’s straight fucking
predator behavior.

✶

lol. the female 🥴📱💌💰
here’s the part
i can’t even wrap
my goddamn head around—
because whether she
ever touched him
or not
doesn’t even fucking matter.
she already crossed
the fucking line.
every fucking time.
private texts? check.
private emotions? check.
private money? check.
private future plans? fucking check.

“come meet my daddy!” 🚨💀

shit.
honestly, i’m shook.
because yo—

that’s a fucking affair.
that’s betrayal.
that’s complicity.

i’ve just been
fighting for my life
for so fucking long,
just white-knuckling
through the abuse,
the bills,
the fucking gaslighting,
the goddamn bruises.
i never stopped
long enough
to stare
at the whole fucking picture.

and now that i do?
fuck. ew.
it’s all there.

✶

and let’s not fucking forget:
the insideous shit.
because yo—
she watched me post
my swollen ass face,
my lip all fucking split,
my head bruised the fuck up—
from while i was pregnant.
and still?
this bitch stayed tapped
the fuck in it.
yo, she suited the fuck up—
she dialed the fucking number,
she chose attention over
human fucking life.
and the office let it ride.

✶

the silence now 🪦💔≈
not after
months of begging.
saying yo—
i’m in crisis,
with that baby
you watched me grow,
so please—
just fill me
the fuck in?
nah.
nope.
nothing.
no correction.
no clarification.
just fucking silence.

and silence = fucking confirmation.

because trust me,
this flaming garbage pile
is despite me
never, ever, ever—
wanting to believe that shit.

because
what sane woman
wants her worst fucking nightmare
to be the only explanation that fits?

yo, homie
quick reality check—
my dude
is the father 🤫
of my only child.

that shit doesn’t just
disappear. ✨

this is not
the fucking plot
i ever dreamed.

not for one
fucking second.

i don’t want this shit.
i want anything
fucking good.
anything
fucking normal.
anything
fucking safe.

damn bro.
like truly—
how could someone
move so fucking shitty?

so yeah.
this is why i’m sick.
because the only explanation
that fits is the one where:
he was never really working.
he was living a double life.
he was emptying my bank accounts,
he was violent as fuck
because he knew
it was indefensible.
and everyone around him
fucking knew,
and they laughed anyway.

for real.
this isn’t just “cheating.”
this is financial destruction.
this is psychological warfare.
this is fucking annihilation.

✨ this is exactly
how women die. ✨

because seriously?

wiki says “an affair
can be solely sexual,
solely physical
or solely emotional–
or a combination of these.”

so let’s be honest,
that’s a fucking affair 💋
that’s betrayal.
that’s company-wide
fucking complicity
while i almost
lost my fucking life
and my baby—
almost never fucking
made it.

and the part
that makes me
want to vomit?
yoooooo.
it all fits too clean.
it explains everything
i couldn’t ever fucking explain.
the missing money.
the energy shifts.
the sudden rage.
the creepy-obsessed colleague.
the career black fucking hole.
the quit timed like
a fucking cover-up.
the way i ended up
broke,
a single mom,
mocked,
and fucking erased.

bro.
i wasn’t just unlucky.
i wasn’t just married
to someone “struggling.”
i was targeted.
played.
intentionally exterminated.
while they fucking laughed.

and the most frightening
fucking part?
i only see it clearly now—
after i’ve sat
in silence with it
long enough.

and that’s why
it’s so terrifying.
because i wanted
to believe
he was broken.
but the truth?
he’s a predator.
and predators don’t stop.
they get dragged
into fucking court.

🩸💀📂

pick-me pathology threat index: severe risk 💥

this is purely
for my own
fucking safety diagram.
mapping out
the potential fucking
immediate threats.
like—
could this shit get
any more fucking ludicrous?

🍿🤡📺

this goddamn
fucking fantasy read.
the kind of plot twist
i wouldn’t even believe
if you handed me the script.
but these people?
are dumb enough
to do this shit.

🧂🧂🧂

ok. so—

can you.
fucking.
imagine.

💀

if this bitch
was actually
so fucking sufficiently dense
to hop a plane
or drive her crusty ass rental
down to texas
to go bond this wife-beater out?

lol. nah.

but i guess—
we shall see
in the fucking court docs.

🤫📱👤

because seriously,
fucking ominous—
really visualize that shit.

🎬✨

the corporate side chick.
the alleged insurance fraud co-pilot.
ivy league delulu princess.
the woman who’s been ghost-stalking me
from her overpriced nyc apartment
like a fucking obsessed inheritance-goblin.

but day of release? 🏛️🛻💨📍🛫

poof—
nyc pings vanish.
texas lights the fuck up.
same fucking day
my felon-adjacent husband
gets discharged from fucking county.

🪄💥👻

BRO. fucking picture it.
(shit better be a fucking joke)

…

she rolls up to county jail
thinking this is her moment.
her ride-or-die era.
like this is the love story
she’ll tell their grandkids
after she erases the part
where he beat his pregnant wife
and got arrested for being
the fucking clown of the year.

she’s standing there,
holding his shit in a plastic bag,
probably smirking like
“look at me, babe.
i’m the real one.”

💀💀💀💀💀💀

meanwhile—
it’s giving
desperate enough
to potentially
sign fraudulent insurance docs
at your corporate desk,
desperate enough
to ping his ass money
and financially cut out
the lawful fucking wife—
desperate enough
to ignore a literal lawsuit
with your fucking name in it
just to keep the fantasy alive—
babe.

no.
for fucking real—
i hope i’m kidding.
but so far?
ehhhhh,
shit looks bad.

shit’s been looking
really fucking bad.

🤰🥊💥💀💰💰

because
this is not cute.
this is not romantic.
this is lethal pathetic.
this is
“bury the body, burn the clothes,
lie to the feds”
pathetic.

🗣️ this is scary-as-fuck levels of pathetic.

✨👤💋💸🔪🩸☠️✨

because if you’ll go this far?
you’re not just
a dumb bitch.
you’re dangerous.
you’ve already decided
the only way to win
is to double down on losing.

so yeah—
can you imagine?
i can.
and it’s fucking alarming.
and goddamn terrifying.
and so on brand
for a cunt
(in an english accent for impact)
whose whole personality
is being the goddamn second choice
and pretending
it’s a fucking peak.

and it
scares the fucking
shit out of me.

because babe,
who is really
bankrolling my
broke-as-shit
fucking probable
felon-level hubby?
while i’m
hopping dark locations
with a fucking baby?

💸👤💋🤝👤💸

because his mom?
never had enough
to send food, electricity,
or fucking childcare money (!)

—so who the actual fuck?

🤫❤️‍🔥💸🚶💨

(…let’s hope to god his fucking auntie)

ok. let’s do that.

because—
better not
catch yourself
in a geo-tag;
a money-movement
you can’t fucking explain.

like, oh my fucking god.

y’all. 😭😭😭

who knows,
to what level
of absolutely fucking
absurd-grade fuckery
this shit really is?

yo.

🚊🤸‍♀️

this is not a love story.
this is a case study in
mutually-assured-fucking-destruction.
this is
the kind of shit
that makes forensic profilers
sit the fuck up and
light a fucking cigarette
mid-interview.

because look.
if you’ll allegedly:
— funnel money to a married man through venmo
— commit blatant policy fraud
— engage in ongoing absolute fiduciary fuckery
— watch his pregnant wife post bruises and abuse updates

and still stay locked-the-fuck-in?

👀🔪🩸😭

then in fucking ✨theory✨
you would most fucking definitely:
— bail him out
— run to him when y’all’s story blows the fuck up
— be the one holding the fucking bag 💰💰

while he “lays fucking low”

nah, you couldn’t have.
because if you did?

if you are or have been—anywhere fucking near him?

you’re not just stupid.
you’re complicit.
you’re not just risking it all.
you’re setting fire to it
and posing for the fucking flames.

💀🫠🧯🔥🪦🕵️‍♀️

and hey—
all this guessing?
this is exactly fucking why:

(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

i needed a fucking disclosure.

⚖️📄✍️🙃

because when
the court docs drop?
if your name’s
anywhere near
the same location
as his fucking bullshit?
you can’t scream
“i didn’t know.” 🤥

you did.
you just didn’t fucking care.

🙉📢

and that’s not fantasy,
babe.
that’s frightening pick-me pathology.
and that shit’s fucking disturbing.

🌹🧠🔪💀

🗣 fuck all y’all

this isn’t a post.
this is a controlled demolition,
minus the fucking control.

⚠️❤️‍🔥🦅

i was born into
a rigged fucking experiment.
raised on gaslighting
and “don’t say that” bullshit.

but i have been hurting
for a very,
very long fucking time.
and all of you watched.

🫣🧍👀✋

from the moment
i was a little girl,
crying in fucking rooms
nobody came into.
from the nights
i was told
i was fucking dramatic
instead of
in goddamn danger.
from the way
grown men stared
and nobody said
a fucking word.
from the bruises,
the screaming,
the manipulation,
the gaslighting
so good
it should’ve won
fucking awards.

i have been hurting.
and not one of you stopped it.
not one of you
fucking waited—
looked back
made sure
we fucking made it.

🚶🚶‍♀️🚶‍♂️🚶‍♀️💨...🚶‍♀️💔

so hey.
fuck you, right back.

🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣🗣

fuck you,
for designing a whole
goddamn culture
that swallows women
in fucking silence
and protects men—
loud as fuck
and sheilds
fucking power
instead of fucking people.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck you, family.
for building a
narrative where
i’m “difficult”
instead of harmed.
instead of, in actual
fucking danger.
for blaming me
for the chaos
they raised me in.
for letting me scream
and cry
and beg
for someone—
fucking anyone—
to come help me.
and then punishing me
when i finally
helped my goddamn self.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck you, coworkers.
you clearly clocked
the watercooler bullshit,
the phone set to
fucking FaceTime,
the zero need
to be actually
in-fucking-office—
the sad little
“sheriff & deputy”
fucking inside joke,
and you did
the goddamn olympics
in moral gymnastics
to call it fucking
“professional.”
so you watched a
pregnant woman
unravel and thought
it was fucking
office tea.
you saw a walking
red flag fucking parade
and sold policies
to the main
fucking killing suspect.
congrats on the
bystander gold fucking medal,
co-conspirers of dv
in fucking goddamn polos.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck you, whole ass financial frat
for enabling a fucking monster
for your fucking
compliance failures.
policy frauds.
while you routed shit
in the fucking dark
while i was
in a goddamn
hospital gown,
then called it
fucking “standard.”
y’all said “awkward”
like it was a fucking joke—
and not my own
personal goddamn
fucking dateline episode.
and then you fucked
a baby’s life policy—
mid-fucking-crisis
like “lol—nah,
we really that diabolical.”
holy fucking shit.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck every man who loved how broken i was,
until i asked them to be there.
until i needed something real.
until i got inconvenient.
until i had a baby.
until i saw the truth.
and still,
i stayed fucking soft.
i still goddamn believed.
i still thought
maybe this time,
this one would
fucking protect me.
maybe this time
someone would
stand up and say
“don’t fucking touch her.”

no one fucking did.

😭😭😭

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck the women who watched.
who called me
a fucking sister,
a soul mate,
a fucking ride-or-die,
but couldn’t spare
a fucking weekend,
a babysitting shift,
a goddamn grocery run.
fuck the fake empathy.
fuck the vague texts.
fuck the embarrassment.
fuck the “sending love”
with no real
fucking love sent.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck you, my shitty-ass husband.
for pretending
to be my safe place
just long enough
to fucking isolate me.
for stealing
everything good
from me
while i was
too fucking pregnant,
too loyal,
too sick to stop it.
for running up my bills,
draining my accounts,
calling me dumb,
and then weaponizing
my fucking survival
against me.
for watching me bleed,
and walking out
the fucking door anyway.
for dodging accountability
like it’s a fucking hobby.
for letting me
carry this whole
goddamn war
on my back
while he plays victim
to people too
fucking stupid
to ask questions.
you ivy-league asshole.
you special-ops wife beater
with fucking mommy issues.
you turned love
into a fucking revenue stream
and my body
into fucking target practice.
you paid zero
to the child you
fucking auditioned to father,
while i counted quarters
for fucking formula
like it was a sacrament.
you don’t make calls—
you haunt.
you stalk.
you tried to kill
what you
refused to protect.
choke on that sentence.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck you, whole shitty goddamn culture.
for calling it “drama”
when it’s documented violence.
for rewarding quiet women
with fucking funerals
and loud men
with fucking promotions.
for teaching girls
“self-respect”
and boys some
shit fucking “alibis.”
for telling me
to heal
fucking privately
while the damage
was goddamn public.

✨🖕🏻✨
fuck every single bystander.
in the office.
in the family.
in the friend group.
in the system.
who saw enough to know
something was fucking wrong,
but not enough to care.
fuck every institution
that didn’t protect us.
every lawyer who defends
fucking abusers.
every employer
who said
“we support survivors”
and then looked
the other fucking way.
every coworker who knew
he was fucking dangerous
and still called
it business as fucking usual.
every person
who saw him abusing me
in plain goddamn sight
and said fucking nothing.

|
⚠️☠️🚨

fuck all y’all.

✨🖕🏻✨
✨🖕🏻✨
✨🖕🏻✨

i don’t care if you’re confused.
i don’t care if this feels too harsh.
i don’t care if you thought you were helping.
if you didn’t show up, you didn’t show up.
if you watched, you were part of it.
if you knew, and you let it happen,
you made yourself complicit.

there is no excuse.
no location.
no timeline.
no memory you get to rewrite.

i remember everything.
and i’m not scared of saying it anymore.

you left me to die.
and now i’m dangerous.

no address.
no warning.

just bars on the windows
and a memory sharp enough
to fucking gut you.

so fuck all y’all.

and now that we’re all properly introduced,
hear me fucking clearly:

i was a perfect target
because there was no perimeter.
that era is fucking dead.

i don’t need closure.
i need fucking consequences.
i don’t need forgiveness.
i need fucking forensics.
i don’t need advice.
i need you to get the fuck
out of my fucking way.

this is the part where
you expect me
to soften it
with hope, yeah?
no bitch.
hope can meet me
at the fucking courthouse
with a black coffee
and a fucking binder.

🎯💥 open target season is canceled — per my last email

listen.

the truth?
i’ve been easy prey my whole life.
not because i’m weak—
because i was unprotected.

no dad flying in.
no stepdad.
no brother.
no stepbrother.
no cousins.
no aunties.
no uncles.
no one showing up to sit
with the baby
so i could finish fucking finals.
no one, period.

that’s open season
on a girl like me.
that’s how you get date-raped
by a “friend”
and your family
fucking shrugs.
that’s how you move
through your second
and third trimester
bruised
and nobody clocks it.
that’s how statistics
pat you on
the fucking head
and call it
“re-victimization.” 🗂️📉

i would’ve survived
a clean break.
separation? fine.
he moves on? godspeed.
he’s still a dad? great—
cool—
co-parent
and keep it pushing.

but this isn’t that story.

this is the story
where a man
weaponized
every fault line
in me.
where he
financially
nuked my fucking life.
where policies
got routed
in the fucking dark
through a woman
who should’ve never
been anywhere
near
me,
my child,
or my accounts.
where “advisor”
meant pipeline
and fucking cover.
where he tried
to kill me
and my daughter.
yeah—
that story.

this isn’t regular dangerous.
this is ivy-league brain +
special-operations training.
this is calculated,
emotionless,
zero real friends
to even call
for a fucking welfare check.
the only person
i ever saw
him talk to?
my financial representative.
lmfao.
and his mom.
that’s it.
tell me
that’s not fucking terrifying.

and the minute
a whiff of fucking
consequences hit,
his mother went
absolute ghost.
hot-drop silence. 🥔💨
message received.

so here’s the memo—
for predators,
enablers,
and anyone who thinks
i won’t say it out loud:

i was the perfect target
because there was no perimeter.
no safety net.
no one to tap the fuck in.

that’s over.

i’m not weak.
i was isolated.
i’m not dramatic.
i’m documented.
i’m not “asking for it.”
i’m fucking naming it.

and now i’m building
the goddamn perimeter
myself.
brick by ugly fucking brick.
paper trail by paper trail.
if you come for me again,
you meet the walls
i had to learn to pour
with my own fucking hands.

open target season
is fucking closed.
💀🔫
refunds via certified mail.
office hours for exploitation
are fucking over—
try filing a notice instead.

and if you still
can’t read the signs?
don’t worry.
i’ll serve it.
🧾🧱🖇️

🎯

lone star higher ed: majoring in audacity, minoring in fraud and attempted 🔪🩸👤 (alleged)

so apparently

the plot twist of the century is:
the gi bill he promised to transfer to me
(yes, that one—
the bedtime story recited
every time i covered every single bill,
classes, exams, food, gas,
and his funny little
“$2k in 6 months”
finance-era complete bullshit)
is now his golden ticket
to bond out and
take fucking—
classes…?

yo.
shut the actual fuck up.

…holy shit.

be fucking for real.

so.
i bankroll the finance bro era,
he won’t enroll
either of us in a policy
until he can funnel it
through his female “coworker”
the week of my due date—
handing out “professional favors,”
while he’s punching me
in the fucking head,
trying to suffocate me—
repeatedly,
but suddenly
school is national security?

what

meanwhile
the irs snatched
another $3k of my refund
because his “i made five grand and also six jobs
but also worked at a firm half the year”
fairy tale fucking insanity
made their calculator
seize the fuck up.
tragic.
fucking predictable.

and i’m here
running single-mom survival drills,
deciding if i go into a dv shelter
or into fucking hiding—
today / tomorrow / yesterday,
because the same man
who goddamn strangled me pregnant
(hi, fucking lethality risk—try google)
gets a government-funded commute
like it’s fucking greek week.

i honestly,
can’t wrap my head
around this shit.

“he needs to attend class.”
okay, professor red flag.
and i need oxygen,
safety, and child support.
court-ordered since jan 2025.
not one week paid.
but sure—
let’s prioritize
his educational gains.

syllabus, annotated:

group project:
he “reports unemployed,”
while, per info i’ve received,
working in/for a texas school district.

lab: enrolls on gi benefits in texas,
while i pack a go-bag
with diapers and a fucking muzzle.

midterm: i give birth with two black eyes
(hi, er records),
because he “doesn’t like being told to leave.”

final: texas okays
bond out + self-surrender to colorado
in 45 days.
un-fucking-escorted.
extra credit if he drives past my house?

be so fucking serious.

FUCKING SHIT.

no, i won’t shut up.
no, i won’t “calm down.”
i’m calm enough to read the case caption out loud,
file emails at 3am,
and staple receipts like
a prosecutor’s fucking barbie.
this isn’t “drama.”
this is predictable violence
wrapped in goddamn statistics.

for the fucking peanut gallery:
“she’s unstable.”
baby, i’m a high-rise poured from
sworn statements, statutes, and petty footnotes.
i may shake when a train rolls by,
but i’m still fucking standing.

still protecting my fucking daughter.

emoji memo for the auditors:

🎓🧾🚫 = degree, bill, denied
🧠🧯🧪 = use your brain, put out the fire, test the claims
📎👁️‍🗨️🗂️ = attach, note, file
🚗🧍‍♂️🚫🏠 = no solo road trip by my home
📍📵⛓️ = gps, no-contact, custody

financial fucking devastation roll call:
savings: $10k gone.
law school tuition: 8k gone.
tax refund: $3k gone.
new car i don’t need: $20k fucking gone.
safety: apparently elective.
meanwhile he’s speed-running “responsible student”
on the dime he swore would be transferred to me,
while he potentially defrauded the federal government
and his pregnant wife?
brooooooo,
is this real life?

yo, i am not in reality.

this system is fucked.

for the institutions skimming this:

— in my experience, he escalated to two-hand manual strangulation during pregnancy.
— i delivered with visible injuries, documented.
— there’s a final restraining order with weekly support since jan 2025; not one week paid.
— he has represented unemployment while information suggests texas school system employment.
— he is reportedly enrolled on gi benefits in texas.
— releasing him to self-surrender = foreseeable risk to me and my child.

my opinion, based on my lived experience + the filings in hand:
if “he has class” outranks “we stay alive,”
your rubric is fucking broken.

respectfully to the adults in the room:
hold him, or leash the risk—
escorted surrender only,
and a window measured in hours,
not fucking vibes.

this is not a fucking joke.

ending thesis:
i paid for the degree in audacity.
so he can major in evading consequences and taxes.

✶

footnote (for legal oxygen): this is my experience and my opinion drawn from court orders, medical records, agency correspondence, and information i provided to authorities. verification belongs to the agencies; survival belongs to me and my child.

if i were 10% dumber

bro.
here’s the joke:
i prevailed because
i’ve got the survival instincts
of a squirrel on adderall
and the resting vibe
of “bitch, try me, i dare you.”

if i were 10% dumber?
dead.
credits roll.
he gets the condo.
his girlfriend gets the commission.
the firm high-fives in khakis.

we got married in june.
he “started a career” in july.
by august he was in freefall with
access to my checking account.

unaccounted locations.
clubs on my debit card.
my adderall disappearing
like fucking m&m’s
me, begging his mom.
me, begging anyone.
silence…
except for the sound
of my fucking accounts gasping.

the violence?
didn’t start till after the ring.
because of course it didn’t.
the mask needs vows.

meanwhile:
i’m alone across the country.
the yoga crew is gone.
family?
domestic-violence starter pack.
dad out here asking me—
but “did he really punch you
as hard as he could?”

nah dad,
i actually don’t
think he did.
the black eyes were
fucking tiny
on a third-trimester chick.

but what he did do?
bitch,
he did have eyes
on my fucking condo
since day one.
too bad i made him
sign paperwork pre-wedding
like,
“hands off, broke troll.”
eight million
yoga teacher trainings
paid for that roof.
i wasn’t about to
gift-wrap it to a man
who can’t spell “equity”
and has a
credit score
below 600.

then christmas hits
and it’s full horror franchise.
bruises as décor.
murder attempts
like holiday party reminders.
accounts drained.
hours missing.
i’m floating checks
and calling in family loans
while he practices
being a ghost
with fucking rage issues.

his mom?
shows up to suggest:
“honey, you need to—
sell your condo.”
oh word?
convert my premarital asset
into marital cash
mid-strangulation season?
cherry fucking topper
of bad advice.


the math: sell it → marital pot → he gets a cut to fund… more violence. 🙃✨🌈🕊️

and the side quest?
his former “coworker” (hi girly)
setting up
life insurance policies
“for me”
that i pay for
that i don’t own
with him as the beneficiary.
while he vigorously
tries to off me.
💀💰🙃✨
no, it’s hilarious,
keep going.
she’s watching my posts
about abuse in real time
while sliding a policy
across a desk like a
murder pay out.
💌🪦✨

run the scenario:
i sell the condo
like his mom wants,
he pockets all of it.
but if—
i didn’t sell before i died?
my mom gets the condo—
(never said that bitch
hasn’t come through)
but if—
i die like he wants,
post-sale?
then he pockets the cash.
then he pockets the policy pay-out.
she pockets the commission.
and potentially some
extra desperately needed
attention & “wyd” texts. ✨
the firm pockets plausible fucking deniability.
like—
”who even was that
pregnant bankrolling bitch?”
everyone wins except the corpse.
lol.

🤰🥊💥💀💰💰

but (!)
i didn’t fall in love, babe.
not really.
thank god.
i clocked the sneaky
fuck shit every time.
i kept the condo.
i wrote the fucking rules.
i told the truth
out loud
even when
it made people fucking cringe.
i kept receipts
like a gremlin in accounting.

✨

the only reason
i’m breathing?
because i wasn’t the
dumb bitch they needed.
because the adhd squirrel lived.
because i knew what the fuck
was mine and kept it.

final punchline:
in his dream world 🤡✨🌈🕊️
i never make it to motherhood,
i never make it to court,
i never make it to today.

in mine?
i do.
and i’m fucking loud about it.

✶

fucking nightmare. 🤰✨

🪪🔒📑

(translation: prenup-ish papers, locked deed, paper trail. choke on it.)

🧮💳🧠

(translation: i can do the shit-math, even concussed.)

🪵🕯️🔥

(translation: i don’t burn. i learn—and then i light the whole fucking plot up.)

✶ study hall of rage ✶

today’s vibe:
missing flashcards,
copious amounts of caffeine,
toddler chucking blocks,
and fucking vengeance.

😑😐😑

i’m in my little
corner of hell 💀🔥—
otherwise known as
post-midterm
property law content—
scribbling about
zoning variances
and the difference
between appurtenant and
affirmative easements—
(lol ok wtf)
like my life
fucking depends on it.
which… it does.
thanks,
law school tuition
on straight
federal loans
after my husband
defrauded me.
lol

😑😐😑

every now and then
i pause mid-outline
and remember
oh yeah—
half my mental bandwidth
is still devoted to
keeping an entire
fucking corporation
and my dangerous ex’s
venmo-office side chick
from gaslighting me
into a fucking
cold-case oblivion.

like:
“hello,
yes,
i’m memorizing
the difference between
an affirmative easement
and a covenant
running with the fucking land”
👩🏻‍🎓💫

and also
“by the way
fuck you
for trying to derail me
while i’m already
a broke single mom
who can’t even afford
a fucking babysitter
but can somehow diagram
a future interest chain
like it’s my secret fucking
love language.”

do you understand
the raw will to survive
🤰🥊🏆
it takes to
recite “fee simple determinable”
in one breath
and “see you in court, losers”
in the next?

fuck,
i really hope—
i don’t fucking fail. 💫

my brain is fried to shit.
🧠🤯😵‍💫😖

but every time i hit
a tricky hypo
i’ll imagine the question is:
"how do we get plaintiff
maximum damages
and also her bar license?"
and suddenly

💡 i can remember every single policy argument we ever covered. 💫

🎤

so yeah—
if you ever
wonder what’s
fueling this academic grind
it’s equal parts
ambition,
spite,
and the burning
fucking need
to prove that
you can’t keep
a bad bitch
down.

✨🖕🏻✨

i’ll be
straightening
my fucking crown 👑

subject: [privileged] q3 anomaly — project u.e.s. impacted by the fuzz

internal advisory: operational deviation — denver pod / u.e.s. adjacency
from: compliance@nm-internal
to: exec, legal, hr, field-ops, pr, our moms
timestamp: 06:48

summary:
q3 deliverables compromised due to unplanned market removal of denver asset during active non-compliant proximity cycle. removal executed via legacy enforcement (ref: xx0572-23NY, vintage: 07/17/23) while asset operating in u.e.s. zip under pretext of “co-worker continuity.”

key datapoints:

• asset history: relocated to nj market (feb ’24) → tx market (oct ’24 claim) → “denver commute model” (july ’23–january ’24). actual gps shows zero tx presence post-march.

• proximity subject: former denver pod, operating within walking distance of denver “work” site. on/off w/ unrelated party — pattern overlap with cash advance spikes (noted: $800 in nov ’23).

• production: $2.7k gross for 1.25h commute each way. unsellable roi narrative.

• stakeholder activity:

  • identified potential proximity conflict months ago.

  • sent multi-channel alerts.

  • documented silence as “interpretive consent.”

  • aligned public callouts with exact timing of removal.

• public risk: stakeholder controls narrative. publishing ip logs + direct-coded references to proximity subject and asset using satirical format (“burn book”).

impact:

1. litigation exposure — direct link between asset’s non-compliant proximity, stakeholder warnings, and asset removal.

2. brand risk — perception of conflict-enabled vulnerability targeting during “client potential homicide window.”

3. ops embarrassment — denver pod visibly underdelivered while producing scandal-grade optics.

4. containment compromised — corp ips repeatedly hitting stakeholder’s site; she’s screenshotting and posting them. stalking while offering no help, our specialty.

recommended actions:

• lit hold — preserve comms for asset, u.e.s. proximity subject, pod leads, and any “coffee chat” attendees.

• script: “all criminal travel personal, firm unaware, cannot comment on unrelated legal matters.”

• backfill compliance — retro-run cc checks and date-stamp pre-incident.

• exit protocol: separation agreements w/ nda terms (“no comment on personal visits, no commentary on 2023 domestic portfolio event”).

• ops hygiene: cease corporate stalking of stakeholder media. route all monitoring through neutral third-party.

executive caution:
do not use “affair,” “felony,” “fraud,” or “baby” in writing. approved phrasing:

• “non-compliant proximity during client vulnerability window”

• “legacy enforcement from external jurisdiction”

• “domestic portfolio event (2023)”

final note: stakeholder presents as extremely mentally resourced in documentation and indefatigable in pursuit. she will not fatigue out. treat as high-stamina, high-accuracy opposition.

— fuckboi mutual corp.

compliance theater presents: my funeral 🥀

i kept calling it ptsd.
war. 🎖️
combat.
the ghost in his eyes.
i kept saying “we’re a family,”
like a fucking zombie under a spell.
because i was
pregnant.
broke.
building a fucking life out
of duct tape
and love
and lies.

bro,
i was moving
the fuck on,
trying to heal.
hoping one day,
he’d rehabilitate.

then—
out of fucking
nowhere,
some random
policy bullshit.

FUCKING bam,
all of a sudden
the question marks
started fucking dangling
like fucking live wires.
this shitty ass firm snickering
“awkward—lol, they were close”
🥂🤡
with no fucking paperwork.
while we’re mid-fucking escape,
and this bitch
is still actively
watching me?
the financial rep
who turned into
a fucking ghost?
the minute i asked
a real fucking question?
policies in his name
while i was in the middle
of a goddamn fucking
murder plot.
my baby was
taking her
first fucking breath
while they slid commissions
across a fucking cubicle desk.

i said it once.
now i’ll say it
so loud it cracks
the fucking glass:

evasion isn’t neutral.
evasion is gasoline.
evasion is fucking dangerous.

you withhold info
from a mark
under murderous-level DV?
you’re not “waiting for fucking legal.”
you’re winding
the fucking spring.
you’re upping the
motherfucking lethality factor
by fucking design.

read the chain.
it’s simple.
it’s ugly.
it’s mathmatical:

i’m pregnant →
he gets worshipped at the firm →
he learns he can roam with no clock +
no salary trail.
i pay all the bills →
they pitch “bonuses later” →
he extracts more from me because “it’s coming, babe.”
co-worker gets “close” →
violence spikes →
she then becomes fiduciary →
rep onboards me while i’m in a hospital gown.
no call to say congrats on the birth →
just signature requests →
just “pay but policy isn’t yours”
while i’m bleeding through fucking pads.
i ask for clarity →
they giggle about a fucking conflict
but disclose fucking nothing.
i post receipts →
she stalks me with her full face →
they still say nothing.
warrant hits →
she’s still watching →
i say “is there a conflict, i’m scared—
this is fucking serious”
they watch my site from corporate IPs →
still nothing.
i file suit → still nothing.
now he’s in cuffs →
i’m packing a go-bag
with a fucking baby
AGAIN.

that’s not “oops.”
that’s systematic behavior.
that’s fucking abusive,
that’s fucking egregious misconduct.

you know what happens
to a survivor when the story
flips from “he’s sick, but we’re a family”
to “oh shit, he was replacing me”?
the safety equation

fucking explodes.

because if it wasn’t
random rage?
if it was a transition plan,
if it was a replacement plan,
then of course he needed us erased.
of course the strangling escalated.
of course the money drained.
of course the policy hustle happened
while i was timing fucking contractions.
of course she “loved my baby”
from behind his locked iPhone—
auditioning for
replacement-mom?
without paying a dime
of fucking child support.

and when
i finally ask
for the most basic,
legally-owed thing—
because
i’m in a fucking
emergency,
alone,
with a fucking baby…
bro, just
clarity—
nah,
you don’t clarify.
you avoid.
you stalk my trauma.
you refresh my website
like it’s fucking netflix.

say it plain:

when you deny
a survivor
who’s still fucking
surviving—
clear legally-fucking
entitled info
about a conflict
you told me fucking exists,
you push her into haze.
haze breeds risk.
risk invites funerals.

my “paranoia”
is just me solving
your fucking equation
faster than you
thought i would.

you want the roadmap? here:

context →
i’m eight, nine months pregnant.
he’s fucking violent.
i’m paying every bill.
you’re pinning medals on him
with fucking buzzwords and sales porn.
you knew or should’ve fucking known.
duty attached.

inflection →
co-worker crosses the line.
then crosses the paperwork.
then crosses state lines in silence.
you green-lit proximity,
then authority,
then fucking access.
foreseeability isn’t a debate;
it’s the first exhibit.

misconduct →
policies all fucked up.
beneficiary musical fucking chairs.
commissions over human fucking life.
that’s breach of fiduciary duty +
negligent supervision +
UDAP/consumer fraud +
unjust enrichment.
and if inducements were lies?
fraud in the inducement,
baby.
print it on letterhead.

cover →
“conflict” as a fucking joke,
never documented.
no recusal letter.
no disclosure.
no fucking audit trail.
ghosting.
📄👻
stalking.
corporate IPs
🕵️‍♀️📍
on my fucking trauma blog.
that’s willful blindness.
that’s spoliation bait.
no paper?
hello adverse inference.
rule 37 will smile
the fuck back.

consequence →
our safety margins collapses.
he was fucking mobile;
i’m visible;
a goddamn baby in my arms.
your silence
tightened the fucking noose.
but-for your stonewalling,
risk drops.
proximate cause walks
in wearing fucking combat boots.

denouement →
you still won’t say recuse.
you still won’t say conflict.
you still won’t say we fucked up.
cool.
i think a jury can.

⚖️🙂

now run the math
you tried to hide:

duty →
you took my money +
my data +
my trust.
fiduciary/agent duties attach.
breach →
you let a “close” co-worker
become my rep mid-DV,
mid-labor,
while signaling nothing.
causation →
silence +
access +
financial tampering =
escalated lethality +
economic harm.
foreseeable as a fucking sunrise.
damages →
hospital wristband,
policy premiums,
lost support,
gutted fucking business,
relocation,
therapy,
the goddamn cost of surviving.

more fucking teeth? fine:

• negligent hiring/retention
  (you platformed the closeness; you kept it there)

• failure to disclose material conflicts
  (per se unfair/deceptive)

• aiding & abetting tortious conduct
  (you knew/should’ve known and still greased the motherfucking wheels)

• iied via reckless disregard
  (you watched a mother under
  lethal fucking DV
  ask for clarity
  and you refreshed my site instead)

• civil conspiracy if the paper trail
  shows coordinated bullshit
  (emails. CRMs. call logs. IP logs.
  beneficiary changes. go pull them.)

and spare me the fucking—
“we were investigating” bullshit
investigation without notice
is evasion when a client’s
in fucking danger.
your “we’ll get back to you” was a weapon.
your non-answers were accelerants.
your commissions were motive.

bro,
fuck all y’all
for pretending
this is administrative.
this is kinetic.
this is body-level.

i’m not catastrophizing;
i’m fucking tallying.
hospital wristband?
tallied.
policies while i’m in recovery?
tallied.
rep disappears when i ask for receipts?
tallied.
corporate reads my site
but can’t send a single conflict letter?
tallied.
warrant pings
exactly where she plays
prestige princess?
tallied.
my door broken
more times than i can count?
fucking goddamn tallied.

you didn’t just mishandle a file.
you architected a reality
where my survival
depended on
blind fucking corners.

i begged for clarity
because clarity is safety.
you offered silence
because silence is control.
control is leverage.
leverage is profit.
profit is the only language
you spoke
while i learned to sleep
with my hand in a fist.

so here’s your translation,
in case the rage obscures it:

your withholding = escalated fucking danger.
your “we’ll get back to you” =
increased odds we
don’t live to read the fucking email.
your representative’s stalking =
confirmation you knew
exactly where i was
while you pretended
you didn’t know anything at all.

i’m still your client.
i’m still breathing.
i’m still fucking here.

and i’m done
pretending
this was a misunderstanding.
it was a mechanism.

you built it.
he used it.
i survived it.
💀✨

now i’m naming it.

now i’m coming for it.

get the fuck ready.

🍿🍿🍿

i was built for this shit.

timber, babe.

aka: er o’clock

nah.
cool.
what the fuck.

hospital fluorescents.
baby screaming.
me screaming silently.
half my body
fucking bleeding.
cold sweats—
but my baby, bro.
😭😭😭😭😭
i’m fucking panicked.
no one to call.
love that for me.

and yo—
this is not about fraud-boy
the dude with
zero personality.
nah,
he’s busy
ducking transmitting
food money—
bro is committing crimes,
fucking tax evasion
with an unsightly coworker.

mom?
that bitch is in
witness protection
from basic decency.
brothers? one’s
probably fighting
for his fucking life,
the other?
dude’s probably
practicing his next
rant in the mirror
”she’s too dumb
to be a lawyer” shit.
dads? lol.
the original fucking failures.

and then my brain
does that stupid thing—
reaches for you.
i don’t even know
fucking why?
the blocked contact
i still text like
it’s a neat setup for a
self-imposed
fucking penitentiary sentence..
bro gifted me
a fucking dog,
and then bounced
like his whole
fucking personality
is object impermanence.
always “on a job.”
always “tomorrow”
but nah,
never fucking here.

this dude
trained my stupid
fucking nervous system
like a goddamn lab rat.
out here with the
variable reward schedule.
breadcrumb economy.
intermittent i-love-yous
with long-form silence.

for what? because i did something?
nah. because i survived.

because my dude—
i’m in fucking triage
and my brain still thinks
you’re the fucking
emergency exit sign.
wake the fuck up:
you’re the fire alarm.
you’re the hold music of men.

“press 1 for silence.
press 2 for silence
with sawdust on it.”

🔕🔕🔕

“your call is very
fucking important to us.”

bitch—click.

ten years of
“i got you”
with delivery times
set to
“nah, i’m gunna
drop you
on your
fucking face.”
eta: babe—
i’m just
tired tonight.
but like forever.

and yeah,
i guess
i’m mad at you
more than the rest
because they always
were absolute trash.
but you?
you sold fucking safety
like it was a fucking option.
bro—what the fuck
because you looked me
in the fucking eye
and taught my body
to expect to be
fucking rescued.
then abandoned me
mid-making
the fucking miracle
that could have
fucking saved us.

i could use a man.
to give a shit. to help.
to teach me how to fight
how to fucking aim
before this fucker
comes to get me.

a fucking man.
like a real one.

but nah.
i’m in the er with a baby
fucking scared,
fucking alone.
replaying every staircase
they watched me fall down—
leash burning my palm,
dog pulling,
but nah,
no one is fucking coming.

so yeah.

baby’s okay.
me too,
inconveniently.
y’alls record?
canceled for lack
of fucking attendance.

fucking timber, babe.

anyway. updates:
i’m the primary contact—
and the emergency backup.

nurse asks,
what about dad?
the one from
our records?

babe—
that fucker’s in jail.
nah like,
an actual whole ass
cold fucking cell in texas
exactly where the fuck
he should be
for trying to fucking
kill us.

like,
he tried to actually
strangle—
fucking repeatedly
punch
her life from
my fucking body.

because she
was being born
into a fucking fraud.

and now?

i’m gunna take
my baby
and my dog—
and we’re gunna
fucking hide.

because
guess what?
they’re gunna
drag his ass
back here.

ask him to pay,
for his fucking crimes.

and i’m fucking
goddamn fucking terrified.

but yeah.
cool story,
talking to myself.
what the fuck.
next crisis.

✨🤷‍♀️💀

but listen.

if we go missing?
if we end up harmed?

do not be confused.

we’re on
our fucking own.

“how to lose a man in 5 frauds:” the cause & effect map they didn’t want me to draw

aka: my working theory of fiduciary fuckery.

purely,
fucking
speculative.

a fucking art piece.

✨🖕🏻✨

“how to tank a marriage without even being hot”

chapter 1 — the unattractive onboarding coworker from hell (summer 2023)

• cause: my husband walks into
  a new job broke,
  newly married,
  with a pregnant wife at home.
  she walks in with daddy’s money,
  ivy league credentials,
  and a “pick me” hunger
  that could swallow the whole building.
  private alumni events,
  late-night “work meet-ups”
  at her fucking apartment.
  i’m not invited. LMFAO.

• effect: her instant,
  over-the-top private contact
  with him sets up a back channel.
  i’m not looped in,
  not given her number,
  not cc’d —
  but she’s calling/texting constantly.

• translation: she built her whole
  “work relationship” on pretending
  i didn’t exist.

chapter 2 — the first mistake (octish–dec 2023)

• cause: the first inappropriate hangout happens.
  some level of absolute
  fuckery occurs.
  maybe a hook-up.
  maybe “just” a drunk makeout.
  either way —
  fucking boundary breached.

• effect: he changes overnight.
  starts strangling,
  punching,
  sabotaging finances.
  not because he’s stressed —
  but because he knows
  if i find out,
  he’s fucking done.

• translation: violence
  as damage control
  for a fucking secret.

chapter 3 — paper trail in my name (jan 2024)

• cause: she becomes
  my official fucking fiduciary
  a week and a half
  before i give birth.
  still never calls me,
  never emails me,
  never meets me
  outside of a DM
  or auto-generated
  fucking medical form.
  don’t have her
  phone number or
  any formal contact.

• effect: i’m locked into
  contracts she controls,
  that i apparently don’t
  fucking own.
  paying for policies
  she touched,
  while she stays
  absolutely glued to him.

• translation: she onboarded me
  because she had to,
  not because she
  was ever going
  to do the fucking job.

chapter 4 — the dangling hook (feb 2024–oct 2024)

• cause: even when we move
  thousands of miles
  away from her,
  she keeps a line open —
  constant calls/texts
  only to him,
  in private.
  job leads,
  and NYC
  “meet my daddy” invitations.
  straight embarrassing
  us in front of mutuals.
  like, girl what?
  why are you in constant
  private communications
  with my legal husband,
  while we raise
  our fucking newborn?

• effect: if she hooked up
  with him
  while i was
  fucking pregnant,
  she’s now using
  that history
  as fucking leverage.
  she makes sure
  he never forgets
  she fucking exists —
  or that
  she knows something.

• translation: she wasn’t
  just persistent,
  she was fucking strategic.

chapter 5 — the almost happy summer (mid-2024)

• cause: we leave colorado.
  she’s not
  in the same fucking
  room every day.

• effect: beach days.
  soccer games.
  nfg concerts.
  we almost feel
  like a family again.

• translation: our marriage
  only breathed
  when she was physically
  fucking out of range —
  but her phone number
  still reached him.
  constantly.

chapter 6 — the camper and the call (late summer 2024)

• cause: i start law school prep.
  we plan to live in a camper
  to save fucking money.
  he’s absolutely
  all about it.
  so fucking excited.
  but i’m busy
  and studying constantly.
  she senses weakness
  and slides in harder.

• effect: he freezes up,
  turns cold,
  starts looking at me
  like a fucking problem again.

• translation: she doesn’t
  even need to be
  in the fucking room
  to shit on our marriage.

chapter 7 — the restraining order & the runaway (oct–nov 2024)

• cause: i finally push him out.
  he’s being erratic,
  but is already talking about
  ”coming home”
  he’s legit scary so —
  i slap a final
  restraining order on him.

• effect: within ~four weeks,
  she quits her job,
  leaves colorado,
  goes back to NYC,
  zero notice.
  still online surveilling.
  i still think
  she’s my fucking
  fiduciary.

• translation: she didn’t run
  from fear.
  she’s so pathetic,
  she ran toward
  perceived opportunity.

chapter 8 — the stalker era (late 2024–mid 2025)

• cause: she keeps watching
  my social media
  fucking daily
  while never speaking to me,
  still keeping
  some channel
  with him alive.

• effect: she gets to monitor
  my fucking life
  and keep contact with him,
  post-job,
  post-firm.
  post-fucking-apocalypse.

• translation: she didn’t leave the game,
  she just took it off company time.

chapter 9 — the $100 oops (june–july 2025)

• cause: i publicly reference
  their likely pregnancy-era affair
  (without even using her real name).

• effect: my husband sends me $100
  out of fucking nowhere —
  like i posted at 5am
  and 45 minutes later…
  ping (!!)
  his first payment since
  october 2024.

• translation: lmfao.
  hush money?
  babe, rarely comes
  in such a cheap,
  obvious fucking package.

final translation:
every high point
in my marriage
lined up with her
being out of his life.
every collapse
lined up
with her being in it.
you can call it coincidence —

i call it fucking math.

mom: the original betrayal i never saw coming

lol,
she used to be so scared of him.
my mom.
back in the 80s. the 90s.
blah blah tro’s in the system
before i even popped out.

i was born into a restraining order.
she ran like it was the olympics.
backseats.
basements.
battered women’s shelters.
calling hotlines like
it was fucking customer service.
pulling into daycare
parking lots at 2 a.m.
crying on the phone
’cause the monster
in the next room
wouldn’t stop pacing.

she swore
she’d never let it
happen again.
shocker: she did.

as soon as the
divorce ink dried,
she handed us back
like a goddamn refund.

“oops—
those first 10–14 years?
full-on abuse.
but hey,
i want a backyard.
with equity.”

yeah sure,
kids can just
wait around
for their stability
to hit at 30.

fuck it.
destabilize
your own kids.
make ’em couch-hop,
sleep on air mattresses,
and hand your dog off
to the pound
just ’cause you
felt like moving.

every season
she’s got new drama
to excuse—herself.

then plays victim
like she wasn’t
the fucking grown-ass
fucking adult responsible.

don’t worry,
she’s juggling 5 jobs
and building a house
in fucking maine,
so naturally
she’s “literally never around”
your entire childhood.

instead of,
i dunno,
fighting the motherfucker
she legally released
from child support
so she could make
me fucking homeless
in my fucking teens?

cool.

mom of the fucking year.

so in 8th grade,
she “upgrades” herself
and essentially evicts us
from our childhood home.

homeless. again.

air mattresses.
renting stability
by the fucking hour.

then she lets the bus
start dropping me off
daily at the predator’s house
like it’s some casual childcare.

like i’m not supposed
to notice
i’m being returned
to the goddamn
fucking crime scene.

she couldn’t survive him.

but expected me to fucking thrive?

and when i called her crying?

“sorry sweetie, i’m at work. call the cops.”

i was seventeen.
lmfao.
he finally got arrested.

a kid expected
to police her own safety
with the same man
she once needed
restraining orders to escape.

she gave him custody.

she didn’t have
the energy
to fight.

dropped me off.

every damn day.

“he had a better lawyer,” she cried.

and then she kept doing it.

open bedroom doors.
exposure.
constant threats.

and i told her.
over and over.

high school.
college.
hotel rooms.
hospitals.
when my husband
left me
and she suggested
i move back in
with the man
she once ran from
in the dead of night
with a fucking baby.

when he started again—

in front of my toddler.

when he screamed.
when i screamed back.
when i dared
raise my voice
in the same room
she once hid in.

she called me aggressive.

she knew.
she always fucking knew.
and when i finally left?

she said “thank you,”
like i was clutter.

like she finally had her life back.

this woman—
who wouldn’t
let me touch the laundry
or dishes in her house—

vanished.

poof.

fairy godmother
privileges revoked.

she knew
my clothes were rotting
in a basement
with a fucking predator.

knew my baby gear
was hostage
to my father’s fucking rage.

knew i had
no options.
no cash.
no crib.
no help.

and she texts,
5 months deep—
after ignoring me
for months,
“want me to visit?”

nah.

i wanted a mother.

i wanted a sword.
someone to kick
my husband
out of my fucking car,
tell my dad
to shut the fuck up
and stay the fuck down.

instead?

she went to bed early.
sent t-shirts for birthdays.
chose laser skin rehab
over checking
if we were even fucking alive.

but—
when she had her
medical scare?
she left my baby
with a fucking neighbor
who hated me.

who was gonna
speak for abusive ex.

and when that fell through?

they called my fucking dad.
the man she had
fucking restraining orders against.

to overnight babysit my child.
not my stepbrother.
not her husband.
not my friends.
not literally anyone else.

she handed my child
to the monster she once fled.

and when i flew back,
on borrowed money,
with $300 to my name?

i got screamed at.

my brother told me
to drop out of law school.

left me at that house
at 3 a.m.
with a toddler
and a fucking predator.

my friend left too.

i woke up alone.

my dad assaulted me
as i tried to leave.

and not a single fucking
soul came to help.

he canceled my credit card.

my mom stayed silent
for a fucking month.

didn’t call.
didn’t ask.
didn’t fucking flinch.

because she was “recovering.”
taking care of her whatever.

while i was on facebook marketplace
begging for a fucking crib.

my friends gave me diapers.
furniture.
my mom?
sent a shirt.
offered a gift card.
called it support.

like this was a fucking
PTA meeting.
not the fallout
of a goddamn war
she helped start.

she never protected me.

never protected my daughter.

and she fucking knows it.

w t f.

you are not a mom.
you sacrifice children—
for your own comfort.

and i’ll never fucking forget it.

lil’ mad ✴︎ full lawsuit energy: lowe v. nm et al.

aka: the legal update you forced me to write—because evidently—you’re checking my fucking trauma diary more than you’re answering emergency compliance emails.

aka: you couldn’t be bothered to respond to the co-conspired murder plot.

dear northwestern mutual,

and every compliance officer
lawyer, ex-reps, who the fuck-ever
still refreshing my
site in fucking private mode:

this is predatory.
and honestly?

i’m a little mad.

i gave you notice.
i gave you evidence.
i gave you
copious
amounts
of fucking
time.

and in return?

you ghosted the client
your reps financially exploited.
you ignored the single mother
you induced into life insurance
while she was being beaten and
in a pre-planned
c-section
fucking surgery
you broadcasted
on a fucking PowerPoint—
but you refuse to answer
the survivor
who told you
she was in
functioning
FUCKING danger—
in writing.
you let your silence
aid in our
active
fucking
life-threatening
on-going
fucking
HAZARD.

and i am fucking furious.

so i’ll pick this up
from an undisclosed
FUCKING location.

let’s review what you let happen:

you let a man with
no income,
no licensing,
and a known pattern
of domestic fucking violence
be listed as owner
of a policy
i paid for
even though
he wasn’t in
fucking contact
with your fucking firm,
and there was no one
to even transfer
the fucking policy to—

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

so you fucked it.

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

despite knowing
i just paid it,
with $200
of the last $700
i had left
to my fucking name.

my infant child’s policy?
that shit was mine.
i signed the medical papers,
i filled out everything.
and i fucking paid.

sole fucking custodial parent.
other under a fucking FRO.
ducking fucking child support—

but your new rep?
babe—she wanted
the fucking commissions.

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

so she fucked my policies.

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

after fucking laughing,
that my old rep,
still has—
a fucking undisclosed
personal fucking relationship
with my
deadly
fucking
estranged
fucking
LEGAL HUSBAND
who has
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
BROKEN-IN
TO EVERY
HOME
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
WE’VE EVER
COHABITATED IN,
TO HARM ME—
WITH
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
INSTITUTIONALIZED
MURDER
AS HIS MAIN
RESUME FILLER.

GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.

LET’S REPEAT—
✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨
YOU FUCKED
AN INFANT’S
LIFE FUCKING POLICY
WHILE WE WERE
FLEEING
LETHAL
LEVELS
OF
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
DOMESTIC
FUCKING
VIOLENCE.
✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

as you
concealed (!!!!!!)
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
an ongoing and
fully operational
fucking conflict
of a financial rep—
i told you
was
still
FUCKING
STALKING ME.
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

you motherfuckers.

you assigned
as my financial rep
someone who
was energetically
sending my husband cash
and private fucking texts—
while he was
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
FUCKING punching me. ✨

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

ᕯ you ignored the conflict.
ᕯ you laughed at her ongoing inappropriate contact.
ᕯ you coerced me to keep funding his fucking career.
ᕯ you ghosted me when i reported it—
just like the domestic violence enablers
you truly are.

and now?

you think silence is a defense.

🗣️ let me be clear:

i’m not alleging a vibe.
i’m documenting a pattern.
with screenshots.
with records.
with billing history.
with protective orders.
with venmo public
fucking transactions
timestamped the day
correlated with
physical fucking violence. ✨
with policy logs
showing ownership
initiated during
fucking hospitalization.
with emails proving
you knew
and you did nothing.

you assigned me
a financial advisor
who had an
undisclosed
personal,
financial,
emotional relationship
with my violent,
deadly dangerous husband—
while i was carrying his child
and trying to escape him
with our fucking lives.

and then?

you induced me
to fund his policies.
to fund my baby’s policy—
you’ll later claim
🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️
were never fucking mine
to pay you monthly
while i bled,
relocated,
hid,
begged for help,
and still logged
the fuck in

to pay your fucking premiums.
✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

and now you want to pretend this didn’t happen?

🗣️ here’s your official update:

✘ i am representing myself.
✘ i have filed.
✘ there are 8 defendants so far.
✘ i am in possession of over 100+ pages of documented misconduct.
✘ i am linking your silence to ongoing financial and physical abuse and risks.
✘ i am keeping full logs of who’s watching—and when.
✘ i am tracking IP addresses from hubs.
✘ i am submitting this entire saga as part of a regulatory review request to state, federal, and insurance compliance bodies.

🗣️🗣️🗣️
you built this entire situation
with your dangerous inner office culture.

🗣️ so let the record show:

you have:

✘ failed to respond to dozens of emails.
✘ you intentionally lapsed a policy i was paying for— that covered my child.
✘ failed to honor basic fiduciary duty.
✘ failed to acknowledge a known domestic violence report.
✘ failed to investigate an internal conflict of interest with actual financial transfers attached.

you’ve turned me—
your vulnerable client—
into your fucking liability.

🗣️ and i didn’t even
fucking want this.

i just wanted
fucking life insurance.
and my husband—
to work a fucking job.

but now?
i’m making that liability
public,
permanent,
and legally actionable.

just like the lasting trauma,
it’s absolutely fucking caused me.

🗣️🗣️to your c-suite, your compliance inbox, and your linkedin lurkers:

this is notice of litigation.
this is notice of systemic misconduct.
this is notice of an active survivor fighting for her child’s safety and her own protection while you do nothing.

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

you’ve aided and abetted abuse.
you’ve obstructed accountability.
you’ve enabled the exact kind of violence your corporate brochures pretend to fucking oppose.

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

you are now on record
as continuing that harm.

and i will not be silent about it.

🗣️ see you in court.

i won’t be bringing
a high-powered firm.
i’ll be bringing truth,
timestamped.
printed on a
walmart printer,
with a baby on fucking back,
and every
last
receipt
filed
by
hand.

because
unlike your firm,
i don’t need millions
to prove misconduct.
i just need facts.
and i’ve got them all.

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

people need to be warned.
this culture,
this firm—
are dangerous.

and it almost got me
and my unborn baby—
fucking erased.

✴︎

pro se,
policyholder,
plaintiff,
survivor,
mother,
and
the absolute wrong bitch to bet against.

— sam lowe

#felonygirlshit. 🗣️ you’re a danger to society & families everywhere.

for the record,
for the court,
for the firm,
for those lawyers stalking me,
for anyone confused about my motives—
let me say this
as slow as possible:

i never had a vendetta
against this girl.
or my fucking husband.
i didn’t even clock her as a threat.
because i genuinely thought
she was just that pathetic.
like—
i thought she was one
of those girls who orbit men
who are definitely hotter than them
and live for the fantasy
of “being different” because he
calls her “sheriff” in the
pyramid scheme
insurance sales office.
it was embarrassing.
not threatening.

that’s why i never targeted her.
that’s why i didn’t warn her
to back the fuck off—
and listen—
i also stupidly assumed
they worked in, idk,
an actual supervised environment?
not some midlife-crisis fucking frat den
where desperate-ass supervisors
mock protective orders
like it’s open mic night.
”yo ain’t she hostile?”

like sorry,
i didn’t realize the office culture
was “ha ha she almost died, bro 😂”
and the only HR training
was how to hide a personal relationship
that nearly got a client—
a pregnant woman
fucking murdered.

get a better hobby.
seriously.
try sudoku.
fucking knitting,
reading up on what a
fucking fiduciary is—
or dying quietly.

but this bitch?

lol.
i literally bought her christmas gifts.
what did she get me?
lol nothing.
just my husband’s
d*ck on demand
and a fresh round
of financial sabotage.

yo.

i was days from giving birth.
she was my assigned
financial representative.
and she didn’t so much
as send a fucking text message.
no “congratulations.”
no office acknowledgment.
not even a fucking email,
not even a cursory
hey i saw your pregnancy update
that i stalk daily on your insta
about being in the ER
9 days before labor—
from “falling down the stairs”
are you fucking ok?

nah, she just
hits up my husband—
and when she walked
straight into my condo—
my actual fucking home—
to hold my newborn child
she didn’t bring
a single thing for me.
no card.
no gift.
no care.
bro i stayed in
my bedroom, full-ass
healing from a dv assault + c-section.

while my friends are like,
they don’t even work together anymore?
why is she here?
not for you?

fuck if i know—
northwestern mutual denver
says this shit is normal.

bro i think she venmo’ed
my husband some money
for my birth—
LMFAO.
sent him a lil something
for himself—
something he really wanted
off my registry.
while my active fiduciary.

but nah,
she held my baby.
while i was in the back room
recovering from a traumatic c-section.
while she was only texting my husband.
while i was bleeding,
stitched,
recovering,
dying inside and outside—
and she was acting like she was blood.

and in that exact time frame?
like right in between
“about to give birth”
and
“about to flee the state
to escape a man who almost killed me”?

this bitch enrolled me
in every single insurance policy.
my own.
my husband’s.
my baby’s.

she signed me up
with zero disclosure,
zero welcome meeting,
zero independence,
zero onboarding call.
while knowingly maintaining
a personal fucking relationship
normalized as professionalism
by an entire fucking firm—
with the man who was actively abusing me.

so that being said…
babe, listen—
let's play a quick game called:

✨ "how fucked is your future, exactly?" ✨

let’s run back to november 2023.
you're sitting cozy at your cubicle,
facetiming a married coworker
who’s in my fucking car
secret meet-ups paid
for by my fucking credit card?
while you’re hyping him up,
encouraging him—
iconic, right?
super fucking tragic.

meanwhile, at home,
i'm figuring out why my card
has $800 in mysterious cash advances.
why his phone goes dark
at fucking eight pm to midnight,
and why his office hours
look like your fucking apartment.

🎤🔥

babe—
it smells like fraud.

because?

with zero actual sales,
not funneled
directly through you.

including my own fucking policy.
because babe?
i filled out that paperwork,
in september
via my fucking legal husband.

and he sat on it.
got weird and violent.
and then started getting
money transfers from you.
and ceased to enroll
a single fucking client?

damn.
now the irs is like,
bruh what?

baby,
that smells like full,
multi-tiered fraud.
hiding money,
from the legal wife.
hiding money,
from the fucking irs,
and your own fucking firm.

lol. nice.

and babe,
while you were busy
trying to be the cubicle-cool-girl
and cheering on the bro-shit-show
at the office—
you know what
your little boyfriend
that you forced yourself
into an indecent relationship with
was busy doing?

he was strangling his pregnant wife.
he was strangling me.
yeah, that's right—
like felony strangulation
of a pregnant woman
like murder level shit.
with your emotional
fucking encouragement.

and girl,
you knew exactly who i was.
you got a thrill from that, huh?
you knew exactly what you were doing.
you aided, abetted,
enabled a violent abuser
for some fucking junior-varsity
pathetic cubicle-ass romance
so embarrassing that your own firm
has already called you
an "awkward relationship."
and then literally went black.

LMFAO.

your entire pathetic existence—
me? taking your to court.
with my husband’s last name.
you? not married huh?
got that family name LOL.
so your last name is attached
to daddy’s generational wealth?
your instagram stalking sessions,
your financial license,
because?
seems you were
communicating with a full-on abuser
while actively surveilling the victim—
with zero disclosure
to the vulnerable fucking client?
while your firm laughed?

so your adorable little future?
in anything regulated—
just got burned
to the fucking ground.

as it fucking should be.
you shouldn’t be around clients.
you shouldn’t be around families.
you shouldn’t be around victims.
you should not be put in positions of power.

because guess what?
it’s not just lawsuits anymore, honey.
it's not just SEC investigations.
it's not just internal embarrassment.

it's fucking criminal.

and i’ve got screenshots,
payment logs,
receipts,
timelines,
witnesses who openly expressed
that your presence was always
crossing fucking lines.
but your firm fully endorsed and
allowed you to continue,
while i was a hostage.
baby,
a whole goddamn felony folder—
ready to land on the da or ada’s inbox
like the atomic fucking bomb
your entitled,
bland-ass personality
fully fucking deserves.

your name?
never gonna see peace again.
your career?
lol. good luck babe.
your reputation?
RIGHTFULLY,
a national fucking embarrassment.

listen.
i know now,
you tried to get me killed
inadvertently or directly,
because you were jealous.
you couldn’t actually have him.
so you watched as he beat me.
a quiet viewer with insider access.

it’s sick,
because now it really—
all makes sense.

so let me say this again:

🎤🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

🗣️ you are a danger to women.
🗣️ you should not have access
to people’s accounts, money, or families.

🗣️ you wielded your professionalism
as a safeguard
to get close
to my legal husband
while i was under active threat
of homicide while pregnant
and you were legally supposed to
act in my best fucking interests (!!!!!)

🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ and i will never
let you forget that.

because if you would do it to me?
oh, you would definitely do that shit again.

better pray daddy’s money
covers criminal defense attorneys, babe—
because that maiden name
is about to trend
for all the worst reasons.

so buckle up, princess.
justice isn’t blind—
she’s a vengeful bitch
with a binder of evidence
and absolutely zero mercy.

👩🏻‍⚖️☕️📂🔥🧃
#felonygirlshit

“how to burn down a financial firm by being the world’s most pathetic side bitch: a masterclass in being ugly, useless, and utterly forgettable”

look,
this ain’t for my legal files.

this is purely the
brain-melting aftermath
of 800 fucking hours
printing 8 million pages
of fucking bullshit, delusion, and lies.

i’ve unraveled the biggest
clusterfuck of deceit
you could ever imagine.

do i have a sex tape?
nah.
can i prove it?
not yet fuckers.

but for the sake
of this goddamn art piece,

✨let’s just assume:

he never had a real job.
just rode around
your ratchet-ass apartment
or crashed in every car
that wasn’t fucking his —
including mine.

let’s assume
you two were nasty AF,
fucking in your dusty ass crib,
my car, my fucking life.
smashing up against acne
and yellow teeth crust—
and from that sticky,
greasy, disgusting truth,
let’s fucking go.

buckle up bitches,
cause the roast is about to start.

listen up,
you two sad-ass motherfuckers —

i mean,
you already know—
this ain’t a love story.
it’s a goddamn disgusting-ass
crime scene.

he’s the psychotic manipulator
who can’t keep
a dick in his pants
or a job worth a fucking shit.

baby,
you do know—
i had to beat that mf’er off
with a fucking stick
like a rabid dog
who forgot his meds.

yo—you fucking clowns,
he left bruises on me
and emails in my inbox
begging for fucking pity.

you wanna talk love?
lol nah, babe—
he fucked you out of desperation.
we both know—
and it’s why you’re so
jealous of me,
he never once wanted you.

that hurt, didn’t it?

and you —
the trust fund hoe
who thinks
money buys
insulation from consequences.

spoiler alert, bitch: it doesn’t.

baby,
you really couldn’t score
a half-ass decent man
even with all that fucking money
you’re willing
to throw the fuck at them—
so you settled for
the walking dumpster fire
the wife beater—
married, baby on the way,
just so you could feel,
less inadequate
all the fucking time.

lol.

yeah, that’s classy. 💀

girl,
you funneled him money
like a fucking sugar mama
who couldn’t even get the ring,
or damn,
be seen in public?—lmfao.
played just like
a mediocre, jealous little bitch.

you didn’t just wear
your cruelty like a mask —
you paraded it in a shitty-ass
cover of bad “professionalism”
while your gross-ass fake smiles
were like the bad makeup
on your rotten-ass dry skin.

you’re nothing
but an ugly, bratty
power trip
flaunted by an
envious, homely bitch™

also, you dress…
yeah.
lol.

but yo
the whole low-range
insurance office?
yeah,
they fucking watched.

whispered like the
sad-ass, boring little miserable
below-average losers they are —
and always will be.

watched me
bleed the fuck out in real time,
like a slow,
goddamn fucking
domestic homicide
nobody wanted to stop,

while you schemed
in your little rat’s nest,
cackling like the
cockroach queen you are. 👑

silent fucking accomplices
in this rancid,
festering circus
of pure fucking toxicity.

a goddamn plague
on everything decent.

and now?

you’re rocking
felony-adjacent shit
like it’s
some kinda
twisted badge
of fucking honor,
scratched on your
linkedin for eternity.

all ’cause you
couldn’t keep your
goddamn legs crossed,
and he couldn’t
hold his fucking shit together
if his fucking life depended on it.

here’s the punchline
that’s gonna make you
puke
or cry—
(some more)
because you know

it’s true,
he didn’t want you.

he wanted control.
he wanted fucking chaos.
he wanted his fucking ego stroked.

baby,
he wanted
your fucking money.

i promise,
that’s fucking it.

although,
he might have—
officially entered
your league now,
with his current
record and shit.

good luck with that bitch. 💀

because you?

you wanted to
feel important
picked or some shit?
by attempting to fuck with
the one woman
who was 100%
overqualified
to fuck your life up,
by putting on
the docket
for everyone see—
who the fuck you
really are.

girlie—
do you feel picked now?

i hope so.

you? pathetic.
like hard to watch in real-time, level.

me? devastating.
like a goddamn nuclear blast.

your existence?
a walking, talking tragedy —
but not the kind
you write novels about.

the kind you toss
in a fucking dumpster fire
and warn everyone
to stay the fuck away from.

so here’s a fucking toast
to the poisonous,
festering mess you both created:

may your careers
rot in the funk
of your fucking lies.
may your futures
be as shallow
as every goddamn
promise you ever made.

and may you choke
on the bitter, petty truth
you brewed up together.

fuckboy + trust fund side bitch =
the most toxic clown show
this shitty-ass world has ever seen.

end of fucking story.

y’all proud
of taking
the entire firm
and your homies
down
with you?

y’all must be really popular rn.

get those references. 💀

“i mean…i kinda
pulled
my entire
fucking last
place of business
into a dv lawsuit lol”

they’ll love that.

btw, hubby?
the irs is looking for you.

ate our whole refund.
seems, you—
lied on your taxes?

babe.

hope you didn’t
both commit
fraud,
or anything.

sweetie, you know—

since i
already,
submitted
and sounded
the fucking alarm
about those:
client “kickbacks”
and venmo payments,
between you two—
(by name & screenshots)
while he claimed
zero income—
to the SEC.

lol.

bad combo,
am i right?

i hope so.
for y’alls sake
of course.

mic drop
dumb bitches.
be better criminals.

and get fucked.

✨🖕🏻✨

chris watts walked so this mf could slow-run a homicide under my own roof

i know you don’t
wanna hear this shit.
but let me fucking tell you—
i was already doing the math
(88% of intimate partner homicides happen with no safety net, btw)
on the locks
and the exit plan
in my own house
with my own baby
inside my own body
because the “man of the house”
wasn’t a husband—
he was a loaded,
untreated-combat-vet-with-tbi-and-ptsd,
stimulant-fueled fucking weapon
waiting to go off
with zero accountability
and zero fucking witnesses.

besides maybe the office squad?
that endorsed cubicle adjacent infidelity
and mocked me after i survived?

yeah, i’m absolutely fucked.

you wanna know how bitches die?
it’s not the first day he hits you.

it’s the 74 days before that without a visitor
(no bystander buffer—80% of DV homicides have none).
+
it’s the venmos from the “work wife”
(third-party facilitators show up in like 40% of these toxic escalations).
+
it’s the location sharing turned off.
+
it’s the $800 in cash gone
(addiction + cash + infidelity = prep + panic, current substance abuse multiplies lethal risk 6x).
+++
it’s the fucking meds disappearing
(stimulant crash = rage spiral, 30–50% higher impulsive violence).
+
it’s you, alone
+
crying into a grocery receipt
+
wondering how he always ends up
in your bank app and not at home

but nah.
bro straight wanted me dead.
(also: non-fatal strangulation?
+700% homicide risk—yeah, that happened.)

oh and you wanna know the punchline?
if he had killed me—
not a single person
would’ve known
for at least ~four days.
bro—he almost did it.
because no check-ins.
no coworkers.
no friends paying attention.
just my wobbling pregnant ass,
and maybe a dog barking.
(isolation? lethal multiplier. statistically, that’s the season where bodies go cold.)

chris watts?
lol, that little murderous bitch.
the icon.
honestly seemed pretty chill,
before the adultery turned into familicide shit.
chris before the family annihilation?
fucking child’s play.
just fucking some bitches.
mine tried to be a fucking stealth mission speed run
a DV-thriller subplot
written by a war criminal
with untreated fucking ptsd/tbi
and backed by a finance firm
(babe—they just confirmed, they fuck with you and apparently—our policies)
full of “family values” and compliance fucking flops.
(you had the whole algorithm of doom stacked—
childhood trauma raising baseline risk,
isolation,
pregnancy kill window,
emotional triangulation,
financial drain—
and still i’m FUCKING typing this.)

this isn’t a post.
this is a fucking obituary
that missed its window.

but i didn’t.
we’re still here.
i crawled out.
i brought the math.
and now i’m bringing
the goddamn fucking lawsuit.

because what the actual fuck?

(i really would have rathered y’all just treated me
with basic human fucking decency and respect
but fucking cool, here we are)

—

✎ sammie lowe,

still not a statistic.
but absolutely
a fucking problem.

fuckboy mutual™: you have “actual notice”

fuckboy mutual™:
we’re a family firm

ready for the
legal tea:
fiduciaries for dummies™
on why ignoring
documented crises
while stalking the victim
is the dumbest professional move ever?

pull up.

the fuckboy mutual™:
entire “legal stance”
is basically:

👉🙄👈
lalalala i can’t fucking hear you—

bro what?

“yo—
let’s just pretend
we didn’t hear—
anything she fucking said—
she’s a documented victim
of multiple fucking crimes?
domestic violence?
nope—
we can’t hear shit.
bitch is most definitely not a target
of ongoing surveillance,
absolutely not
mid-fucking-fiduciary-shitshow
in flying fucking
breaches of fucking duties,
and definitely not
in any kind of active danger.”

nonononono.

👉🙄👈

my
legal
fucking
brainiacs.
is this what lawyers do?
fuck justice?
fuck protecting people?
save the corporate trolls—
doing outlandish-tier shit.
and let’s do it—
✨ badly.

but yo—
did you realize?
i hand delivered:

✘ timestamped,
✘ recorded,
✘ dated,
✘ signed—
✘ formal documents (!)
✘✘✘ proving that shit.

which is now?
in y’alls—
physical.
fucking.
hands.

lol. girlies.

dingdingding.

y’all, what’s that called?

hold up—
i’ve got a learning disability.
little slow,
but?
”actual fucking…notice?”

google says:
this occurs
when a party (you)
is directly informed
(me walking in with my baby)
of a fact or obligation,
(my active status)
either verbally or in writing.
(signed and fucking dated)

bonus points: it's the most straightforward
type of notice, as it involves explicit communication. 

so now?

are you breaking the fucking law?

every
single
day,
you ignore me?

like—
can you imagine
if you try to send
the same dynamic—
stealth-ass legal firm—
(hope you didn’t pay already)
yeah,
the one
that got detected
on my traffic logs
obsessively monitoring me
like every fucking post—
just last month,
full ass legal firm name—
in that fucking ip,
(low key comic lol, old people)
all while ignoring
my documented fucking emergency—
babe, to come at me?
nice.

good fucking look.
100% not evil-financial-villain adjacent.

“yeah we stalked her,
yeah we saw that shit,
yeah we visited every disclosure—
yeah we fucking ignored her,
yeah, it looks malicious…
wuddup tho—
lalalalala can’t hear you”

legally. fucking. bulletproof.

dv.
client.
whistleblower.
active crime victim.
single mom.

lol.

and y’all?

bold, audacious, and fucking treacherous.

how do you really think
that shit’s gonna land?

bad faith surveillance
of a whistleblower
with zero intention to assist?

solid as fuck theory, y’all.

y’all are literally boxed
the fuck in—
aren’t you?

say something?
liability.
you’re fucked.

say nothing?
liability.
you’re fucked.

♟️🔥💀

checkmate, bitch.

stop fucking with our lives over fucking premiums.

🔪“reputation protection plan: kill your wife” available exclusively at fuckboy mutual™

fuckboy mutual™:
we’re a family firm

🙃✨🔪

holy fuck.

can i just say?
this shit was absolutely not
on my fucking radar.
like yo—
they atomic fucking bombed
the whole fucking financial firm, over…
$30 of fucking premiums?
couldn’t just—
do the fucking ethical,
legal fucking thing?
naaaaah.
holy. fucking. shit.
like you had to go
all the way to—
looting a baby’s life policy?
BRO—
y’all were literally
this close
to
fucking freedom✨

because like—
prior to the policy audacity?
i was not even remotely aware.
and y’all are like,
lol nah—
watch us be so fucking egregious.

yoooo.
i was absolutely not out here
trying to fucking uncover
a potential✨
full-blown fucking affair—
funded by
my cash advances,
from my
fucking credit card,
fueled by
professional facetimes
right in front of my fucking face,
with institutional cover-ups
and "waspy office bestie" vibes?
using my fucking car
and gas money
to fake a whole-ass job?

nah— that would be literally psychotic. 🔪

(💭 side thought…)

yo, i truly thought they were supervised.
i truly thought this was a legit financial firm.

but nope.
fuckboy mutual™

where they underwrite his marital infidelity
onboarding you to bankroll his entire brokeboi finance era—
while offering you life policies (in your husband’s name)
conveniently mid-fucking murder plot

affair approved.
attempted murder covered.
policies canceled.

bro—
holy fucking shit.
like i’m the liability?

yo.

because why
stop at cheating
when you can go full felony?

and maybe collect on that fucking life policy?

yo
omfg.
because did my dude—
really drive to "those meetings"?
or "step out at 10am?"
for some foul-ass bullshit?
or was this twat just
casually fucking around,
pretending to be a man,
instead of earning
a single. fucking. dollar.
that didn’t come
straight from
his side chick’s fucking venmo?
in the career i funded
my entire fucking pregnancy?

while simultaneously— trying to murder me?

holy. fucking. shit.

bro.
this is bone-chilling.
this is legit
"you-were-supposed-to-fucking-die"
nightmare material.

seriously,
envision this:
you just wanted to be a mom,
bro.
you had just lost
the love of your fucking life,
and his whole fucking child.
so the whole family vibes thing?—
i mean, sure,
i fucking guess?
if you fucking insist, bro.

my dude fully signs up,
fucking volunteers
as goddamn baby daddy—
bro full-on proposes,
hands you an heirloom ring,
changes your fucking name
on his fucking birthday—
and you’re thinking,

"cool,
he’s battling demons,
i get it,
PTSD,
combat vet,
addiction,
we’ll fight through it—
together."

bro—nah.

because like,
fuck,
true crime plot twist:
it’s way darker.
way fucking darker.

you’re full on fucking
carrying his firstborn child,
handing over your fucking car,
your cards,
your cash,
your fucking trust—
closing your businesses,
renting out your condo so it gets trashed,
relocating across the goddamn fucking country—
and meanwhile,
he’s texting with some
tragic,
yellow-toothed,
khaki-wearing,
bridge-troll personality side piece,
with morals straight out of a
dungeon goblin's playbook?

holy fucking shit— 💀 (!!!!!!) 💀

(💭 side thought…)
to be fair,
this man couldn’t
put air
in a fucking tire.
idk why i’m shocked,
he’s a little bitch.
🤷‍♀️💨🚗

but like please—
someone send me
one single correction.
for the love of god.

because—
on my dime?
during my pregnancy?
while i’m home alone,
working seven days a week,
paying all his bills,
cleaning up his dog’s shit,
throwing up from him
literally beating my ass,
posting bruises
he put on my body
on my fucking instagram stories,
while his coworkers
watched in fucking silence?

holy. fucking. shit.

that would be
beyond insidious.
that would be
coordinated.
that would mean
a shit-ton of people knew.
that would be
institutional-level terrifying.

because let’s get real—
i completely talked myself out of this.
i said, "absolutely no real man would ever—"
i thought it was stress,
i made endless excuses,
i believed in his demons,
i forgave his trash mom,
the laughing,
the ER visits,
the fucking humiliation,
the absolute nothingness
of our first married christmas.
i forgave,
and forgave,
because family,
because love,
because my kid deserved better
than fucking broken.

but now?
yoooooo. now it’s different.

was the violence
because he
fucked up so badly,
he needed me silenced?
like forever silenced?

like his sins
fucking erased,
fucking silence?

bro. (!!!!)

like,
he absolutely knew,
if this ever got out—
total reputational annihilation.
and this dude?
lives for image.
and to get caught—
with her?
he would never live it down.
bro 100% understood that.
that’s why he never
left voluntarily. ✨

jesus christ.
but instead of risking getting caught?

…FUCK.

chills, bro.
literal fucking chills.

this shit means
it was
calculated,
sociopathic,
scary-as-fucking-hell,
true crime documentary level fucked up.
bro,
he wasn’t losing control—
he was covering his fucking tracks.

two seconds away
from turning me into
another tragic headline,
where everyone says,
"wow, didn’t see that coming."

but i saw something,
i fucking felt it,
i saw his eyes
when he fucking strangled me,
saw his rage,
saw his panic,
the absolute terror
of being exposed.
i just never imagined
the truth could be
so fucking grotesque.

the scariest part?
i'm begging to be wrong.
i’m sending receipts,
detailed emails,
forwarding the timeline,
screenshots,
timestamps,
pleading with everyone—
family,
colleagues,
an entire financial firm—
to tell me i’m wrong,
to correct me,
to say literally anything—

and what do i get?

absolute fucking silence.

yo.
they won't even say her name.
they won’t mention breach,
won’t say the word conflict,
won’t acknowledge any domestic violence,
no ER report,
nothing—
just deafening fucking silence.
and frantic fucking deflections.

and that silence?
is louder than anything
i could ever fucking scream.

this truly isn't revenge.
i don’t want it to be true.
please,
tell me i’m wrong.

because now,
it’s not a breakup—
with some severe violence,
it’s fucking systemic criminality.
it’s a calculated,
maniacal,
fucking deadly,
real-life nightmare.

so,
anyone thinking
i’m just starting shit?

just mad he's gone?
nah, bro.
i begged that dude to leave.
yo, i didn’t fall in love,
i couldn't—
i just hoped
he was fucking redeemable,
at least enough
to someday be a dad.

god damn.

but this?

this is psychotic levels of dangerous.
it changes absolutely everything.

this means i was a liability.
and none of it was ever an accident.

so whoever
the fuck
is listening:
babe, this isn’t revenge.
this isn’t obsession.
this was an attempted murder.

✨💀✨

🪦✨ fuckboy mutual™: proudly underwriting your attempted murder since q3