“yo, just stfu”

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

listen—

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

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

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

lol.

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

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

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

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

but nah bitch—
it was
exactly like that.

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

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

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

that’s the only way
this shit
survives.

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

that we:

shut the fuck up.

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

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

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

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

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

bro.
(fuck—i might cry)

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

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

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

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

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

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

i fight that ghost—
every
fucking
day.

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

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

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

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

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

i have to.

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

i’m already scared as fuck.

not a threat. just a fucking deadline.

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

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

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

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

real fucking criminalities.

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

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

LOL. 🤡🤡🤡

nah.
my silence was strategy.

you thought i was healing?
i was organizing.

you thought i moved on?
i moved jurisdiction.

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

yeah babe. i do.

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

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

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

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

👼🏻👼🏻👼🏻

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

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

babe.

✶

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

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

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

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

but a few of you?

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

fuck around
and
find
out.

you absolutely fucking
deserve
it
all.

✨ divine timing, baby.

this is it, babe. shit’s cosmic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your move.

childhood homes, babe. a tour.

(aka places i survived, not lived)

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

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

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

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

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

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

hated them all.
loved texas.

why do people act like i owe them shit?

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

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

i mean—be for real.

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

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

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

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

like i’m actual garbage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now i’m disrespectful?

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

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

LMFAO.
like…no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✨

mean girl energy

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

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

dramatic as hell.
absolutely-delusional.

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

“you hurt me by moving on”
—a memoir.

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

oh babe…so—

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

okay!!!
let’s play that game!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

no but reallllllllyyyyyy,
was i mean????

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

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

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

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

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

just to get:
🌳👀🌿
🌳👀🌿
🌳👀🌿

lol. ok.

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

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

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

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

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

(exits plot forever)

✨🖕🏼✨

have fun in hell.

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

now it’s yours.

dramatic? bro, you rage harder than my toddler.

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

literally always crying.
about some bullshit.

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

take the fucking award bro. 🔥

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

girl—truly.

✨ jesus. fucking. wept. ✨

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

why are you so emotional?
for real?

they be in dms like:

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

yes, babe. i’m still mad you exist.

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

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

“i just think it’s crazy how…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jesus fucking christ.
you’re supposed to:

provide.
protect.
but nah—
petty bullshit.

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

💅🏽 stay delulu.
men always do.

soft hands can’t hold smoke

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

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

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

→ user flow reminder:

1. open browser.

2. type my name.

3. click the link already feeling salty.

4. rage-scroll until your vision tunnels.

5. blame me for the headache.

nice.

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

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

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

just tell her to get a new hobby, honey.

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

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

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

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

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

doesn’t land; babe— i’m dead inside.

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

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

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

this ain’t new.
this is tuesday.

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

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

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

lol.
never.
not once.
no one.

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

imagine—

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

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

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

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

righhhhhhtttttttt.
cool.
thanks for fucking being here crew.

baby—

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

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

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

babe. i wish i could cry.

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

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

lol, i know bro right?

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

(babe i full on sobbed in public that time)

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

you think that lands?

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

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

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

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

and what’d i get?

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

word?
tight.
cool story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but that’s my problem.
not yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that had me sobbing bro.

some people get
soft landings.

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

who’s next?

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

god bless.

is this what you wanted? fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then one fucking pussy joke later.

and it’s BRRRRRRINGGGGGG—

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

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

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

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

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

so—fine.
here it is:

you were always the love of my life.

so what.
does that help?

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

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

like a stupid little bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so i’ll make a formal statement:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

because it was once in a fucking universe shit.

and she wanted it.

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

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

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

you picked.
a million times—
no one.

but definitely never me.

baby—fuck your way to the top.

okay. deep breath.
this is gonna sting.

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

🥂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(and babe… i think you know that.)

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

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

📉

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

iconic.
slay queen.
🫡💅🏼📉

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

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

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

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

couldn’t commit to staying in the state?

babe.

baaaabe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just this:

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

but baby,
you really didn’t need to—

set yourself on fire

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

ouch.

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

🔌

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

literally… who?

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

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

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

so let’s cut the shit.

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

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

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

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

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

because honestly—

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

naahhhhhh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

figgy v. nickel

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

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

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

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

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

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

[yikes.]

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

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

🖤 that’s the starter pack. 🖤

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

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

LOL. nice move, babe. 🖤

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

• 💰 digital money trail

• 🩸 punching pregnant women

• 📵 paid policy = block + vanish mode

• 🧷 postpartum pingpingping “hiii”

• 👶 a whole fucking baby

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

• are you dumb? short answer: absolutely.

➔ final takeaway (aka stop playing with me):

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

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

walking biohazard, but like…hot.

bruh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nah.

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

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

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

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

not angry.

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

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

but liability?
nah.
i’m a weapon.

subject: ✨not-an-opp✨ form

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

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

📜🔎

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

…

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

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

…

✧ section i: communication ethics, or whatever →

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

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

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

✧ section ii: financial intervention or emotional subsidy? →

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

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

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

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

↳ please explain with your full chest in white space:

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

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

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

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

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

✧ section iv: post-plotline behavior →

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

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

🌳👀🌿

✧ final section: who tf were you really →

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

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

baby, that makes you less likable. not more.

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

💔

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🥊🥊🤼‍♂️🥊🥊

⚖️ legal-ish disclaimer for the overly invested:

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

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

💥

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

☠️ OPPOSING CORNER: TEAM FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT

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

serial cheater.
serial squatter.
serial soul-sucker.

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

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

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

✨ team flop era includes:

• the unpaid child support balance

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

• his combat-induced entitlement complex

• and every job he quit before the w2 even printed

📉 MATCH STATS:

TEAM EX-WIVES™

• 2 degrees

• 2 mortgages

• 1 planned child™

• 47 pdfs labeled “starterhubbywtfwasthat.pdf”

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

  🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆

TEAM SADBOY BULLSHIT:

• 2 failed marriages

• 0 days a week with the baby

• 0 documented income since trump took office

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

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

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

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

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

🎤 dropped.

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

the taliban? nah—just titties.

✶ boobies, not bombs ✶

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

xxx
totally, so, not a real story—

so like—
here’s the story.

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

and him?

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

and suddenly everything clicks.

baby—it wasn’t ptsd.
it was panic.

you disgusting, dusty, dickless coward.

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

baby,
it was the embarrassment.

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

like… bruh. HER? embarrassing.

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

nah,
low-grade titties????

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

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

you’d be clowned.
publicly.
permanently.

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

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

and now?

it all makes sense.

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

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

but baby—i’m laughing now.

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

you know how fucking pathetic that is?

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

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

and the worst part?

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

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

and so what did you do?

you escalated.
you got violent.

and that’s it, right?

it wasn’t the war.
it was the shame.

babe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now,
looking back?

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

bro.

you almost killed me
because the truth
was that humiliating.

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

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

baby, you weren’t suffering.

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

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

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

and now he’s yours.

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

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

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

🖤

legally & spiritually.


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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

only hit me up for pills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

make it make sense.

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

but yeah.
go off,
csi: incel edition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but hey—
maybe he’ll change for you.

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

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

the minute i stopped clapping?
he folded.

🖤

no closure. just content.

functioning alcoholic starter pack

aka
🧃 two dudes in one body
choose ur fighter

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

but then

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

and then

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

on. the. spot.
try me.

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

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

let’s get one thing real straight:

you are not
a brooding intellectual
with trauma depth.

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

—

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

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

newsflash:
you still are.

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

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

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

good luck, bud.
stay hydrated. 💅

not even mad. just… embarrassed.

[…………………….]

wait.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

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

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

yo
🤣

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

but
was that…
a bribe?
hush money?

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

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

babe—
i was joking.

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

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

girl please doooooo.

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

honestly?
if this is real?
perfect.

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

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

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

big deal.

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

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

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

broooooooooooooo
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but seriously—

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

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

“👀”
“👀”
“👀”

yeah babe, you are the one.

anyway.
be well.

thank you for this.

xoxo