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Not going to lie… with everything going on, I’m feeling the pull to go to church and give my life to Jesus.

I was replaced by AI at my job and have been officially unemployed since last week. Are we still claiming that AI is incredible and changing humanity for the better? It’s soulless. It’s slaughtering humanity.

It’s homophobic for a straight woman to be repulsed by the thought of being in a relationship with a man who likes men now? I don’t want a man who likes men. I don’t want to marry or reproduce with a man who likes men. That makes me homophobic? Are y’all f*cking serious right now?

Got a rejection from a traditional publisher today. They called my writing ‘visceral, moving, the next big thing’—their words. Yet they rejected me, not for my writing, but for my weak social media presence. In 2025, it seems talent isn’t about what you create anymore; followers are the new currency. When did good writing start needing a hashtag to prove its worth? I’m frustrated, disappointed, and discouraged. But this is fuel now. I’m going to prove there’s still a place for stories that stand on their merit.

Serious question: If daycare eats your entire paycheck, and your spouse already covers the bills… what’s the point of working? Just so someone else can raise your kids while you break even? Your children are safer, happier, and better off with you. Why not be a one income household? Make it make sense.

I'm convinced that most users on this platform aren't human. Everything feels manufactured and generated—the posts, the comments, and the conversations. I feel like there are only 500 real humans. Are you human?

sobriety is lonely. no one talks about that.

When I was small, freedom came in two forms: the bicycle and the book. One gave me escape in motion, the other in silence. With one, I could vanish down dusty roads, with the other, between dog-eared pages and dusk-lit paragraphs. I never needed permission. Just a little light left in the day. My bike rattled like it had secrets; my book creased like it remembered me. No audience, no outcome, just movement and magic. I rode sticky-fingered, joy uncontained, a jelly smear on one hand. A chocolate milk mustache softening with the breeze. Freedom tasted sweet and careless then. The kind you sip, smear, and wear. There was always a book in the basket. Spine soft. Pages curled from afternoons half-lived. I didn’t choose between motion and story. I carried them together. They were both a kind of tender rebellion. Against stillness, against noise, against growing up too fast. The road didn’t ask questions. The story didn’t judge. They just let me leave. My bike didn’t care where I went. My book didn’t mind who I was. Back then, even the wind seemed to know my name. Freedom used to sound like pedals clicking and pages turning. I miss the kind of quiet that came with wandering. I return to the things that never asked me to be impressive. And I believed in them. Believed that a hill could be a beginning, and a sentence could be a door. Believed that if I pedaled hard enough or read slow enough, the world might hold me without asking me to explain. I return to that faith sometimes. When the screen glares too loudly, when the day presses its weight into my ribs. I remember that all I ever needed was something that moved me and something that understood me. And now, older and a little more frayed, I’ve returned to them. The bicycle and the book. They still carry me, just slower now, and with more to forgive. I ride again. I read again. And freedom feels like remembering. And I miss it like a promise I forgot I made. I’m not trying to be timeless. I’m trying to be true. Let the world rush. I’ll be the one pedaling.

This is a reminder of what a 33-year-old woman looks like with no makeup, no Botox, no lip fillers, no filters, natural hair, and untouched eyebrows.

A wife lost her husband. Two children lost their father. That’s the headline. That’s who was taken today. Charlie Kirk was more than a political figure. You don’t have to agree with someone to grieve their absence. We can, and must, hold space for humanity even in disagreement. Because if we lose that, we lose the very thing worth fighting for. The measure of our character is not how we treat those we love, but how we treat those we oppose. Today’s tragedy isn’t just about one person. It’s about the kind of country our children will inherit. If we can’t protect the voices we disagree with, we can’t protect our children’s right to speak at all. Every act of political violence chips away at the freedoms our kids should grow up enjoying without fear. We must stop normalizing it before it becomes the only language they know.

dress slits are so pretty.

Romantics are the new rebels.

look how terrible my tan line is 🤭

I love staying home. I love reading books that make me feel seen. Writing words that no one may ever read. Watching films that linger in my chest. I cook slowly, watch birds like they’re old friends, walk without a destination. Some call it boring. I call it a life. A life that heals you. A life that makes you whole. Soft, intentional and mine. This quiet life? It’s the loudest I’ve ever felt like myself.

hair wash day 🌻

enjoying my new found love of dresses.

Not going to lie… with everything going on, I’m feeling the pull to go to church and give my life to Jesus.

I'm convinced that most users on this platform aren't human. Everything feels manufactured and generated—the posts, the comments, and the conversations. I feel like there are only 500 real humans. Are you human?

I was replaced by AI at my job and have been officially unemployed since last week. Are we still claiming that AI is incredible and changing humanity for the better? It’s soulless. It’s slaughtering humanity.

It’s homophobic for a straight woman to be repulsed by the thought of being in a relationship with a man who likes men now? I don’t want a man who likes men. I don’t want to marry or reproduce with a man who likes men. That makes me homophobic? Are y’all f*cking serious right now?

Got a rejection from a traditional publisher today. They called my writing ‘visceral, moving, the next big thing’—their words. Yet they rejected me, not for my writing, but for my weak social media presence. In 2025, it seems talent isn’t about what you create anymore; followers are the new currency. When did good writing start needing a hashtag to prove its worth? I’m frustrated, disappointed, and discouraged. But this is fuel now. I’m going to prove there’s still a place for stories that stand on their merit.

sobriety is lonely. no one talks about that.

Serious question: If daycare eats your entire paycheck, and your spouse already covers the bills… what’s the point of working? Just so someone else can raise your kids while you break even? Your children are safer, happier, and better off with you. Why not be a one income household? Make it make sense.

This is a reminder of what a 33-year-old woman looks like with no makeup, no Botox, no lip fillers, no filters, natural hair, and untouched eyebrows.

When I was small, freedom came in two forms: the bicycle and the book. One gave me escape in motion, the other in silence. With one, I could vanish down dusty roads, with the other, between dog-eared pages and dusk-lit paragraphs. I never needed permission. Just a little light left in the day. My bike rattled like it had secrets; my book creased like it remembered me. No audience, no outcome, just movement and magic. I rode sticky-fingered, joy uncontained, a jelly smear on one hand. A chocolate milk mustache softening with the breeze. Freedom tasted sweet and careless then. The kind you sip, smear, and wear. There was always a book in the basket. Spine soft. Pages curled from afternoons half-lived. I didn’t choose between motion and story. I carried them together. They were both a kind of tender rebellion. Against stillness, against noise, against growing up too fast. The road didn’t ask questions. The story didn’t judge. They just let me leave. My bike didn’t care where I went. My book didn’t mind who I was. Back then, even the wind seemed to know my name. Freedom used to sound like pedals clicking and pages turning. I miss the kind of quiet that came with wandering. I return to the things that never asked me to be impressive. And I believed in them. Believed that a hill could be a beginning, and a sentence could be a door. Believed that if I pedaled hard enough or read slow enough, the world might hold me without asking me to explain. I return to that faith sometimes. When the screen glares too loudly, when the day presses its weight into my ribs. I remember that all I ever needed was something that moved me and something that understood me. And now, older and a little more frayed, I’ve returned to them. The bicycle and the book. They still carry me, just slower now, and with more to forgive. I ride again. I read again. And freedom feels like remembering. And I miss it like a promise I forgot I made. I’m not trying to be timeless. I’m trying to be true. Let the world rush. I’ll be the one pedaling.

why do men get so angry and hostile when they are politely rejected? do you really think that’s going to make a woman want you? insulting her? A real conversation I had today: Man: You’re beautiful and intelligent. Can I take you out? Can we speak? Me: Thank you for compliment, however, I’m not interested. Man: Fuck you, whore.

Sixteen pigs can eat a human corpse in approximately eight minutes.

He cheated so I put raw shrimp in all his curtain rods.

look how terrible my tan line is 🤭

Therapy isn’t healing. It’s outsourcing your pain to someone who profits from it.

dress slits are so pretty.

𝕏 is broken. I was flagged for talking about my trucks transmission. I appealed it and it was denied. Literally the most innocent conversation. Now, my account has a label for hateful conduct. Absolutely ridiculous. While we have accounts out here calling people wh*res, f*ags, ret*ards, etc. 𝕏 has zero desire to see small accounts grow. Unless you’re in their little circle jerk.