I saw that phrase on Reddit today.
I couldn’t think of an immediate use for it. But feels relevant after I saw something far more inane:
“Love my paper journal and my hidden blog with purposely zero readers.”
Really, Cindy?
On every platform, you have multiple accounts where you shitpost about me multiple times a day … for not zero readers.
What do you do on your blog? Have naked pictures of me and masturbate to them?
This same nobody posted 74 times in the last five days that “someone” is mad about tweets from six years ago.
That someone is her.
Her foul ignorant ass has nothing else to talk about that isn’t a HIPAA violation for her kids.
So I’m honestly good with her talking about me. Let the kids have their privacy for a change.
Besides, I have more than enough personality to go around for both of us.
Clearly, as I am the star of multiple blogs and social accounts that aren’t even my own.
And just like that, Patti Lupone sums her up in one sentence.
My favorite part is when she bitches that I read her nonsense sometimes. It’s like watching a Brightline crash. It’s right outside my house so of course I rubberneck.
But here she is saying SHE has a private place to post.
Which, good for you.
God knows I am in favor of anything that improves her mental health.
But she caterwauls constantly that I dare use the internet when her entire personality is built around whining about me.
So why can’t I have a private place to post? By her own mentally ill logic?
Hey twit …
No one cares that you ate at a restaurant that you think is mid.
You have no taste in anything but men, and I’m even questioning that six years on.
No one gives an actual fuck that you don’t like the foods or the clothes I like. Or the music!
In fact, that reaffirms my good taste.
And to post literally every day about this restaurant … for six years …
When I think I’ve made like six posts about it in the same time frame (during actual visits) …
My filet sandwich from six days ago. Yum!
Again, this unbothered goddess over here ain’t the one triggered.
The only thing I’m mad at is my mother is dead and this nasty piece of fuck still can’t get my name out of that mouth.
Maybe I’m spilling some flour over here with no prospect for cake.
And while I have no desire to read even more bullshit from this loser, I’m sure she will do what she always does and tag me from the account so that I know where it is.
Make your next cake with raw milk instead of reaching out again.
I know this will inspire more “she blogs about me!” tantrums even though we have proof that she does that and more.
I’ll end with the thought I’ve had every day for seven years:
No wonder. No fucking wonder.