I didn’t spend hours romanticizing what to call this post. I don’t need flowery metaphors or poetic distractions.
“Fuck You Up” says it all. Blunt. Sharp. Accurate.
It’s not just a title it’s a mission statement.

You see, I wasn’t born cruel.
Cruelty was carved into me, shaped by experience, sharpened by betrayal, and perfected over time.
And while most run from their demons, I made mine kneel.
Now I wear them like a crown.

So when I say I’ll fuck you up, it’s not out of anger.
It’s not a tantrum.
It’s a promise.
A ritual.
A performance with one outcome: your undoing.

I’ve seen them all before the ones who think they can lurk in the shadows, watching silently, fantasizing, pretending they’re untouchable.
The keyboard cowards. The ghost followers.
They think if they stay quiet long enough, I won’t notice them.
As if silence could protect them from me.

You think I don’t see you?

I always see you.

I see the hesitation in your gaze, the nervous tremble in your fingers as you hover over that tribute button, the shame that pulses through your chest when my name flashes across your screen.