[INTRO] This morning almost got me. Cried a little. Typed a lot. Thumb over send like, “Fuck it.” Then somewhere between the tears and the terrible idea— a key turned in the building. Oh, fuck. Management. [VERSE 1] Woke up to paragraphs straight through the drywall, somebody I loved since I was little still knew where the weak spots were. Read one. Read two. Reread six like maybe mercy was hiding in the fine print. There wasn’t. Cute. Eyes wet. Chest tight. Built a courtroom in my Notes app. Facts. Dates. Receipts. Exhibits A through spite. Thumb over send. Then something in me went— Hold up. I’m filing an appeal? TO WHO? Delete. Delete. Delete. Still cried. Let the record show. For one ugly second I thought, “Maybe they got me.” Then the building heard footsteps. [BEAT CUT] 12:03— impact. 12:04— systems flickering. 12:05— THE BLONDE CLOCKED IN. [VERSE 2] Phone face-down. Hair went back. Water. Food. Shoes. Bass. Eyes still red. Good. Proof of weather. Cool doesn’t mean untouched. Cool means— WATCH WHAT HAPPENS AFTER. Kid needs me? I’m there. Work needs done? Slide it over. Problem got loud? Take a number. Washed my face. Changed my shirt. Put my whole big body back into the earth. Same texts. Same house. Same fucking day. But I put my shoulders back and suddenly the furniture remembered its job. [HOOK] EVERYTHING WAS GOING TO SHIT— THEN THE BLONDE CLOCKED IN. Phone went down. Chin went up. Whole day heard footsteps like, “Aw, fuck.” Almost hit send. Almost went in. Then I came through for me like somebody finally answered the emergency contact. Everything was going to shit— THEN THE BLONDE CLOCKED IN. [VERSE 3] I don’t need rescuing. Apparently I’m the one they dispatch after rescuing fails. Five-eight. Platinum. Built substantial. Walk into disaster like, “Who signed off on this?” ... Doesn’t matter. I HAVE THE CLIPBOARD NOW. Nervous system smoking. Face still pretty. Whole operation hanging by a thread— thread must be load-bearing. Knocked down before breakfast. By lunch? Unreasonable levels of confidence. Recovery time? Suspicious. You saw one tear and thought I was done? Baby— sometimes the monster leaks. Then she wipes her face, checks the time, and reports for duty. [VERSE 4] Check the file. Flat tire forever— still pulled up. Built Bare Minimum Baddie while personally operating below manufacturer guidelines. Made a planner for inconsistent brains while serving as lead researcher. That’s not disorganization. That’s field testing. Somebody disappoints me? Congrats. You’re raw material. Bad morning? Song. Breakdown? Campaign. Heartache? New department. I don’t lose. I REPURPOSE. [BREAKDOWN] Status update: Blonde— operational. Phone— face-down. Feelings— contained. Bad decisions— narrowly avoided. She has eaten. Found her charger. Stopped explaining herself. She appears strangely calm. This is worse. Do not mistake the absence of paragraphs for the absence of opinions. The courtroom is closed. The factory is open. Authorities describe the development as— concerning. [VERSE 5] Sexy used to mean somebody wanted me. Adorable. Policy changed. Sexy is crying with your thumb over send then deciding— “No. You already got enough access.” Sexy is swollen eyes and a locked door. Soft belly. Thick thighs. Platinum warning light. Whole room recalibrates when I stop folding myself smaller. I don’t need to win every argument. Keep your version. Frame it. I got shit to do. [FINAL VERSE] So yeah— the morning almost won. Give it credit. Strong opening. Excellent pressure. Very convincing collapse. Had me crying. Had me typing. Had me one button away from donating six more paragraphs to a closed account. Impressive first quarter. Unfortunately— I MADE ADJUSTMENTS. 12:03— hurt. 12:04— caught myself. 12:05— monster on premises. By 12:20— feeding people, making plans, getting ideas again. By lunch? Laughing. That’s when the day should’ve gotten scared. I have a documented history of becoming fucking unbearable once the engine turns back over. Spent years being everybody’s emergency contact. Funny who finally answered mine. Me. Big. Blonde. Mad. Still tender. Still mine. [FINAL HOOK] EVERYTHING WAS GOING TO SHIT— THEN THE BLONDE CLOCKED IN. Same fire. Same mess. Different bitch walked in. Phone went down. Chin went up. Problems started talking— LINE THE FUCK UP. No hero. No luck. No cavalry coming. Perfect. I’M THE ONE THEY SEND WHEN RESCUING FAILS. Nothing got easier— I JUST GOT THERE. Almost ruined my day. Almost. Strong attempt. One tactical error— you mistook me going down for me staying there. 12:03— impact. 12:04— systems flickering. 12:05— THE BLONDE CLOCKED IN. You gave me something to come back from.
