A Transmission From the Higher Realms (That You’ll Never Understand)
Dear Mr. Spreadsheet But No Receipts,
I’ve just come out of a meditation session where I visualized you being swallowed whole by your own ego… and shockingly, the Universe said, “Girl, he’s already halfway there.”
Let me be clear: you are not an awakened man. You’re a cosmic toddler in a good disguise, flailing through life thinking manipulation is strategy and control is love. You are the karmic test I didn’t know I signed up for—but boy, did I pass it with flying lotus petals.
Your emotional intelligence is like a candle in a hurricane. You could reincarnate twelve times and still not grasp that love is not possession, parenthood is not performance, and passive-aggressive email games are not spiritual enlightenment.
You mistake silence for power. I mistake you for a walking cautionary tale. Tomato, tomahto.
But don’t worry—I’ve already saged the inbox, saged our daughter's schoolbag, saged the house, and saged my nervous system. Your energetic sludge will not stain my aura any longer.
May you find peace... preferably far away from me and armed with a good therapist, two humility pills, and a restraining order on you.
Om Fucking Shanti,
Your (thankfully) ex
