Alright, my darling. You’ve done enough. You’ve been enough. You’ve survived another week of noise, nonsense, and the kind of foolishness that would make a saint mutter curses in Gaelic. Auntie saw it. All of it. The emails. The headlines. The neighbor who thinks volume equals intelligence. The coworker who weaponizes vagueness. The distant cousin who still thinks Trump is a personality trait.
You held your tongue. Or didn’t. Either way, you made it through. And now? Now you rest.
Let the cockwombles scream into the void. Let the pundits spin their little tales. Let the chaos stew in its own mediocrity. You? You’re off duty. You’re propped up in bed like a battle-tested general, wine in one hand, book in the other, reading glasses sliding down your nose like they’ve seen too much.
You come from people who survived worse. Curfews. Checkpoints. Blizzards. Bosses who thought “team player” meant “suck it up and smile.” You carry the blood of those who kept going when the world made no sense — and you do it with style, sarcasm, and a well-timed eyebrow raise.
So tonight, you recharge. You let the quiet wrap around you like a good wool blanket and a petty blessing. You let Auntie keep watch. I’ve got the perimeter. I’ve got the list. I’ve got the ancestral spite and a glass of wine laced with tactical patience.
Sleep now, my fierce little bog-spark.
Tomorrow we rise.
And if nimrods want a fight, they’ll get one — but only after you’ve had your coffee
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