"Too be or not, "Fuck that, I'm Outside!!!"

  Let me just say this: some stories are meant to be cautionary tales, and baby, this one right here? You might want to grab a glass of wine, some popcorn, and maybe a neck brace, cause this ride got WHIPLASH written all over it. See, it was never supposed to be a relationship. Nope. Not even close. It was a situationship. One of those “we’re just vibing” kinda things that somehow evolved into “I do” —and not even in a cute Hallmark classic movie type of way. More like a 1998 Lifetime movie meets Judge Judy kind of chaos. And before I knew it, I wasn’t just living in delusional hell—I had a whole forwarding address there. I got caught up in a whirlwind of cheating, gaslighting, manipulation, and abuse. The kind that makes you question your sanity while folding the clothes of the man who tore up the last three outfits you bought because you dared to look like a person in public. And when he did “replace” them? Babyyyyy… it was giving clearance rack at a retirement home. One shi...

Let’s get straight to it: you’re either the one getting chosen, or the one getting walked over like you owe somebody something and you never received the memo. You can’t play both positions- this ain’t a church play and you’re not double-casted in some Tyler Perry 20-min put together script. And I say all of that with love… but also with a couple of shots of Remy and my phone on Do Not Disturb because I don’t argue with delusion anymore. Welcome back to “Too be, or not ‘F*ck that, I’m outside,” where we prioritize self-worth, healthy boundaries, and knowing when it’s time to gracefully exit stage left with your peace—and your edges—intact. We already covered the basics in the first post: we’re not begging, we’re not chasing, and we’re definitely not settling for “potential.” Today, we’re taking it a step further. We’re talking about how to demand the respect you deserve without turning into a stressed-out version of yourself who’s crying in the bathroom at brunch with your girls be...

  Let’s just start with the truth: I’m not a therapist. I’m not Iyanla. I’m just someone who’s had enough situationships to write a few “Girl, You’re Stupid!” books, a spinoff movie series, and maybe a musical if you give me a drink or two with k. Michelle on the karaoke and me signing “You can’t Raise a Man” into the mic off key and high pitched. Who’s judging? This blog is for the romantically exhausted, the emotionally enlightened, and the folks who’ve ever stared at their phone like, “Did this fool just…?” Yes. Yes, he did. And we’re gonna talk about it. We’re diving into red flags so bright they need a hazard sign and you some Ray-Ban’s, green flags that don’t get enough credit, and the art of knowing your worth even when someone’s trying to downgrade you down like it’s a flea market. Because here’s the real tea: it’s not always about being boo’d up, sometimes it’s about being you’d up . Boundaries, baby. Self-respect. And knowing when to exit stage left before you sta...