2025: The Year I Stopped Kneeling and Started Coming

A not-so-holy trinity of rebirth, revenge, and really good sex.

If I ever rubbed a vodka bottle and a genie popped out offering three wishes, I’d tell him he’s late - 2025 already handed them to me on a silver platter.

My thirty-third year wasn’t some gentle “light at the end of the tunnel” bullshit. It was finally crawling out of the goddamn tunnel, standing up, brushing the dirt off, and flipping the bird to everything behind me. Hallelujah and pass the fucking amen.

I stared down a $450,000 lawsuit from the cult and basically told them to shove it straight up their ass.

Then I walked into a free consultation with this lawyer - just kicking tires, seeing if anyone out there could handle my level of unfiltered, and within minutes this pearl-clutching woman leans in and whispers that I should stop swearing on my blog because it’s “off-putting.”

Off-putting. During a free meet-and-greet. Before I’d even decided if she could handle the case, she’s already trying to sand down my edges.

“Sweetheart, I don’t give a single flying fuck whether you read this or not.

She also suggested I stop calling it a “cult.” Cute. Real cute.

Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Cult. Fucking cult.

In their twisted little story, I’m the psychotic, demonic, worldly whore who sold her soul for lipstick and independence.

And you know what? The second I refused to bow my head, roll over, and play the quiet, submissive bitch they trained me to be, it absolutely shattered their fragile little dicks.

I’m such a Jezebel - picking out my cleavage-spilling top and the tiniest mini skirt that’s basically begging 2026 to notice my ass cheeks.

Call me the whore, the temptress, the devil in heels. I’ll own it.

Your midnight New Year’s Eve sermons - tonight’s the big “rapture night,” right? - always were complete and utter bullshit anyway. We were sitting there in those endless midnight services, eyes glued to the clock, literally pinching our babies just hard enough to make them cry so we’d have an excuse to bolt out of the sanctuary. And yeah, the whole time we were fantasizing about sneaking off to McDonald’s for a Big Mac. Glamorous, right?

But fast-forward to the lawsuit, when that half-million-dollar threat was hanging over my head - and holy shit, the cavalry showed up. I had an incredible team rally around me like nothing I’ve ever seen. I met the most badass, powerful woman I’ve ever known; we clicked instantly, became real friends, and she’s still a massive part of my life. People from all over the world reached out, reached their own lawyers, sent resources, and held the fucking line for me without hesitation.

Looking back now? Damn. I am so deeply supported. I am hella, ridiculously, overwhelmingly loved.

And I didn’t even have to pinch anyone to fucking prove it.

Fast-forward a few months and suddenly I’m frolicking through France and Spain like some cliché Eat Pray Love sequel I asked for… publicly hard-launching the dreamiest, sexiest man alive.

No, he’s not your standard-issue European heartthrob with cheekbones sharp enough to slice baguettes and an accent that makes panties evaporate.

But let’s be honest - he might as well be. The man’s racked up so many trips to Europe I stopped counting after “a fuckton.” Fourteen hundred? Sure. Fourteen? Probably. Nine? Whatever. At this point he’s basically got dual citizenship with croissants.

All I know is he’s ridiculously hot, he’s mine, my panties evaporate, and I’m posting him like it’s my full-time job.

Sorry to disappoint the peanut gallery who had me pegged as permanently single, bitter, and buying cats in bulk. Turns out, I twisted the plot, bitches. And we’re just in April.

May rolled in like the ultimate factory reset - full-body rebirth, baby - slate wiped cleaner than a sinner’s tears at altar call.

Hey, maybe the evangelicals were onto something with all that “rebirth, reclaim, return” bullshit after all… except mine didn’t involve tearful confessions and a dunk in lukewarm water.

Mine was me, bent over a hotel railing in Spain, mid-orgasm, screaming into the void while the whole damn Mediterranean watched. Also, eighteen hours of kid-free uninterrupted sleep.

Sorry mom, I’m not sixteen anymore. I fuck and get fucked.

Oh wait -

Pretty sure that’s not the kind of “born again” they were selling on Sunday mornings, evenings, and Wednesday nights.

My bad. Mine worked better anyway. 10/10, highly recommended.

Summer cranked up the heat with nonstop concerts, string bikinis, and a glorious parade of cocktails - straight-up “defiling the temple” if you ask the old crowd.

I’m finally living my reckless seventeen-year-old era: crowd-surfing vibes, sun-kissed skin, shots lined up like soldiers, and not a single fuck given.

All while being the fully locked-in, RESPONSIBLE mother of five kids. Turns out you can crush motherhood and still crush a bottle of Sugar Puss.

Adulthood just hit its peak, and it is tasting like freedom with a lime wedge.

Autumn rolled in and slapped the title “Award-Winning Thrifter” right on my ass.

Yes, you heard that correctly - I snagged “Fashionable Finds” winner for the entire goddamn province.

I’ve got an actual plaque gathering dust on my shelf to prove it, plus a camera roll full of proof shots and a whole new crew of equally obsessed friends.

I am, unapologetically, a thrift store whore.

September through December turned me into a student again - secondary internship, because clearly I needed one more hoop to jump through like the good little overachiever I am.

And! Big surprise, I passed - Straight A’s. Wow. Such shock. Much wow. Who’d have thought?

And then, just when I thought 2025 couldn’t get any better, I gained a work family.

Like, an actual crew of ridiculous, supportive, ride-or-die humans who show up, crack jokes, have my back, and make the daily grind feel like anything but.

I couldn’t love these weirdos more if I fucking tried.

Then, exactly one hour after I graduated, a full-time job offer popped up like it was embarrassed to keep me waiting any longer.

Yeah. Your girl is a success. Obviously. As if there was ever any doubt.

Next.

I’m staggering into 2026 with all twelve periods dutifully clocked in (yes, the uterus is still open for business, praise be), one disgustingly secure relationship that makes everyone else’s look like a Tinder swipe, a full-time career practically begging me to come boss it, a shiny new community volunteer gig because apparently I LOVE. an overflowing schedule - five absolutely feral yet somehow astounding children (ages 13 down to 6 - send help and vodka), multiple stamps in my passport from places that aren’t church camp, endless passionate (snip-snip vasectomy-safe) fucking that could power a small city, a rediscovered love for reading books that aren’t about submission, a whole-ass friend group I didn’t even know existed twelve months ago, and more partying like it’s 2010 and I’m still convinced vodka doesn’t have calories!

I couldn’t limp out of 2025 without shouting out all you beautiful weirdos who still show up for this hot mess of a blog - posted as consistently as the child support e-transfers I get (which is to say: sporadically and with a side of eye-roll).

You keep reading, liking, commenting, and holding space for my chaos, and I’m genuinely obsessed with every single one of you.

Real talk: even if I had just one loyal reader left, I’d still be this unhinged. Probably more.

But a huge, MASSIVE, sloppy-kiss thank you to those of you who actually pay every month or drop the full-year sub - your money isn’t just “nice to have,” it’s the difference between “we’re eating cereal for dinner again” and “holy shit, a full tank of gas and a pizza party for the kids.”

You catch my drift. You make my real life easier, and I don’t take that lightly.

HAPPY FUCKING NEW YEAR, PEEPS!!!

May your 2026 be half as wild, half as healing, and twice as unapologetic as my 2025 was.

Advice: Rub a vodka bottle.

Cheers to us, you glorious bastards. 🥂