They’ll bend over backwards to humiliate you — not because you’ve wronged them, but because your very existence pisses them off. It’s a special kind of obsession, the kind you’d usually medicate. But here’s the kicker: every time they try to drag you down, they end up face-planting into their own mess. And that, my friend, only lights their petty little fire even more.
Even the calm ones, the polite “namaste” types in public — they’re seething on the inside. Clenching jaws, fake smiles, burning resentment. Why? Because every carefully plotted attempt to shame you turns into a tragicomic failure. They call it “bad luck.” We call it karma wearing stilettos.
So they level up. They think, “Well, maybe the loser we sent last time wasn’t manipulative enough. Let’s try someone with more teeth and less soul.”
Still doesn’t work.
Now they pivot. Stick didn’t work? Let’s try the carrot. But not just any carrot — this one comes attached to a suitcase full of cash… flung on the floor like dog food. And you? You’re supposed to crawl for it. Bow. Grovel. Smile while you do it.
But you don’t. You just sip your coffee and say, “No, thanks.”
And oh boy, the tantrums that follow? Michelin-star drama. Screaming into voids. Pacing halls. Whispering behind curtains. They offer a lineup of women like some twisted dating game show from hell. “See, all these lovely ladies are ready to be with you if you just let us strip you of dignity in public!”
Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Wait… is this a fetish they have in common? Or a mental illness that we should protect the society from?” You take a mental screenshot, politely decline, and peace out.
But they’re not done yet.
Enter: The Boss. The big bad wolf in overpriced cologne and fake wisdom. He slides in all smiles and back pats. “You’re my friend,” he says every two minutes like a broken record on coke.
Spoiler: people who say “trust me” too much are usually the reason you don’t trust people anymore.
This “friend” steps onto a stage built by your enemies, plays along with their game, and calls it protection. He tells you to relax, trust the process. Then he waits. He’s banking on you screwing up — a slip, a swear word, a misstep — something to justify a glorious public takedown.
And if you don’t slip? No worries. He’ll just send in actors. People trained to poke at your wounds until you snap. If you explode — “Aha! He failed the test!” If you don’t — “Oh wow, he passed. What a guy!” Cue fake applause.
Behind the scenes, he works with the infamous “You-Know-Who,” with access to every detail of your life — home, street, even your goddamn toilet habits. And sure, that kind of info comes at a price. You only pray it was his sweat being traded, and not someone else’s dignity.
But here’s the twist: you let him do all of it. Set the stage, direct the show, cast the puppets, even narrate the plot. Why? Because you know something they don’t:
When the curtain’s about to fall, you’ll be the one holding the pen — rewriting the script, flipping the ending, and leaving the audience wondering who really got played.
