The Voice in Your Head Isn’t Alone

Give fucks. Don’t give fucks. Somewhere along the line, “fuck” became a tribal chant, a ritual exchange of the same badly wrapped gift between the haves and the have-nots.

Don’t give me what I am. Let me give it back to you and see if you wear it better. And then—just once—someone steps out of line, says a loud, unapologetic fuck you to both of them, and goes her own way, refusing to carry the weight of someone else’s misadaptations.

“You make me feel this way, that way”—no. That’s code for: now you have my power, and I have none. But here’s the truth: I do have the power. I can quit my job. I can walk away. I can leave a marriage. The only thing stopping me is the story I’ve been told I can’t.

And that’s the biggest fuck you of all: I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone to validate my life. I don’t need anyone to define my peace. I need nothing to truly live—where death is not, where freedom exists, where peace is just the air I breathe.

And the fucks I no longer give? They are mine. All of them. Every last one… and they’re yours too, if you choose to take them.