I left my last job on December 23, 2025.
Not with fireworks. Not with a grand plan. Just exhaustion.
I sat at a desk I hated, counting minutes, waiting to start something new anything while trying to get my personal affairs in order. What should’ve been rest turned into survival. Out of two weeks, I didn’t sleep for eight days. Let me explain why.
On December 27, my neighbors started fighting.
Normally, they’re loud in a different way wicked sex at all hours of the night. But this night felt wrong. Terribly wrong. What first sounded like rough sex turned into an all-out brawl. I heard poles slinging, hair being pulled, bodies slammed to the floor and then the words that stopped my heart:
“Bitch, I’ll kill you.”
I felt like I was dying right there in my own room.
I hesitated, but fear won. I called 911, trying to stay anonymous, trying to explain what I could while realizing how little detail I actually had. I hung up frustrated, helpless. The operator called back and sent help anyway.
This is one thing I love about Vegas when you call, they show up. Less than ten minutes.
No arrest was made. Turns out the woman was a prostitute he picked up at 7-Eleven, and she refused to press charges. And just like that, life went on except mine didn’t.
Then January 7 happened.
I stepped outside to grab groceries, preparing for work, when some jerk deliberately cut me off, blocking my path. Standing there. Waiting.
So many questions ran through my head at once:
How did you know I was coming out?
Why were you waiting for me?
Which stalker sent you?
Everybody wants to be famous for dumb shit.
Forgive me for being blunt, but I pay my own bills. I work for a living. And given how fast you were stroking your really small ego, the last thing I need is another homeless bum in my bed.
I used to be giving. Too giving. From one toxic bed to the next, always the provider, always the fixer. Not anymore.
I no longer engage in situations where I am the primary source of survival for grown men.
I’ve watched men come to me with nothing, only to be guilted into success and take it to other women. Baby bye.
I’m not paying for your dinner.
I’m not paying your rent.
I’m not buying your clothes.
You’re not borrowing my car.
My children are grown with families of their own. No childcare needed. I don’t need men with woman-hating issues. I don’t need drama. And I don’t need chaos to feel alive.
What I do need is peace and I finally have it.
I haven’t even figured out which side of town I love most yet, but Summerlin and Rhodes Ranch feel good to my spirit. I’m a foodie. I enjoy commuting. If something special is happening, I’ll Lyft. I love the kiss of God on my face in the morning. I love the calm of the night blunt, glass of wine, and a good movie.
My cleaning business and shared housing projects are under development. I’ve been planning, building, thinking forward.
And yes there’s a new stalker.
I filed a police report. Same attention-seeking behavior from “fans” who have no business all in mine. The hotel failed to relocate him as promised. I sent a notice to withhold and vacate. They retaliated with a notice to quit.
So now we go to court.
By February 1, I was already moving just as my notice stated. I offered to pay rent. They refused. I’m not arguing with anyone. This was temporary anyway.
I’ve relocated every three months for a while now but this time, I’m ready for a lease. I’m ready to settle intentionally.
I’m excited to establish my businesses, lock in financial stability, and retire with peace of mind.
Every year feels like a football game to me. The first quarter matters. How you start sets the tone for everything that follows.
So I made a promise to myself this year:
Promote me.
Love me.
Establish me.
And let my haters my fans hate.
If I were them, I’d hate me too.
Enjoy your day.
Love yourself.
