🩵 𝖲𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋

So last night—well, technically this morning—I had a sleepover with three women: Abbi, her sister Alicia, and Rhiannon. Cute girls, smart-ish, but apparently missing the part of the brain that says “Hey, maybe don’t summon demons at 4 AM.”

We’re sitting there, minding our business, when these three geniuses decide they want to play Cat Scratch. Now listen… I’m not religious. I don’t go to church. I don’t even drive past churches too fast. But I do know better than to invite spirits into a perfectly peaceful sleepover.

I tried to warn them.
“Don’t mess with stuff like that.”
But no. These women fear nothing. Not God. Not ghosts. Not consequences.

So they do it. They play the game. And then my sweet Abbi turns around and—BOOM—three fresh scratches across her back. Like something out of a low-budget horror movie.

The minute I saw those marks with my own two eyes, my soul left my body, came back, packed a suitcase, and left again. I backed away, whispered a prayer I didn’t know I had in me, and then immediately took the fattest shit of my life because the anxiety shook it loose. Honestly, it was a medical event.

And this is why I say:
White women need help.
They’re not scared of anything. Not demons, not danger, not the supernatural. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying not to die before sunrise.

It is now 5:05 AM on 11/26/2025, and I am wide awake, traumatized, and slightly dehydrated.

Happy Wednesday.