I didn’t get closure. I got a fcking encore.*
This isn’t some neat little epilogue where I ride off into stability.
This is me—
standing center stage
with a glitter pen in one hand, a trauma folder in the other,
and a goat behind me chewing on your unsolicited advice.
I didn’t “arrive.”
I crash-landed.
Slid across the stage of life in emotional roller skates
screaming, “Cue the goat!”
And somehow,
the audience stood up.
I wasn’t rescued.
I recorded.
I wrote down the worst parts,
punched them up with jokes,
and sold them as digital confetti.
This isn’t peace.
It’s performance art.
With props.
And pain.
And a soundtrack that includes one kazoo, two sobs,
and the distant bleat of my emotional support livestock.
See, I don’t tell my story for pity.
I tell it because it rhymes now.
Because it roars now.
Because someone out there needs to know
you can lose your mind and find your voice in the same damn week.
Cue the mic drop
for every time I was told I was
too dramatic,
too loud,
too weird,
too broken.
Too bad.
That’s the brand.
I’m not healed.
I’m hilarious.
I’m haunted and hopeful and halfway dressed,
but baby—I showed up.
And I brought receipts.
So no, this isn’t a happy ending.
It’s a loud middle.
It’s a raised eyebrow at the heavens.
It’s a goat on the loose.
And me?
I’m still on the mic.
Because I earned it.
And I’m not done talking yet.
Cue the Goat. Cue the Mic Drop.
Didn’t get closure, got a whole encore.
With hooves on deck and glitter on the floor.
So cue the goat and crank the weird—
I didn’t heal quiet. I f*cking appeared.
—The Funny Phoenix, backlit and bleating
