TumbleDweeeb

The Trilogy Part II: “SEEN”
Part II of a three-part fictional character study examining miscommunication, intrusive thought, and self-reflection.
A Multisyllabic, Whimsy, Stream of Consciousness Rhyme. (A character study of emotional immaturity)
By: Emmitt Owens
(Index #01042026)

[Verse 1]
Texted this bitch Tuesday, she ain’t answer ’til Friday night
“Sorry, been so busy”—nah, you just ain’t think I’m right
For your stuck-up ass standards, got me fucked up in the head
Should’ve said you ain’t interested instead of left me on read

Now I’m big mad, fuck mad, I’m on some other shit
Looking through the window like a creep who won’t commit
In the parking lot, I’ll key up every car that’s hers
Fuck a Prius, fuck the planet, fuck what she prefers

She hit me back with “lol k”—bitch, that ain’t even words
That’s disrespect in digital, that’s flippin’ me the bird
So I typed a fucking essay, then I deleted that
Sent “you’re mid anyway”—she blocked me, that’s facts

Good, I hope she chokes on acai bowls and fucking kale
I hope her yoga pants rip, I hope her juice cleanse fail
I’m wishing petty evil on this bitch who curved my shot
‘Cause fuck her, fuck her energy, fuck every thought she thought

[Chorus 1]
Burn the whole Trader Joe’s down ’cause that’s where bitches shop
Fight a random dude in Lululemon, I don’t give a fuck, I’ll pop
Off on any motherfucker who reminds me of her type
Slash tires on Tesla’s, I don’t care if that shit’s right

Fuck her and her whole aesthetic, fuck her Pinterest board
Fuck her morning routines, fuck the bullshit she adored
I’m declaring war on everything this bitch said that she liked
Fuck pilates, fuck her Peloton, fuck her little hikes

[Verse 2]
Saw her post up with some dude, basic ass finance bro
Button-down and khakis, looking like a fucking hole
In the wall, no personality, but bitches love that shit
‘Cause he probably got a salary while I’m just getting lit

On her stupidity, her audacity to curve me for him
I’m zooming in on photos like a detective, looking grim
At the evidence she’s shallow, that she don’t know real worth
I hope his 401k crashes, hope his portfolio’s cursed

Fuck his alma mater, fuck his company, his car
I hope he gets food poisoning at every single bar
They go to together—I’m checking in on where they eat
Writing fake-ass Yelp reviews: “Found mold, found bugs, found meat

That was rotten”—one star for every spot they tag
I’m a petty ass nightmare, yeah, I’m in my fucking bag
Of insecure revenge plots that make no fucking sense
But it’s her fault I’m like this, she got me fucking tense

[Chorus 2]
Fuck the whole concept of “self-love” and “self-care”
Fuck face masks, fuck bath bombs, fuck her bathroom everywhere
Covered in that bullshit, I hope her skincare breaks her out
I hope she gets a zit before a date, that’s what I’m talking ’bout

Petty warfare on this bitch who curved me like I’m trash
I hope her rent goes up, I hope her savings turn to ash
I hope her favorite brunch spot closes down for fucking good
I hope she never finds a man who treats her like I would

And complains but they ignore her ass, that’s karma for you
Rejecting me, the realest motherfucker, that’s what you do?
Fuck you, fuck your standards, fuck your whole vibe
I hope you step in dog shit every day of your life

[Verse 3]
Made a burner account, catfished her with some model pics
She accepted immediately—bitch, you shallow, pulling tricks
Now I’m in her close friends watching every story that she posts
Screenshots of her captions, well I’m her fucking ghost

Haunting her timeline, judging every move she makes
“Out with the girls”—bitch, those ain’t friends, those some fucking fakes
Just like you, just like your personality, just like your face
Without makeup, without filters, you’re just basic, just a waste

Of my time, of my effort, of my energy and texts
I’m the one who dodged a bullet?—nah, who am I kidding?, I’m the one who’s fucking hexed
By this bitch and her rejection, so I bought some candles, sage
Tried to curse her, burned my hand, now I’m in a rage

At 3 AM setting off alarms, my roommate’s pissed at me
I’m screaming “fuck you, I’m in pain ’cause this bitch can’t see
That I’m a catch, I’m the shit, I’m what every woman needs”
He just shook his head and left—fuck him too, he don’t believe

[Bridge]
Week later, she posts “newly single” on her story, fuck
Here I go again, typing “we should talk” like I’m stuck
In a loop of my own bullshit, my own desperation
She left me on read sixteen hours—that’s a violation

Of the Geneva Convention, that’s a war crime, that’s disrespect
I’m typing “you know what, bitch, I hope you fucking wreck
Your whole life chasing fuckboys who don’t give a shit about you”
Sent that before I thought about it, now she got me routed

Out of her existence, blocked on everything, I’m ghost
To her world now, so I’m writing on Reddit … how I’m most
Affected … by modern women… and their bullshit standards, bro…
Five hundred upvotes… from other bitter dudes who know.

The pain of being curved by bitches who can’t recognize
A good man when they see one—fuck them, fuck their lies
About wanting something real, they want assholes, they want trash
So I’mma give them what they want—nah, I’mma just stay mad and brash

[Verse 4]
Fuck her favorite season, fuck the fall, fuck autumn leaves
Fuck her birthday month, fuck July, fuck the air she breathes
Fuck the number eight ’cause that’s her lucky number, right?
Fuck her favorite color—what was that? Fuck yellow, fuck that sight

Of anything that brings her joy, I hope it all goes wrong
Fuck her taste in music, fuck her comfort movie, fuck her comfort song
I hope she’s uncomfortable forever, never finds a home
I hope she thinks of me and regrets—nah, she won’t, caz I’m alone

In this anger, in this bullshit that I can’t let go
‘Cause I’d rather blame her forever than admit what I know

[Outro – Confession]

Real shit? I’m still checking if she viewed my stories… she did, two seconds flat.
And I know what that means—nothing.
She don’t think about me.
She ain’t sitting around regretting shit.
But me? I’m out here writing fake Yelp reviews at 4 AM.
Blocking random dudes on Instagram who might know her.

I told my therapist about this… he just sighed. He always just sighs now.

I could’ve just said “alright, cool” and moved on.
That was an option.
But nah, I chose this.
I chose to be this fucking pathetic.
And tomorrow?
I’ll probably text her again from a new number.
‘Cause that’s who I am.
That’s who the fuck I am.

(beat cuts out)

—— For readers interested in the craft and ethical considerations behind this trilogy, a reflective essay will be published following the final piece.

Author’s Note:
   This piece is a fictional character study examining how rejection can spiral into obsessive resentment when emotions go unprocessed. It does not reflect my beliefs or behavior.
     I wrote “SEEN” because “Red Flags, Red Lights” ended with a defensive line—”That ain’t me”—and immediately an intrusive thought whispered back: “But what if it is?” The woman who turned down lunch acted like I might be dangerous. For just a second, I wondered: What does she see that I don’t?
   So I put on the mask to see if it fit. I gave this character my full technical skill—multisyllabic schemes, internal rhymes, rhythmic precision—and let them spiral from relatable frustration (being left on read) to genuinely unhinged behavior (catfishing, fake Yelp reviews, burning themselves trying to cast hexes). I needed to map the entire descent to understand where I stood in relation to it.
     The character uses “her” because my inciting incident involved a woman. But this psychology isn’t gendered—I’ve witnessed this same pattern (rejection → ego protection → resentment → escalation) across all genders and contexts. The pronouns change. The pathology doesn’t.
   This piece is intentionally written to escalate into discomfort. The absurdity (hating the number 8, declaring war on Trader Joe’s) exists alongside genuine toxicity. That’s the point—to show how the formula works and where the line between “frustrated” and “dangerous” blurs.
     Writing this made me feel contaminated. I laughed at the absurdity because people really do this shit when they can’t process rejection. But I also felt sick because I’d written it so convincingly it felt real. I’d given a monster my voice.
   That’s why Part III exists. “Exhale” is me proving the mask didn’t fit—and asking harder questions about who I actually am.
     This is meant to be read as critique, not endorsement. If you recognize yourself here, sit with that discomfort. Don’t dismiss it. That’s information worth having.
— Emmitt Owens