We’re getting close, my friends. We’re in the final days of the countdown. November 11th. For thirty-five years, I’ve been a goddamn prisoner of war. Twenty years as a husband, a provider, a quiet, respectable pack mule for a woman who thought “for better or for worse” was a negotiation. And then, after the divorce, after she was exposed as the beautiful, quiet, and completely fraudulent piece of machinery that she was, I got another fifteen years tacked onto my sentence.
Fifteen years in the gulag of child support.
Fifteen years of working a shitty, 9-to-5, soul-crushing job, not for the love of the work, not for the pride of building something, but out of fear. The quiet, gnawing, and completely honest fear of a man who knows that if he stops running on the wheel, the machine will take everything. Your passport, your driver’s license, your car, your goddamn freedom. All of it, held hostage by a system that’s supposed to be about “the children.”
What a load of horseshit.
For fifteen years, they’ve been reaching into my paycheck, right after the government has already taken its fifty percent, and they’ve been taking another beautiful, ugly, and completely soul-crushing lump sum, and handing it over to my children. Children I barely even saw.
One of them took the money for years without even speaking to me. Another one lived with me, ate my food, slept under my roof, and still cashed the goddamn check from the state, a quiet, beautiful, and completely honest little act of treason every month. And the last one, my youngest, she turned the whole goddamn thing into an art form. She graduated with a two-year degree in April, but did she let me go? Did she cut the cord? No. She signed up for a bunch of bullshit online classes she has no intention of ever finishing, just to keep the stimulus check from daddy flowing until the last possible second, until the state says she’s finally too old to be sucking on the goddamn teat.
And all the while, their mother, the “#1 Mom in the World,” she’s living in a goddamn mansion. The one I paid for, of course. She’s pulling scams that would make a mafia accountant blush. Working a minimum-wage job with her new husband so she can cry poverty to the courts. “Look at me,” she says, “I’m just a poor, helpless woman. James has all the money. He’s a Senior Project Manager. Look at his income.” All while she’s quietly cashing out the million dollars in investments I made, the ones she got in the divorce, and hiding it in a 401k so it doesn’t count as “income.” A beautiful, ugly, and completely brilliant piece of financial engineering.
And what does she get for this masterclass in deceit and manipulation? She gets a Mother’s Day visit. A Mother’s Day gift. They honor this woman. “She earned it,” I was told.
Earned it. Christ. The hypocrisy is so thick you could cut it with a goddamn knife.
But now, the end is near. My youngest, the last little vampire, she turns twenty-one on November 11th. And on that day, the sentence is served. The chains come off.
No more embarrassing emails from the child support system to my employer. No more having to explain to my boss why the state is garnishing my wages like I’m some kind of deadbeat dad. No more humiliation. No more funding a lifestyle of lies and deceit from a shitty little bungalow in Tucson where I’m living with the street people.
November 11th is my freedom day. My Independence Day. My own private goddamn 9/11.
And you know how the Muslims in the streets were dancing and cheering when the towers came down? That’s me. That’s the kind of beautiful, ugly, and completely honest joy I’m talking about. You know how the Palestinians chant and fire their guns in the air when one of their terrorist heroes gets released from prison? That’s me. A pure, unadulterated, and completely unapologetic celebration of the end of a long, ugly, and beautiful war.
FREEDOM! NOVEMBER 11TH!
It’s the end of the frustration. The end of the disappointment. The end of the anger. It’s the end of an era. It’s the end of them having a piece of my goddamn soul.
This isn’t about hating my kids. I love them and I hate them in equal, beautiful, and completely honest measure. This is about hating the system that turned them into weapons. A system that’s designed to destroy the relationship between a father and his children, to turn a man into a goddamn bank account. A system that’s weaponized by evil women and enabled by a court system that sympathizes with the lie.
And on November 11th, 2025, I am finally, beautifully, and completely free of it all. No more authorities in my business. No more ex-wife with her nose in my financial statements. No more scams. No more lies. No more having to watch my own children participate in the quiet, slow, and beautiful demolition of their own father.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years since I divorced that goddamn woman, the best decision I ever made. And fifteen years of this quiet, ugly, and completely soul-crushing postscript.
But now, it’s over. Mommy’s games are done. Mommy is no longer involved in my goddamn life.
I am a free man.
And that, my friends, that’s a happiness that no jetski, no fast car, and no beautiful, young woman could ever give you.
It’s the quiet, beautiful, and completely honest taste of your own goddamn soul, coming home after a long, long time in a very dark, and very ugly, place.
Let the goddamn celebrations begin.
