Because Life Doesn’t Tap Out—And Neither Did You
Blood in My Stool isn’t a metaphor. It’s the aftermath. It’s what’s left when life’s done working you over—when the job’s gone, the marriage’s dead, and your dreams are bleeding out slow from somewhere deep in your gut. It’s the physical receipt of a life lived full-throttle, no padding, no insurance. And yeah, it makes people flinch. Good. Let it. That’s the point.
This isn’t another self-help fairy tale pretending that trauma is a branding opportunity. This is a scream into the void from someone who’s been chewed up, spit out, and crawled back, teeth cracked and fists still clenched. It’s a monument to the bruises you hide under a pressed shirt. The kind of pain that laughs back at ibuprofen and doesn’t care how many hours of therapy you’ve paid for.
Most people want neat. This is not neat. This is the residue of breakdowns that happened behind closed doors. It’s divorce court at 8 a.m. and a bottle at 9. It’s waking up in a jail cell and wondering which version of you got arrested. It’s every fistfight with yourself in the bathroom mirror, every whispered apology to a version of you that deserved better.
It’s ugly. It’s human. It’s honest.
If you’re still reading, it’s because something in you knows what it means to break and keep walking anyway. You’ve got your own scars, your own quiet disasters, your own moments that didn’t just bruise—but branded. This place is for you.
We don’t sand down the edges here. We sharpen them.
So when someone asks, “Are you okay?” you don’t lie. You smirk and say, “Define okay.”
Because if you’re gonna carry the weight, you might as well write it down. If you’re gonna bleed, make it mean something.
Welcome to Blood in My Stool—where the wreckage gets the final word.
One Last Thing—If the Name Makes You Squirm, It’s Working
This isn’t for the folks still convinced their curated lives mean something. The ones mistaking Instagram likes for meaning. If that’s you, enjoy the illusion—while it lasts. Because it won’t. Eventually, life stops asking. It starts taking. Your job, your body, your youth, your purpose—it’ll all get stripped down until you’re just another silhouette in someone else’s photo. A memory even your best friends forget to bring up.
And when that day hits? You’ll understand. The title will make sense. Because it’s not about blood, or stool, or shock value. It’s about what’s left when everything else is gone. The wreckage. The realness. The war you fought just to make it this far. That’s the part they can’t steal.
So if you’ve been broken, beat up, buried—but not dead? If you’ve ever felt the weight of your own life and laughed anyway? This space is for you.
Not because you’re special—but because you’re still here.
