Tales of My Legendary Personality: Woman, Work, and Wit

Ever been that bitch—you know, the one who gets shit done while juggling 23 clients, tight deadlines, and a team that thinks “working” means warming their seat while—oh, not even Zara—maybe some shady deals, and sipping self-importance?

Yeah, her. That woman. That bossy, difficult, opinionated woman.

Funny how the world spins when a woman dares to be professional. When she’s sharper than your entitled ego and doesn’t waste her hours flirting over Slack. When she speaks with precision, without the fake giggles. Suddenly, you’re “too much.” “Too cold.” “Hard to work with.”

Men? They’re focused.
Women? We’re intimidating.
Common sense? Now that’s a threat to fragile masculinity.

And while we’re at it—yes, I cook.
I cooked four full-course meals every damn day before and after work.
Asian, Goan, Italian, Mexican, bakes, Ethiopian, Thai—pork belly, mutton, masala fish, you name it.
I fed people who never once asked me how my day was. Friends, family, exes—yes, plural, but don’t worry, I’m not here to validate.

One was a local manipulator, the other an Irish narcissist.
Both fed. Both treated my food like holy communion—carried two meals daily, breakfast and snacks included, and had lavish three-course dinners. Without me, of course.

A couple of my old friends remember.
The pots. The servings. The invisible love notes on every plate.
The new ones? They think my kitchen skills are only scrubbing it to keep it spotless. I let them.

Now? I don’t cook anymore. Not because I can’t—but because cooking for myself doesn’t bring the same joy.

My family still thinks I can’t cook for nuts. I shut my mouth. Why take on extra work when you can just let them think it’s your breather? Sometimes silence is self-care.

So to my non-beloved moronic friends and ex-colleagues—
My work life was work for a reason. And bloody, I did 80 percent of it and 100 percent to get your salaries.

So shut up, and stop making unnecessary remarks.
What if it was me asking,
“Oh, your dick works?”
Exactly. Shut the fuck up.

Yes, I’m a brand person.
I was born as a brand—moron.

Also—yes, I’m a brand person.
Apparently, that’s what women with standards get labelled when they don’t play small.

Want more? There’s plenty where that came from.
No hashtags. No filters. Just the bits they wish you’d leave out.