Mean Girl Energy: Activated

Because being polite doesn’t stop fascism.

Thrilled to Announce: I’ve Finally Achieved Mean Girl Status—and I Fucking Love It.

It only took me 55 years. And no, it wasn’t because I locked little Susie in a high school bathroom stall with my Barbie bitches or mocked Jane in the hallway for wearing the same sweater every day. My rise to “mean girl” royalty came from something far more dangerous in today’s climate: I called out bigotry, misogyny, and racism, red, blue, or otherwise, and I didn’t sugarcoat a damn thing.

Apparently, nothing unravels a bully faster than a woman armed with facts and a functioning backbone. Who knew truth could be so triggering? I don’t just clap back, I slice through their delusions with the precision of a scalpel. And no, not the kind wielded by those back-alley plastic surgeons handing out Mar-a-Lago lips like Viagra at the clubhouse. (seriously, someone call the medical board.) I’m talking surgical-grade takedowns, clean and exact.

When you’re on the right side of history… especially now, staring down MAGA hats and crusty old white men who still think their opinions are law because they were raised to believe their penis came with superpowers, they expect you to play nice. Spoiler alert: I’m fresh out of nice.

My favorite moment lately? Being told to “fuck off” by an old white man who proudly refers to himself as a “political visionary.” Hot tip: if you need to slap that title in your bio, it’s a dead giveaway that the only vision you’ve got is a nostalgic hallucination of 1990s politics and your own imagined relevance. He was busy whining on social media about how New Yorkers didn’t understand the “mistake” they made by electing Zohran Mamdani. Apparently, he was pining for Cuomo, because nothing says “I care about the future” like clutching a morally bankrupt past with white-knuckled desperation, pretending you’re a progressive while rooting for corporate warlords in khakis and a condescending smirk.

And generally, I don’t waste time arguing on social media, but sometimes, late at night, when I’m bored and petty, I treat myself to the chaos. So when someone posted a meme packed with misinformation and outright lies about who started the Iran war, I dropped in with, you know, actual history. Their response? Full-on rage post. #Truth, because it’s really hard to clock back against facts. Then came the pearl-clutching: “How dare you come on my post and be mean to me?” As if posting facts is now classified as emotional abuse.

Listen, I’m not here to change minds with soothing tones and Oprah-style empathy. This isn’t gentle parenting. That crowd raised a bunch of baby incels and narcissists who can’t hear the word “no” without spiraling into Reddit rants. I say the quiet part out loud. These people deserve every mean word I can muster, and I’ve got plenty.

This morning, someone slid into my Substack DMs and asked me to “please stop telling people to shut up.” The irony? They were literally telling me to shut up. They added that “everyone on this planet deserves kindness and love.” Awww. That’s adorable. But sometimes, the greatest act of love is a swift, intentional kick in the ass.

Another gem wandered into my comment section, absolutely outraged because I dared to suggest that blue states stop bankrolling red state authoritarianism. This poor, self-identified “blue dot in a red state” felt personally attacked. Because apparently, questioning his divine right to other people’s tax dollars was just too much. When I asked what he was actually doing in his community to push for change? Crickets. But oh, the pearl-clutching—because heaven forbid we stop treating his fragile ego like a national treasure. Let’s be real: a lot of these older, “liberal-leaning but fiscally responsible” men will show up to a protest just long enough to grab a selfie—but ask them to throw their body in front of a woman being kidnapped by masked men, and suddenly it’s “not the right time.” Because in the end, it’s not about justice. It’s always about them.

Here’s my truth: it’s not my job to coddle anyone’s feelings, not while our friends and neighbors are literally being snatched off the streets. We may not be rich, but we’re white, and that alone gives us a buffer of safety others don’t get. If we’re not willing to put that on the line… our comfort, our voices, our reputations, then what the hell are we even doing?

And yeah, maybe one day I’ll try to leave the country and come back to find my phone confiscated and my social media scoured like I’m public enemy number one. But if that’s the cost of refusing to shut up? If that’s what earns me the title of “mean girl” from the same people who once called me a snowflake—well, I’ll wear that crown with pride. We can afford to be uncomfortable. In fact, we damn well have to be.

Because here’s the thing: silence has never saved anyone. Not the oppressed, and certainly not the complicit. If speaking out makes me abrasive, aggressive, or unladylike, great. I’m not here to be digestible. I’m here to be effective. We’re living through a moment where passivity is permission, where being polite is a luxury we can’t afford. So call me mean. Call me hysterical. Hell, call me unhinged. Just don’t call me silent. I’d rather be loud, rude, and on the right side of history than quiet and complicit while the world burns.

---

A little birdie told me there were issues signing up as a paid subscriber—good news, that’s now fixed! If you’re vibing with my sassy, sarcastic style, I’d love to officially welcome you into the Mean Girl Club. Your support helps fund my son’s college dreams and my daughter’s posterboard-and-marker addiction—because honestly, there are way too many protests to attend and not enough glitter pens in the world.

Or hey, if you’re not quite ready to enlist in the Mean Girl Brigade full-time, you can always send a one-time dose of support via Venmo—because even wordsmith revolutionaries need snacks (and an endless supply of Sharpies).