I’ve got no patience.
No more playing games.
Any whiff of disrespect, any sign of boredom, any ounce of fake energy — NEXT.
I walk out without a word.
My focus?
Stacking until I’ve got millions of dollars sitting heavy in the bank.
Building, grinding, making.
Turning nights of rejection into bricks of empire.
Then I buy the Porsche.
the Lambo
the Ferrari
the motherfucking hyper cars
Not for them.
For me.
To remind myself: I won.
Fuck people.
Fuck their bullshit.
I don’t bend for anyone anymore.
I cut.
I climb.
I conquer.
Back when I thought love was salvation, when I let that noodle-named girl waste my time, drain my energy, fuck with my head.
Never again.
Now I’m married to the grind.
Now my mistress is money.
Now my best friend is ambition.
Every rejection is gasoline.
Every disrespect is a free push-up.
Every fake bitch is just a reminder to stay locked in on the mission.
The mission?
A million dollars.
Not for status.
Not for bragging rights.
For freedom.
For power.
For the right to say “fuck you” without consequence.
And when I hit it, the Porsche 911 comes home.
Yellow paint.
Loud as thunder.
Not as a flex to them — but as a middle finger to the whole game.
People can gossip.
They can laugh.
They can roll their eyes.
I don’t give a fuck.
While they talk, I build.
While they waste hours on Instagram, I’m stacking.
While they chase validation, I’m buying freedom.
I don’t want their love anymore.
I don’t need their approval.
I don’t even need their respect.
I’ll take it anyway — when I roll past, when I own the room, when they whisper my name.
But the truth?
The only respect I care about is mine.
The only love I want is mine.
And the only loyalty I’ll never betray again is mine.
The rest?
NEXT.