Grown folks will stomp your spirit down to the bone if you let them. Adults come loaded with agendas, unhealed wounds, power plays, side-eyes, and opinions they swear are facts but don’t know their asses from a hole in the wall. Everybody wants something. Everybody’s dumb and proud of it. I’m tired of their dirty asses.

They smile with teeth sharpened by envy. They offer advice that’s really a leash. They call it “being realistic” when what they mean is stay small so I don’t feel threatened. Misery loves company, and grown folks will hand you a folding chair and tell you to sit your dreams down somewhere quiet.

They project like it’s a damn IMAX. Their fears become your assignment. Their failures become your warning label. Their unresolved childhoods show up in adult bodies, demanding obedience, gratitude, silence. And if you refuse the script, they’ll call you difficult, arrogant, ungrateful, too much. Funny how “too much” only applies to people who won’t be managed.

I’ve watched people trade curiosity for certainty, tenderness for toughness, truth for being right. Watched them calcify into husks. Watched them choose comfort over growth and then resent anyone still growing. They mistake age for wisdom and volume for authority. They confuse survival with living.

So I guard my spirit like a feral cat now—claws out, eyes open, no apologies. I don’t owe access. I don’t owe agreement. I don’t owe performance. Peace is expensive and I pay cash. If you come with clean hands and an honest heart, pull up a chair. If you come with games, agendas, and that tired need to dominate the room—keep walking. I’m not here to be managed. I’m here to be alive. But some people really need a foot to ass moment with a big boot.