Letting go...or not
Today in Pilates, I realized we’re coming up on the one-year anniversary of my first comedy album, Revenge, a beautifully dramatic title, and I laughed to myself mid-leg lift.
If you haven’t listened, or don’t know my vibe, I love revenge. I really love it. I find something so satisfying about karmic recalibration. If someone hurts me or someone I love, it’s like a switch flips inside me. The only way to calm the buzzing is to strike back. It’s not calculated. It’s instinct. And when revenge hits just right? It’s euphoric. Like what I imagine heroin feels like.
It rushes through me like warm glitter. I crave it. I daydream about it. I lose full hours plotting gentle, poetic acts of justice. It’s my little treat. My love language, honestly. Especially when I’m not even the one who was wronged, just an avenging angel on behalf of a friend. Nothing says “I care about you” like a well-timed metaphorical punch to the gut of someone who deserves it.
I’ve been like this forever. In third grade, a boy threw an ice-packed snowball that cut my friend’s eye. I saw red, charged him full speed, slammed him into a tree, and beat the shit out of him on a random Tuesday. He cried. I got grounded. Worth it.
I just don’t think people should treat others like trash and get away with it. There has to be something in my birth chart, probably Mars in Aries or Leo Venus (I love as deeply as I hate), something bold, loyal, and slightly unhinged.
Over the years, people have even come to me for revenge strategy. “Have you signed them up for spam emails?” I’ll ask. “Start with the Mormons, they show up in person. Then hit ’em with car dealerships and 1-800-CONTACTS. You’ll ruin their inbox and unsubscribing to all of it is maddening.” My personal favorite is a sketchy website where you can anonymously send gorilla shit to someone for $20. Ethically sourced, of course.
It’s fun. It’s how I show I care. But lately, I think I’ve lost my spark?
Like, take the movers who made my life hell for 21 days. I fantasized about sending a pizza to Karen and Destiny at Moving Services NV with “PIECE OF SHIT” spelled out in pepperoni. Or a stunning bouquet with a card that simply read: “I hope you choke in your sleep, you dumb bitch.” I even filled out my billing info. Twice. But I couldn’t bring myself to hit “Confirm.”
What’s happening to me? Have I gone soft?
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired. Tired of lugging around this little rage goblin who whispers, “Do it. Ruin her day. She sucks and it’s only $50.” I think I’m just done being the bitch all the time.
Because here’s the truth: I’m a lover girl. I have a big, squishy heart that bursts open when I see a card that reminds me of my best friend or when a song takes me back to high school summer days. I’m sentimental as hell. Revenge may be my gut reaction, but love is what actually lingers.
There are people I’ve never gotten back at, not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t have to. Karma handled it. Like this guy from school, we’ll call him Ryler Rill, who spent years calling me fat, mooing at me in hallways, telling me I should off myself. Truly a great guy! Fast forward: Ryler’s “extracurriculars” went viral on Reddit during VEISHA, he got married, got divorced, and now sells used furniture on Facebook Marketplace to make ends meet. Chef’s kiss, universe.
Or the former best friend who said something cruel to me, like gut-level cruel. When I told her it hurt me, she stood by it. That sent me to years of therapy. She’s now married to an old loser, attended January 6th, got a bad nose job, and only socializes with MAGA wives at her country club. And has no friends or personality. Again, thank you, karma.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Wow, Hannah. Sounds like you’ve really let it all go.” And here’s the thing, I haven’t. I didn’t say I forgave them. I just said I didn’t seek revenge. Big difference.
I can let things go. I do. But I also remember how people treated me. And unless they’ve done some deep self-reflection and changed their lives in tangible, observable ways, I don’t forget. And I don’t forgive.
But I’m working on it. I’m trying to stop carrying this heaviness, this compulsion to always get the last word, or the last gorilla shit. Because holding onto that darkness, even if it’s delicious in the moment, gets heavy. And honestly, exhausting.
So I’m learning to be lighter. Softer. To let people’s own choices catch up with them.
People have said to me, “God, I hope I never make you mad.” And part of me loves that. I like being a little feared. But I’d rather be loved. I don’t want people walking on eggshells around me. Unless they deserve it. Then yes, let the shell crunch.
Men I’ve dated have asked if I’ll write jokes about them. And truthfully? I only do if they were assholes. There are a couple who hurt me in softer ways, ways that broke my heart, and I wouldn’t seek revenge on them. I just cried to deeply curated Spotify playlists and considered hiring an Etsy witch. But I didn’t. I’m TRYING TO BE BETTER.
I guess what I’m saying is: I’m turning a new leaf. A soft, fluttery little leaf that says, “I’m not going to ruin your life just because you made mine harder.” I’m going to let things play out. And before I start throwing shade, I want to make sure my own glass house isn’t full of gorilla poop.
I’m not perfect. I know I’ve hurt people. I probably deserve a bouquet of insult pizza. So I’m checking myself.
It’s day by day. Maybe someone will push me too far and I’ll crack. Maybe I’ll still send the pizza. But for now, I’m letting go. I’m moving on. I’m choosing peace. I’m choosing love.
(And I’ve bookmarked the gorilla poop site. Just in case.)