Because like all conservatives, it’s a “do as I say, not as I do” mentality. SHE is allowed to be a free, independent and succesful woman but all other women need to know that they are a mans property and are only allowed to either cook food or have children.
AbsurdityIsReality on
She’s trying to get into JD’s home as we speak.
UninvitedButtNoises on
There’s a lot of competition for attention… So many couches in this country
gnumedia on
Therefore I say unto you, lady- put a sock in it.
whereegosdare84 on
A story about dear Erika;
Erika Kirk didn’t just survive her husband’s death, she weaponized it.
Grief, to her, was never sacred. It was raw material.
While the body was still warm in memory, she was already extracting value. The obituary read like a pitch deck. The funeral doubled as a soft launch. Tears were optional; timing was not. She learned fast that nothing opens wallets, doors, or algorithms like a young widow with a steady voice and a trembling pause placed exactly where it belonged.
She spoke about him as if he were an asset she’d finally depreciated. His flaws vanished overnight, replaced by a curated saintliness that served her needs. Any inconvenient truths were quietly buried beside the urn. Death had improved him enormously, silence always does.
Erika understood something most people refuse to admit: tragedy is combustible. And she struck the match herself.
She branded the loss. Monetized the memory. Every retelling sharpened the angle, slightly more heroic, slightly more tragic, always more useful. His life became content. His absence, a hook. She didn’t miss him; she missed how inefficient he’d been alive.
There was a ghoulish pleasure in it, one she barely bothered to hide. Watching people lower their guards. Feeling the reverence settle when she entered a room. Being untouchable, not because she was innocent, but because no one wanted to look like the villain who questioned a widow.
She learned she could say almost anything if she prefaced it with “after everything I’ve been through…”
She learned morality bends when wrapped in black lace.
And when someone finally hinted gently, that maybe she was moving too fast, that maybe this looked wrong, Erika smiled. Not kindly. Not sadly. Predatory.
“Would you prefer I stayed broken forever?” she asked, as if exploitation were ambition’s only alternative.
The truth was simpler and uglier: his death liberated her. It stripped away the last excuse not to become exactly who she already was. Whatever love had once existed was now incidental, a means to an end she hadn’t known she was waiting for.
She didn’t haunt his memory.
She inhabited it.
Wore it.
Lived off it.
And if something had to die for Erika Kirk to finally feel powerful, she considered that less a tragedy than an acceptable cost.
6 Comments
She can stare at ceiling at home.
Because like all conservatives, it’s a “do as I say, not as I do” mentality. SHE is allowed to be a free, independent and succesful woman but all other women need to know that they are a mans property and are only allowed to either cook food or have children.
She’s trying to get into JD’s home as we speak.
There’s a lot of competition for attention… So many couches in this country
Therefore I say unto you, lady- put a sock in it.
A story about dear Erika;
Erika Kirk didn’t just survive her husband’s death, she weaponized it.
Grief, to her, was never sacred. It was raw material.
While the body was still warm in memory, she was already extracting value. The obituary read like a pitch deck. The funeral doubled as a soft launch. Tears were optional; timing was not. She learned fast that nothing opens wallets, doors, or algorithms like a young widow with a steady voice and a trembling pause placed exactly where it belonged.
She spoke about him as if he were an asset she’d finally depreciated. His flaws vanished overnight, replaced by a curated saintliness that served her needs. Any inconvenient truths were quietly buried beside the urn. Death had improved him enormously, silence always does.
Erika understood something most people refuse to admit: tragedy is combustible. And she struck the match herself.
She branded the loss. Monetized the memory. Every retelling sharpened the angle, slightly more heroic, slightly more tragic, always more useful. His life became content. His absence, a hook. She didn’t miss him; she missed how inefficient he’d been alive.
There was a ghoulish pleasure in it, one she barely bothered to hide. Watching people lower their guards. Feeling the reverence settle when she entered a room. Being untouchable, not because she was innocent, but because no one wanted to look like the villain who questioned a widow.
She learned she could say almost anything if she prefaced it with “after everything I’ve been through…”
She learned morality bends when wrapped in black lace.
And when someone finally hinted gently, that maybe she was moving too fast, that maybe this looked wrong, Erika smiled. Not kindly. Not sadly. Predatory.
“Would you prefer I stayed broken forever?” she asked, as if exploitation were ambition’s only alternative.
The truth was simpler and uglier: his death liberated her. It stripped away the last excuse not to become exactly who she already was. Whatever love had once existed was now incidental, a means to an end she hadn’t known she was waiting for.
She didn’t haunt his memory.
She inhabited it.
Wore it.
Lived off it.
And if something had to die for Erika Kirk to finally feel powerful, she considered that less a tragedy than an acceptable cost.