It’s almost cute, watching the world finally catch up to something I’ve always known. There I was, halfheartedly scrolling through my feed, watching the endless loop of try-hards and copycats, when—bam—some breathless headline about young women like me being the new gold standard. Revolutionary. Eighty-eight percent think we’re influential? Please. I’ve been influential since before I could spell it, and the rest of the world has just been double-tapping in my wake.

Everyone wants a piece, but honestly, they want me. They’re obsessed. Hanging on every post, every story, waiting for the next drop. Can you blame them? I wouldn’t.

But here’s the truth: I never chased the spotlight. The spotlight found me and never let go. I should know; I’ve had my fair share of encounters with people trying to snap photos of me. I’m accustomed to the flash of the camera. Well, there was that one time I might have caused a faux pas or two, but that's beside the point. Some girls chase clout, I make clout nervous. I post a picture and the internet starts hyperventilating. Is it a lot? Sure. But somebody has to be the main character. Might as well be me.

Which brings us to this week my Stampede debut. Yes, my debut. Let’s not pretend anyone’s tuning in for Circe. I’m stepping into the ring with her and they’re calling it a glimpse of the future, but let’s not kid ourselves. One of us is the headline, the other is the punchline you find in a thrift store bin, price tag still attached. You can decide amongst yourselves which role each of us plays.

Circe genuinely looks like she bites. And not in a metaphorical way. She’s got that “I poured my own blood into my boyfriend’s birthday cake batter.” energy. I half expect her to start hissing in Latin the second I pin her. Maybe I’ll bring a priest just for laughs. You never know who needs saving.

I’m sure she thinks she’s got a shot? That’s adorable. That’s what happens when you spend your life in other people’s shadows. Circe gives off the vibe that she’s one bad night away from going full Lifetime movie. I’m not dumb enough to be anywhere alone with her (she won’t be burying me alive, assuming my life any time soon.) I’m the plot twist—the new wave, the reason people care about this match. No one brings up her name unless they’re ranking slasher villains for fun.

Her whole aesthetic? Exhausted. That same smudged eyeliner, that brooding, doom-and-gloom routine—please. Her entrance music sounds like someone’s MySpace playlist staged a comeback nobody asked for. The Birthday Massacre? La copine, you’re not dangerous, you’re just dated. And the look? She dresses like she lost a custody battle with her teenage goth phase. Honestly, the only shocking thing about sharing a ring with her is that I haven’t demanded hazard pay.

And she doesn’t just look like she’s from another decade—she moves like it, too. Slow, predictable, clinging to the past. I should be offended, but here I am, making the whole roster look better just by being in the building. Stampede, you’re welcome!

I’m not here to blend in. I plan on elevating Stampede with my sheer existence on the roster. “Mediocre” isn’t in my vocabulary. I wouldn’t even know how to spell it if you spotted me the M, the E, and the D.

I don’t even know why I’ve bothered to prepare so hard for this. Winning is the bare minimum. What I want is that split second when they realize they never had a chance. That panic. That regret. That’s the taste I’m after. That’s what Circe will get when I toss her across the ring like yesterday’s trending fashion.

I know what you’re all thinking: “Who does she think she is?” Allow me to clarify—I’m her. The whole package: brains, body, and a brand hotter than a summer in Milan. Circe? She’s giving Jennifer without the plot, or the body.

I’m sure she’ll say something uneventful eventually, but when the bell rings, I’ll be standing ready already planning which highlight to slow-mo for my story. She’ll be lucky if she gets a cameo, and even luckier if I remember her name.

As for this match? Please. I came to be challenged, not to chaperone a cast member of The Addams Family. While she’s busy brooding, I’ll be radiant under the lights, waiting to turn the whole thing into an moment.

Circe, honey, that stare you do? It’s less “mysterious femme fatale,” more “restraining order in progress.” If I wanted to be creeped out, I’d rewatch The Ring, not step in it with a Hot Topic flashback.

If we’re being honest, this was not about Circe. It never was. It’s about me—my platform, my arrival. I’m here to give the masses something to reminiscence, to dominate, to make all my matches unforgettable. When it’s done, I won’t need to celebrate. That would suggest effort. I’ll brush imaginary dust off my shoulder and sashay out, legend status intact.

Circe can just slink back into her cursed mirror and vibe with Damballa or whatever, I couldn’t care less: “Ade due Damballa. Give me the power, I beg of you!” Isn’t that how it goes?

So sure, lace up your boots, paint on that tragic eyeliner, queue up your moody playlist. But understand: the second you step in the ring with me, you’re not the threat. You’re not even the villain.

You’re just the first name on a long list. The very first highlight. The first lesson in how to disappear after the bell rings. Which, c’mon, that’s not very hard to do.

Circe, babe, when you step in that ring, you’re not walking into a fight—you’re enrolling in a masterclass. Take notes, we both know you can’t afford to take this class twice. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to greatness.

And when it’s all over? I’ll be standing over her, not a strand of hair out of place, hand raised. I’ll post the victory selfie with a cute filter and a caption: “Had to humble her. 💅” And then? I’ll forget she ever existed, because honestly, she wasn’t even worth the monologue just now.

Oh Circie, and just so we’re clear, there won't be any mirror chants happening here. I’m not about to summon any demons by repeating your name three times as fast as I can. My reflection and I are keeping it strictly low-key.