Azure, sweetie, you nearly had me. For a hot second there, I almost bought your whole act, me fading into the background like last season’s statement piece, just a blip in your world. Wild, right? It’s almost cute how you think you’re the only one who knows how to play to an audience. I mean, I practically grew up with a lens in my face and a stylist on speed dial. My parents (if you can even call them that) left the heavy lifting to professionals: nannies with perfect posture; tutors who smelled like old money; image consultants who could teach a masterclass in polite manipulation. Nobody ever bothered to tell me no, nobody handed me a script with edits. So obviously I wrote my own, and the rest of you have just been improvising around me ever since.

So, Azure, you just had to pull that little stunt backstage, didn’t you? Remember our “accidental” encounter? You keep playing it cool like it never happened, but come on! And then you sought me out last week backstage, didn’t you? With claws and elbows flying everywhere, and of course, none of the cameras were in the right spots. Suddenly, we’re thrown into a tag match that’s only happening because you just couldn’t leave things alone.

But even in the heat of it all, even then, I saw it (the tiniest fissure running underneath your skin) something raw and ugly, just begging for release. Honestly, I loved every second of it, kind of like how some people get a kick out of glass shattering or thunder crashing against a window. It was loud, reckless, and breathtaking in the most thrilling way.

The way your jaw clenches when someone calls you out. That shallow, panicked inhale when the crowd wobbles. You need their love like I need caffeine (daily, immediate, life or death.) All those likes and fire emojis? That’s your oxygen. Take it away and you start to shake. I watched you, seriously, zoomed in… micro-expressions, tiny tremors, the whole CSI package. You’re not unbreakable; you just fake it better than most people do, but not quite as well as you tell yourself when you’re alone…

Thank you, by the way (really… ) Thank you for trying to tear me down. I mean it, in the most sincere and slightly sarcastic way possible. Because in that split second, something shifted. Not anger, not heartbreak, more like the brutal calm that hits right before the sky opens up and ruins everyone’s brunch. It was cold, sharp, almost surgical. A moment of clarity, like realizing you actually look better without the filter. Weirdly poetic for someone you called “Mediocre.”

Look, I didn’t stumble into this life. I was groomed for it: tutors drilling Latin verb conjugations, ballet teachers straightening my posture, etiquette experts who made finishing school look like summer camp. My parents were off collecting properties and lovers; I collected skills. Some people call that neglect. I call it liberation. I learned to float through expectations (sometimes I even beat them to the punch.) Everything about me—the effortlessness, the confidence, the way I just seem to fit even when I don’t—was cultivated. I never had to wait for anyone to notice me; the universe just… did. People say I was spoiled, unchecked. I say I was enlightened. When you know your worth, you stop accepting clearance-rack treatment. Consequences are for people without backup plans. Integrity? You mean that thing people talk about when they don’t have options? That’s cute. Entitlement isn’t a flaw; it’s just another word for knowing exactly what you deserve.

So, Giselle just hands you the crown. No big ceremony, no dramatic drumroll. Just a little flick of her wrist and boom (suddenly you’re the chosen one.) The UNW’s living legacy. With me? I’m left blinking on the wrong side of the velvet rope, clutching my metaphorical invitation and pretending I don’t care (I actually care, a lot… ) It mortifies me. Also, honestly, it’s a little bit enlightening. There’s nothing like being denied your destiny to really make you examine all your worst qualities in the world’s most public mirror.

Because of you, now I understand my purpose here. I assumed at first I was meant to be here to save wrestling from itself.

Wrestling, though… wrestling saved me from drowning in a sea of air-kisses and passive-aggressive canapé conversations. In that ring, I don’t have to smile while someone slides a stiletto between my ribs. I can shed the niceties, abandon the persona, and push boundaries until someone finally screams “stop.” Honestly, it’s practically therapeutic. Plus, the melodrama is intoxicating. If only it came in gelato flavors, I’d be mainlining it by the pint.

I’ve been watching you (though I know, shocker, you probably didn’t notice.) You’ve always had that talent for missing the stuff that actually matters. You try so hard, just a little too much, like you’re auditioning for a role you already booked. And then you pause when things get dark, like some annoying little voice is tugging at your heartstrings, whispering rules you don’t necessarily have to follow. I mean, you could go full villain, right? Totally. But nah, you hold back. It’s precious. I see it all. Every little twitch, every small hesitation. I know exactly where to press. And don’t worry, I’ll do it elegantly, carefully, with just the tiniest hint of panache (what, you thought subtlety was boring?)

So, on Stampede this week. We’re back in the ring, dancing our little dance, pretending our tag partners actually matter. But it’s always been you and me, hasn’t it? We’ve been in this dance for a while now, and I can’t help but feel the anticipation as it continues to build: the moment when my fingers wrap around your throat (not for theatrics, but to actually feel your pulse going like a hummingbird trapped in my palms… ) There’s a thin line between art and chaos and I plan on tripping right over it. The ref can count, the crowd can scream; meanwhile, I’ll be savoring the look in your eyes when you realize I’m not playing by any pre-established rules. That’s the moment I live for, the kind of moment you just can’t buy with all the money in the world.

When you’re down, really down, I’ll go ahead and drive my knee into your ribs. Don’t look so shocked. It’s not about shattering anything (though, let’s be honest, you’d probably milk the drama.) It’s about making every inhale a whole production for weeks. I want you to wake up in the middle of the night, in some hotel room with suspiciously stiff sheets, pressing your palm to your side and thinking, “Wow, I really must suck.” Sorry, comfort is a limited-time offer and, honey, your subscription expired at the bell. I collect moments like this. They’re souvenirs and I use them liberally.

Your ribs? That’s just the amuse-bouche. I’m here for the good stuff, the face you serve up to the masses like you’re entitled to golden-hour lighting and a standing ovation. Seriously, how do you manage that “accidentally flawless” thing every time? It’s like your superpower; I’m slightly jealous.

Mind you, I want to be… perfectly forthcoming. I want to watch the veneer crack. Not in some tragic, world-ending way… just a tiny chip, that makes people side eye you, wondering what’s real under all Giselle’s sharpening. Give me the sweat, the flush, the you that doesn’t get smoothed out or edited in post. I want to see your eyes go wide the exact second you realize I’m not stopping—not for time, not for rules, not for the tears of the fans.

People act like trust is the backbone of tag matches. Like we’re all supposed to have some deeply meaningful, heart-to-heart in the locker room and then... just like that... we’re basically wrestling soulmates. Strip it down and it’s like this: trust is for summer getaways. In the ring, it’s about who can read a split-second opening, who can turn anatomy into opportunity, and who’s willing to make their “partner” look like a background extra. A single misstep and suddenly you’re being talked about for all the wrong reasons. Which is why I don’t exactly hand over the steering wheel. I don’t do trust falls or kumbaya circles. I’m the most important person in that ring. I don’t share the spotlight unless someone’s holding it for me.

Kashu isn’t a partner. Let’s just get that out of the way. She’s more like the rare, overpriced art my parents buy whenever they’re feeling especially neglectful (a statement piece, locked behind glass, never actually touched but always arranged for maximum envy.) That’s Kashu: handpicked, carefully curated, and not really here to understand the totality of the masterpiece. She just needs to do her part when I give the cue. Symphony, meet soloist (except she’s not the soloist. She’s… I don’t know, the triangle?)

And listen, I’m not one of those oblivious heirs who doesn’t know how their “investments” work either. Maintenance is a thing. Upkeep. Dusting. Sometimes you have to adjust the frame so the whole painting doesn’t come crashing down. If Kashu ever gets confused—starts thinking she’s the Van Gogh instead of the part-time docent, starts believing the hype she reads about herself online, or God forbid, tries to do something as dramatic as steal my spotlight—well, let’s just say I’ve got a contingency plan or five. I’ve watched her, too. I keep notes…

Should Kashu get any bright ideas about upstaging me, a move I’d almost respect if it weren’t so utterly naïve, I have options. There’s always the old “distracted at the worst possible moment” trick or maybe I just… forget where I am in the ring. Oops, sorry, my hands were full with my own brilliance. Or, if I’m feeling especially charitable, I might just “accidentally” forget to tag. I mean, it’s not sabotage if no one can prove it, right? I’ve practically invented plausible deniability. Remember that.

You see, Azure, partnership implies equality. But I’ve never operated in a world of equals. I operate in a world of resources, acquisitions, strategic deployments.

Now, say she somehow pulls off a win without my orchestration, stands there grinning like she’s just painted the Sistine Chapel. If she even thinks about taking the credit, she’ll learn what happens to instruments that try to compose their own concertos. No, that’s too obvious. I prefer my retribution with a little more finesse, a little less audience. When the lights are off and the crowd’s gone home, that’s when Kashu will realize just how quickly stars can fade.

It’s not personal, honestly. It’s just the cost of doing business with someone who is influnce.

In the same breath, there’s this quiet fascination I’ve been nurturing, something I think I’m finally ready to indulge. Let’s call it tasteful curation. It’s domestic, discreet, almost meditative. Think of it like interior design arranging a space until it’s exactly as I picture it, only with less furniture and more presence management. I’ve imagined the hush that follows, the calm after the furniture is gone, and I’m curious to see how it feels in real time. Maybe it’s instructive, maybe it’s surprising, maybe it’s something else entirely. Call it collecting, call it brand management, call it maintenance… whatever lets you sleep at night. A new hobby—If you need something to attach meaning to it... This week seems like the perfect time to start. One by one, with casmir gloves and good manners, until the roster remembers who truly arranges the room and what it costs to be removed from it.

Come on, let’s not kid ourselves, Azure. We both know how much I enjoy this little dance we share. When I finally break you—and I mean really break you, I want the best seat in the house for your epic meltdown. That moment when your body just lets you down? Honestly, it’s priceless. The awkward hush that falls over the crowd when they stop pretending to care and just… stare? Oh, sweetheart, that’s the real deal. And when those tears start flowing (the genuine ones,) you’ll probably scramble to wipe them away, all shaky and embarrassed, while I stand there, looking cool as a cucumber like I’m just waiting for room service. That’s the moment people replay, the one that gets the most engagement and meme’d to oblivion at the same time. Myth, legend, whatever. It’s basically my signature at this point.

You know what I really pride myself on? Leaving a lasting impression on you. But not in the usual way, that would be so boring and short-lived. No, I want to get under your skin. I want to keep you on your toes, glancing over your shoulder in those quiet hallways, feeling like something’s just a bit off. I want to be the soundtrack in your quiet moments, making your heart race unexpectedly. I want you to second-guess every choice you’ve ever made, every bond you’ve formed, every time you thought you were absolutely sure of yourself. Because deep down, you’ll feel it, you’ll know I’m always a few steps ahead. Always watching. Always thinking ahead.

But hey, if you somehow Houdini your way out with a win (miracle of miracles,) let’s call that a rain check, not a statement. We both know this tag match is just foreplay, keeping us both occupied. Sure, you managed to pin me once in singles’ competition—Two out of Three falls? Now that’s a different story, that’s where the real challenge lies. Go on, prove you can do it again… twice. Because that’s what it really takes to make it count. I see every little blink, every time you hesitate, every little “oops” you think I miss. Trust me, I notice it all. I catalog it. And when the moment arrives, and it will, you’ll find yourself right where I want you, gasping for answers before the ref even starts counting.

If this detour—takes us to a Two-out-of-Three falls situation, so be it. I’m ready to savor every moment as I get ready to tear you apart.

If you’re hunting for the same version of me you cornered backstage a few months ago, well, sorry, she’s currently on sabbatical, probably journaling with oat milk lattes and pretending to meditate. I’ve been redirecting all that carefully cultivated upbringing and slightly embarrassing privilege into something way less performative. Think less “let’s conquer the world, one moment at a time.” more “let’s rearrange the throw pillows and see what happens.” Think of me as a slightly neurotic gardener who curates playlists for the plants… trimming here, yanking out a weed there, occasionally talking to a succulent like it’s about to spill gossip.

People, energy, memories—they’re all due for a seasonal closet clean-out. Sometimes things just slip off the radar. Not in a dramatic exile, more like quietly unfollowing someone who posts too many inspirational quotes. It’s a reset, not a purge, you know? Just tidying up my life like it’s my favorite book collection—alphabetized, color-coded, but with a few sticky notes for nostalgia sake.

Azure, Kashu, honestly anyone—if you’re in the moment, congrats, you’re part of history. If you’re not, well, you’ve sort of been shuffled out of the timeline. That’s the best part: no melodrama, no explosive text threads, just this subtle, almost magical edit of my life until it feels at peace. The hush that follows? It’s Sunday morning before anyone’s up, except maybe the rays spilling through my coastal view. It’s not about being obsessed or ruthless; it’s about caring enough to rearrange, to plant and replant, until everything feels, finally, right. I find a weird, nerdy thrill in that. Keeping everyone and everything exactly where they belong, even if no one’s gotten the memo yet.

I could just scroll past, but why would I want to do that? Refinement is my specialty. Just a little tweak here, a gentle nudge there… nothing too dramatic, just bringing things into harmony.

I prefer to think of it as showing a bit of love. A little TLC never hurt anybody…

You know, it’s not really just about winning or losing. It’s more about getting into that sweet spot where everything clicks: like the perfect mix of tone, timing, and rhythm. There’s this magical moment when the tension builds up and then suddenly everything just shifts into something fresh and exciting. It reminds me of putting together an outfit; sometimes you make just one small adjustment and the whole look comes together beautifully. It’s kind of like magic, really.