Oh. My. God. Brava, My Chemical Imbalance, brava. Your first promo was a hot mess express, and I’m not even mad about it, I could hardly look away. I tried to follow your logic, really I did. You started with a declaration, or maybe an existential crisis? It had the subtlety of a glitter bomb and the coherence of a freshman-year diary. For a hot second, I thought, “Okay, she’s got a point.” But then you lost me, not in that mysterious, “she’s got layers” way, but in the way you lose cell service on a country road, or your best friend when she spots a clearance rack at Nordstrom Rack.

You didn’t say anything that actually meant anything. Just pure, unfiltered vibes. And, honestly, that’s kind of legendary—like the kind of legendary that makes you go viral for all the wrong reasons. It was as if you borrowed every platitude from a motivational poster, tossed in a blender with some black nail polish, and hoped for the best. I can respect the commitment. You painted a future for me that was, what, fifteen years and a few bad hair colors away? But let’s be real, that’s not a vision, darling—that’s a fever dream with a side of eyeliner.

Wait, are you confused? Not following? Classic. The mysterious woman you rambled about—her and Datura (are they a set?)—sounds like someone who could walk through fire and not even smudge her mascara. Intimidating? Maybe. But that’s not me. Not even close. Same name, sure, but if you’d taken five seconds to look me up on the UNW website (or, you know, learned how to Google), you’d know the difference. But that would require effort, and, bless your heart, I know that’s not your thing.

Honestly, I’m not mad. I just wish someone at UNW had given you a “Previously on…” before this match. It’s not your fault—nobody on your brooding little squad bothered to fill you in. I’d never even heard of you until this match—first impressions only, and babe, you are fully committed to the Hot Topic fantasy. Honestly, I almost clapped. That’s dedication. You’re a Pinterest board in combat boots, with just enough smudged eyeliner to make every school principal nervous.

That’s the nicest thing I’m going to say, so go ahead—write it in your journal, tape it to your mirror, cry about it if you must. I’m not here to play nice.

Let’s get down to business, shall we? I don’t do that fake “respect” thing. I don’t care about your tragic backstory or your misunderstood villain act. I hit hard. I win. And this Saturday? You are about play a small part in a viral moment. While you were busy reciting your poetry slam of a promo, I was busy being relevant.

And, bestie…while we’re on the subject, how could you? Not even a Wikipedia search? Not a single UNW fan page? Reddit is a thing, you know. But no, you were too busy perfecting your ‘edgy’ Instagram persona to actually do your homework. It’s almost impressive. You’re like an influencer with no followers and even less influence.

But sure, let’s pretend you’re the main character for a minute. Because everything about this screams, “I’m trying to prove something.” Like you raided your older sister’s closet, found the eyeliner, and decided you’d be the villain now.

Nevertheless—real villains don’t announce themselves. They just show up, wreck your life, and leave with a smirk and perfect hair.

So, since you want a villain so badly, I’ll oblige. I get it, you want to make this match bigger than it is? I’ll make you relevant, if only for a few days. Because losing to a narcissist is rough, but losing to one who tells you exactly how it’s going to happen? That’s a story they’ll tell for years. And honey, I’m not just a narcissist—I’m a narcissist with a plan, a vision, and people who actually matter.

I wish I could say you’re going to lose because your promo was giving “open mic night,” but that’s not it. You’ll lose because I’m better. Full stop. You could blame nerves, astrology, Mercury in retrograde—it doesn’t change the outcome. Unless a freak accident happens, and the ring light blinds me. That’s your best scenario. Because if by some miracle you beat me? I’ll spiral. I’m talking full-on social media cleanse, disappear-to-Tulum, “find myself” then spiral all over again. But let’s stay in reality: you’ll be the one getting posted by wrestling gif twitter, while I’ll not only walk out with a flawless win but the highlight of the night.

So, Amberlyn—such a suburban name, by the way—let me be clear. I don’t need to beat you. I’m choosing to beat you. Because letting you win would be like wearing Uggs in July. It’s embarrassing for everyone. And that little actress comparison you made? Cute. But I don’t do sequels. This is a one-night-only affair. You’ll get your five minutes, and then I’m off to something more challenging.

So do me a favor. Next time you say my name, say it right. Try doing it without projecting all your insecurities onto someone who’s already got what you want. If confidence was money, I’d own the bank. You’re still waiting for your first paycheck. And even if you manage to find a little confidence, you’ll just be a knockoff, a copy, a wannabe.

But hey—good luck. You’ll need it. And a new eyeliner. And a better script. And maybe a new personality. Because, sweetheart, you’re not in my league. You’re not even in my tax bracket. You’re a footnote, a minor character, a plot twist no one asked for.

Go ahead, step into the spotlight, give it everything you’ve got. I’ll be on the sidelines, sipping Gatorade, wondering how you even made it this far. After Saturday, I’ll be the headline, the story everyone’s talking about, the history UNW actually wants to remember. You? You’ll be in the parking lot, clutching your Hot Topic bag, reliving your glory days in the rearview mirror.