I figured we’d kick off the week with something special: me, gracing your Tuesday night with my actual, physical presence. I know, I know; none of you really deserve it, but I suppose it’s good for morale. Consider it community service. Someone has to think of the people who, for a lack of a better term, don’t exactly have a jam-packed social calendar and are just dying for a glimpse into my world. Not that I care about what you think (I don’t), but I’m nothing if not generous. Besides, I do have an audience. What would most of you even talk about if I didn’t provide your daily fix? Some might call it sad—I prefer “endearing.” Means you’re paying attention. Not that it changes anything for me, but hey, I notice.

So, after a weekend spent decompressing (because, God, did I need it) after my high nearly got ruined, I took some time to review the footage of my latest handiwork. Honestly, I haven’t seen better work on the mat in ages; and trust me, I’ve seen it all. The way I bent and twisted Cynthia, pure artistry. If wrestling had a Sotheby’s auction, my performance would be the one the collectors fight over, best in class, obviously. Who else could pull off what I do? Who’s got the pedigree, the poise, and the sheer nerve to match me, hold for hold? The list is short. Actually, it’s non-existent. And those who think they can? They’re not even competition on my off days.

Celebration mode looked a lot like me at a diner, chic in a way that only I can bring, sipping a shake, savoring fries, and scrolling through the digital love (and hate). The comments? Worth the read, I was on the verge of tears. Nothing brings out someone’s inner poet like seeing their favorite lose to someone they love to hate (me). Cynthia’s fans, bless them, could give Swifties a run for their money: cutthroat, dramatic, with a flair for the all-caps meltdown. My fans? Please. They’re cool, calm, and collected. They know my loss to Circe was just a scenic detour. They don’t need to have a public meltdown over “injustice.” They get it: sooner or later, everyone pays attention to me. It’s inevitable. I’m not just the future face of UNW; I’m the whole brand, the metric, the standard, and soon to be main event.

And speaking of attention—let’s talk about that little backstage run-in with Azure. Yes, everyone’s favorite “next big thing.” If you missed it (or just want the tea) here it is: I’d just finished wiping the mat with Cynthia, and who do I see backstage? Azure, in all her TikTok glory, freshly landed on Stampede, no less. Probably just another way for Giselle to keep her grip on the spotlight without actually having to show up. Cute. But, I’m about to ruin her plan.

Just because the online rumor mill decided Azure is the next heir apparent doesn’t mean I have to roll over and play nice. I’ve put in the hours. I’ve earned my scars. Azure? She’s changed everything about herself, just to fit in line with Giselle’s legacy, down to her very walk, and still can’t move without Giselle’s blessing. It’s almost sweet—really, like watching someone try to fill their idols heels: adorable but ultimately not going anywhere without permission.

Giselle might be UNW royalty, but sending Azure to do a woman’s job? Se tromper. Watching her prodigy try to run her mouth at me, after I’ve spent all season thus far—making UNW look good, was almost funny. The only thing I’m worried about before stepping in the ring for our match is whether my ring gear has enough rhinestones to blind the front row. Because presentation is everything, point blank. Something Azure, for all her “legacy,” wouldn’t know about if it tripped her in the ring.

So yes, she toured with Giselle, learned something (I guess), and now she’s determined to keep the legacy alive. Am I impressed? Not even a little. What’s she done for UNW lately? Sent Azure in her place? Someone call the wrestling police because that’s sacrilege.

Sure, pro wrestling wasn’t my first rodeo. But five years in, debuting on a platform like UNW? Did you really think I wouldn’t become the legend I was born to be? It’s my birthright. There isn’t a soul in this company who can outdo me—Brand, style, money, looks—I’m untouchable.

And Azure, honey, don’t take this personally. But you blew past me like I was some rookie, and now I get to embarrass you in front of twenty thousand people in Detroit. Charity work, really. But someone’s got to bring hope to the city, and I guess that’s me, again. It’s almost exhausting being this generous.

But what’s really at play here? We all know exactly what you’re about to do, Azure: You’re going to strut to the ring, try to make a statement, show how you’re the second coming. But you didn’t plan for me, the actual wrestler in the ring, the one who knows how to work a crowd and a camera. You’ll come at me with your best promo, and I’ll be over here raking in the likes and retweets because if Giselle’s the one doing the training, well, that’s the joke right there. It’s safe to assume: Giselle was glued to her phone while Azure got thrown around, bled, and cried during every training sesh. Hilarious, right?

This match isn’t chess. There’s no reason to overthink it. The only thing anyone will remember is that one fatal blunder, the moment the cameras catch you in glorious slow-mo, tripping over your own delusions. No one’s reaching for the tissues over your loss—I’d much rather spend my energy finalizing my post-season travel plans. So consider this my own little campaign: I’ll make sure you’re edited out of the story before you can even fantasize about measuring up to Giselle, let alone to me. Yes, I said it. And yes, I mean it.

You know what? I’m feeling generous. I’ll quote, tweet, like, and promote your posts, just to inflate your numbers. Gotta throw you a bone, right? After all, I wouldn’t want to lower myself by wrestling someone who can’t even hit 20k followers on Insta or Twitter. Standards, sweetie; we’ve all got ’em, and yours are clearly lacking.

That being said, it is my solemn duty to uphold the quality and prestige of Stampede by embarrassing you, Azure. This is not just about ego or personal gain; it’s about the greater good of our great product. I’m standing as the metric of what’s to come: a shining star, a future champion, and a legend in the making. It is my destiny, my calling, to keep the bar high and ensure that Stampede remains a platform for true greatness, untainted by the likes of you and anyone else who might be considered of the same ilk.

What kind of brand ambassador would I be if I stood by and watched someone as garish and hopelessly underqualified as you walk away with a win, Azure? Please. I’d sooner turn in my lashes and hand over my Louboutins. And if you know anything about me, you know that’s not happening.

I don’t hand out prizes for anyone’s participation, especially not to someone who still looks like she wandered in from a group fitness class and never quite found her style. As much as I admire your tenacity (it’s almost cute), we both know you’re not up to the challenge. I won’t lose sleep if you can’t keep up. Actually, I’d be surprised if you even come close. Even if I weren’t me, I still wouldn’t bet against me. That’s the whole story, really. Heading into Saturday, things are pretty straightforward: a non-event for me, a melodrama for you. I doubt I’ll even get to test out any of the new material I’ve been working on. You, on the other hand, well, let’s just say “tragic” is putting it kindly. No need to speculate further—it’s a crime in and of itself.

Anyway, enough about that. I have a gear fitting to get to and a face to finish. If Azure says something worth responding to, maybe I’ll do her the favor. But honestly, she’s not worth the syllables.