There’s a very specific kind of rage that bubbles up when someone wrongs you and somehow walks away wearing a halo, smiling like they just donated a kidney to a koala. It’s the kind of righteous fury that makes you want to dye your dog neon pink, roll up to their house with a boombox blasting “Before He Cheats,” and then calmly eat popcorn while watching their downfall unfold like an Emmy-winning limited series. Don’t tell me to journal it. I’ve written whole essays about forgiveness. I’ve blogged about healing and boundaries and personal growth. But every now and then? I want to write a Yelp review so scathing it gets optioned for a Netflix docudrama.
Let’s just be real, right now. This post isn’t about what I should do. This isn’t some feel-good TED Talk about turning the other cheek while someone slaps the ever-loving clarity out of you. This is about that inner voice we pretend we’ve outgrown — the one that’s not-so-quietly whispering, “Key their car, Bee.” And to be clear: I don’t key cars. But the urge? The urge is real.
And sometimes, just not acting on it feels like a loss. Like I missed an opportunity for a mic-drop moment worthy of RuPaul’s Drag Race and a West Wing monologue.
You know how many times I’ve been told, “Just be the bigger person”? Girl, I am the bigger person. I’ve been through more trauma than a CW protagonist. I’ve survived cancer, an abusive relationship, pray-the-gay-away camp, and actual karaoke nights where someone earnestly sang Nickelback. I’ve carried the emotional weight of my entire family’s dysfunction while being labeled the problem — and you want me to smile and say, “I wish them well”?
No. I want to host a gala celebrating their downfall. With gift bags.
The Popcorn Principle
See, there’s something cathartic — almost holy — about imagining karma with a budget. Picture this: your ex’s new man finds your number in their phone under “Emergency Contact,” because deep down, he knows you’re the only one that ever really loved that mess. Or that toxic coworker finally gets called out in a Zoom meeting and can’t mute fast enough. That’s not just revenge. That’s narrative payoff. That’s storytelling. That’s earned.
And I’m not saying we act on it. I’m saying we acknowledge it. Because here’s the truth nobody writes on their affirmation sticky notes: being the bigger person feels amazing… until you realize you’re the only one playing by those rules. Sometimes, choosing peace feels suspiciously like choosing to swallow broken glass with a smile.
Petty is a Love Language (and a Survival Tactic)
There’s a special kind of power in a perfectly timed eye roll. In choosing silence not because you’re above it, but because you’re mentally composing a tweet so shady it needs SPF 100. And if you think that’s toxic? Try being a queer trauma survivor in Texas who hasn’t weaponized humor, sarcasm, and calculated detachment as a coping mechanism.
Some of us had to learn how to roast as a defense mechanism. Some of us don’t get the luxury of passive-aggressively praying for our enemies. We survive with memes, clapbacks, and the occasional well-placed Beyoncé lyric.
I’ve written about resilience — the quiet kind, the survivor kind. But this? This is about that loud, giddy, slightly unhinged kind of petty that says: “You tried to ruin me. I moisturized, thrived, and came back with better lighting.”
The Grand Finale: Closure Is a Scam
Let’s be real: closure is mostly a fantasy peddled by people who’ve never been ghosted by a therapist or had to block a relative after they sent you a link to a “Deliverance From Homosexuality” sermon. Closure, for some of us, isn’t a conversation — it’s surviving the storm, redecorating the house it wrecked, and lighting a scented candle labeled “Unbothered.”
You don’t always get justice. But sometimes, you get popcorn. And sometimes that’s enough.
Closing Thoughts (but not too healing, don’t worry):
This isn’t a call to action — unless that action is watching your enemies spiral on Facebook while sipping rosé and looking fabulous. It’s okay to want revenge. It’s okay to imagine it. It’s okay to think, “If I ran the world, there would be an entire awards show called the Pettys, and I’d host it in a glitter bodysuit.”
You don’t have to be the bigger person every time. Sometimes, you just need to be the sassier one — with better friends, better shoes, and excellent snacks.
Revenge is a dish best served with popcorn. And I like mine burnt.