So I roll over. The other side of the bed is cold. It’s always cold. I light a cigarette even though I quit two years ago. I pour a whiskey even though it’s sunrise. This is the “wakeupnfuck” reality—except the “fuck” isn’t physical. It’s metaphysical. It’s the act of fucking your own peace of mind.
I realize I don’t want to wake up next to Rebecca Violetti. That would imply sleep. Comfort. Routine. No, I want to wake up because of her. I want the disruption. I want the 4:47 AM panic.
The sun is fully up now. The whiskey is gone. My fingers hurt from typing. wakeupnfuck rebecca violetti
I wake up. I don’t check the news. I don’t check my stocks. I check my memories.
There is a specific breed of woman in this world—rare, feral, sharp-toothed—who doesn’t just break your heart. She rewires your nervous system. Rebecca is that woman. She’s the ghost at the end of your bed, the text you pray for at 2 AM, the reason your chest feels like a cracked rib cage. So I roll over
I woke up at 4:47 AM today. Not because of an alarm. Not because of some “hustle culture” bullshit. Because of her . Because Rebecca Violetti lives rent-free in the back of my skull, and at 4:47 AM, she decided to start swinging a sledgehammer.
She wrote once: “I don’t want to be your muse. I want to be your emergency.” I light a cigarette even though I quit two years ago
Because she’s the mirror we deserve but are terrified to look into.