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Monkey minzz, Paknam (2025)

02/07/2025

Is It Wrong to Leave Someone Because They Earn Less?
I know he’s going to propose soon. I can feel it in his behavior.
The way he holds my hand a little longer, how he looks at me like I’m already his forever.
And the way he talks about kids lately—
our kids.
Not abstract ideas. Real, living people he wants to create with me.

But here’s my truth:
I can’t marry him.

He’s 20 years older than me. That’s not the issue.
He’s charming, sophisticated, ridiculously good in bed, patient, protective, and just… kind.
He adores me in a way no one else ever has.
And I love him.

God, I love him.

But sometimes love isn’t enough.

He earns less than I do. He’s content with life as it is.
No promotions, no striving, no hunger to climb.
He has dreams, sure. But they’re quiet. Humble. Domestic.
And I hate myself for saying this, but that terrifies me.

I come from a world where ambition is air.
Where partners are equals in fire, chasing careers, chasing purpose, chasing status.
Where comfort is planned, not stumbled into.

We talk about the future, and I nod. I smile.
But inside, something curls tight and cold.

Because I picture my life with him—
His cozy little house, his modest goals, the same job he’s had for years.
And then I picture my mother’s life.
Our family dinners, the two cars in the driveway, the polished conversation, the soft luxury of predictability.

I see her life like a blueprint I was born holding.

And no matter how hard I try, I can’t unsee it.

I didn't go to university for five years, get buried in loans, fight to be the first woman in my family to hold a degree with distinction…
just to turn around and become the primary earner for a man 20 years older than me.

It sounds cruel, doesn’t it?

But sometimes when he talks about our "simple little life," something in me screams:
THIS ISN’T THE DREAM.

And what’s worse is that he has no idea.
He thinks I’m the dream. That I’m in it with him. That I’m on board.
And in moments of intimacy—when we’re tangled in sheets, or cooking dinner barefoot in his too-small kitchen—I almost convince myself I am.

Because in those tiny moments, we are perfect.

But reality doesn't live in the soft glow of fairy lights. It lives in bank statements, future plans, regret.

And I can already feel it—that whisper of resentment beginning to form.
The kind that starts as a murmur and ends as a storm that tears a marriage apart five years in.

So here I am, a woman madly in love with a man…
she’s planning to leave.

I’m not waiting for him to mess up. He won’t. He’s too good.
I’m not waiting for someone “better.”
Because he is better—just not for the life I want.

And I wish I could say the decision will come from bravery.
But it won’t. It’ll come from cowardice disguised as timing.

He’ll kneel.
He’ll ask.
And I’ll smile—so wide it cracks my heart—
And I’ll whisper, “I’m sorry.”

And in that moment, I’ll watch the man who gave me nothing but love
break.

And I will become the villain in the only love story that ever made me feel safe.

02/07/2025

“I Asked a Guy Out at the Gym—and I'm Still Cringing Inside”

You know those stories that feel huge and mortifying when they happen, but everyone around you tells you “Oh come on, it’s not that bad”? Yeah. This is one of those stories. But for me, it felt like the sky cracked open and poured pure embarrassment straight onto my face.

Let me take you back.

I’m 22. I’m what you’d call a nerd. I mean, full-on shrimpy JRPG-loving, Mario Kart trash-talker, reads fanfiction before bed kind of nerd. The gym was never my scene. In fact, I only started going because sitting in front of a screen for 10 hours a day left my back sounding like bubble wrap. My doctor said, “You need core strength.” I heard, “Go somewhere with fluorescent lights and men who treat barbells like religion.”

But I went. I picked early mornings, hoping to dodge crowds. I wanted quiet, solitude, and maybe to walk out without my knees giving up on me. Instead, I got something else.

I kept seeing him.

Same time every morning. Tall. Broad. Muscles like steel cables under skin. Like, the biggest guy I had ever seen in real life, and I’ve been to a few cons with pro bodybuilders. He never really talked to anyone. Just walked in, did some borderline mythological weightlifting, wiped down his equipment like a respectful gym god, and left.

And slowly, painfully, I got a crush. The kind of crush that makes you look forward to the gym. That makes you try not to look like a drowned rat after warm-up. That makes you, a tiny video game goblin, fantasize about coffee dates and “accidentally” lifting at the same rack.

I told my friends. Oh, did I tell them. Every group chat. Every “guess who was there this morning” selfie. They started teasing me. “You’re blushing like a schoolgirl over Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s cousin!” “Ask him out or stop telling us about him.”

Eventually, I cracked.

One week ago, I walked into that gym, nerves bouncing around my chest like a Flappy Bird on co***ne. I saw him finishing a set, wiping sweat from his brow, all serious and strong. I told myself: Do it. Just be brave for thirty seconds. Then you can die of embarrassment.

I walked over, heart pounding in my ears, and said the words I had practiced in my head a dozen times:

“Hi… I know this is kind of random, but I’ve seen you around a lot, and I’ve always wanted to get to know you. Want to grab coffee sometime?”

He looked up. Blinking. And then—he smiled.

“Wow,” he said, “I’m really flattered. But… I’m married. With kids. I’m also forty-one.”

Cue: me blinking rapidly like a confused Sims character. My face instantly turned the color of a cooked lobster. I stammered something like, “Oh wow, I had no idea, that’s totally cool, no worries!” and tried to play it off with a laugh and a wave.

He was so nice. Like, too nice, which made it worse. He didn’t make it awkward. He wasn’t mean or cocky. Just gentle. Understanding. Which only made me feel more like I’d stepped into a sitcom where the punchline was me.

I left that gym and did not come back for a whole week.

I couldn’t. Just thinking about seeing him again made my stomach twist. I imagined the whispers, the stares, the mortified look in the mirror as I recalled every cringe-worthy moment of my amateur rom-com attempt.

The thing is… I knew it wasn’t really a big deal. Not in the grand scheme of things. But it was my first time ever asking someone out like that. First time being brave like that. And I picked a place where literally no one ever talks to anyone unless they’re spotting them.

And part of the embarrassment wasn’t even the rejection—it was that I had stepped so far out of my comfort zone. I’m the quiet one. The watcher. The friend who gives advice but never takes her own. I’m the girl who likes fictional characters more than real ones. And I had stood up, walked over, and tried to start a chapter in someone else’s story.

And it flopped. Hard.

But then… this week, I went back.

Same time. Same gym. Same me, now humbler and more cautious.

And guess what?

He was there. And as we passed each other by the towel rack, he smiled and said:

“Hey, welcome back.”

Just like that.

No awkwardness. No weird vibes. Just a guy being kind, and a girl trying to pretend her heart wasn’t doing backflips because she’d survived the cringe.

I smiled back. “Thanks.” And that was it.

No more daydreams. No more silly fantasies. Just two people trying to lift a little more than they did yesterday.

So yeah, I probably won’t ask anyone out at the gym again. But I will keep showing up.

Maybe to get stronger. Maybe to stop slouching. Maybe just to prove to myself that I can be a little bit braver—even when it ends in an awkward laugh.

And hey… now I’ve got a story that makes my friends cackle every time we meet up.

02/07/2025

"My Adoptive Family Keeps Asking Me to Get a DNA Test… But They Don’t Know the Whole Story."

I was found abandoned in the back booth of a diner in 1974.

Wrapped in a jacket that didn’t fit me. No note. No name. No birth certificate. Just me, alone, in a corner of a restaurant in Salamanca, New York.

I was about two years old. Maybe younger. They guessed my age by my teeth and how I spoke. I couldn’t say my name. Couldn’t tell them where I came from.

So they picked a birthday for me—March 8th. The day I became nobody.

Or everyone.

Or both.

The first 12 years of my life were spent being passed around like furniture.

Orphanages. Catholic charity homes. Foster placements that never lasted long enough for me to even learn the wallpaper pattern.

I was just a number. A burden. A paycheck.

And yes… I was abused.
Sexually. Emotionally. Spiritually.
By priests. By deacons.
By the people who said God is watching.

And I used to wish—hope—that if He was watching, He would finally make it stop.

He never did.

But then—at 12—I was adopted by a family from Queens, New York.

A real family.

A mom who made me soup when I was sick.
A dad who taught me how to ride the subway.
Siblings who teased me and fought me and still called me their brother.

They were good people. Kind people.
They gave me a home. Gave me my first birthday party. Gave me a future.

They never asked about where I came from.
They just loved me.

And I swore I would never take that for granted.

But lately…

They’ve been asking questions.

Soft ones at first.
“You ever wonder where you’re from?”
“You know, you kind of look Native. Maybe Seneca?”
“I bet your birth parents were from the reservation.”

Then it became a request.
A gentle one, but firm.
“Let’s get a DNA test. Just to know. Just to find out. Don’t you want to know?”

No.

No, I don’t.

I’ve spent my whole life building myself from ashes. And now they want me to dig through them?

I know who my family is.
It’s not the woman who left me in a booth next to a cold plate of fries.
It’s not the tribe I might statistically belong to.
It’s not the ghosts of my DNA.

It’s the people who showed up.
Who stayed.
Who didn’t need proof to love me.

Why isn’t that enough?

They aren’t being cruel.
But they don’t understand what they’re asking me to do.
To open a door I nailed shut years ago.
To step into a darkness I barely escaped.

They say, “It could be healing.”
I say, “It could destroy me.”

They say, “Don’t you want to know your real story?”
And I want to scream: THIS is my real story. The one I made. The one I bled for.

But I keep my mouth shut.

For now.

And then… yesterday, my mom sat me down. She was holding an envelope. Her hands were shaking.

“I did it,” she said quietly. “I did the DNA test behind your back. I sent in a hair from your old brush.”

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.
Something shattered inside me. Something deep. Something final.

“You're 51% Seneca,” she whispered. “And… someone matched. A sibling.”

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I did none of those things.

I just asked, “Are they looking for me?”

She nodded.

Then she said the part that broke me.

“They said they never abandoned a baby. They think you were stolen.”

So now I sit here.
Torn between two families.
One that saved me. One that lost me.
And I don’t know who I am anymore.

Was I left behind?

Or was I taken?

I never wanted to know the truth.
But the truth came looking for me anyway.

And now… I can’t un-know it.

TL;DR:
My adoptive family begged me to do a DNA test. I refused. They did it behind my back. Turns out… I wasn’t abandoned. I was kidnapped.

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Paknam