Master of all lies. A man who cannot walk his talk is a fool. Sweetheart, you wear deception like a crown, but it is cracked, tarnished, and heavy upon your head.
You preach that gossip brings no wealth, yet you lap at every whisper, every rumor, every shadowy tale, as if it were gold dust falling into your palms. And yet, what have you earned? Not riches, not glory. Just enemies. Just the bitter taste of contempt.
Ah, I suppose I must be important then. After all, you spend your days, your hours, your every waking second, collecting fabricated stories as if they were treasures. Stories with no proof, no merit, no weight—yet you hoard them like a miser clings to coins.
Meanwhile, I hold a reverse uno card. I play when the time is right. I collect receipts, evidence, proof—a ledger of truth that outlasts your smoke and mirrors. I sip my piña colada in the sun, watching as the foolishness of your efforts collapses into absurdity.
You speak of honor, yet your tongue drips poison. You say discretion is valuable, yet you scatter secrets as if sowing weeds. How quaint, that you believe your duplicity is cleverness. It is folly, pure and unadulterated.
Every lie you tell is a stitch in the shroud you will one day wear. Every whispered rumor is a brick in the coffin of your credibility. You may not see it now, lost in your small victories, but it waits, patient and inevitable.
You paid attention to me, and in that attention, you thought to craft control. You spread my story as if bending it could bend reality itself. But reality, darling, is not yours to shape. It bends only to truth—and you are far from it.
You call yourself shrewd, a master of strategy, yet you cannot see that your currency is contempt. Haters, enemies, the shadows of those you slandered—they are your true legacy. Not millions, but resentment. Not respect, but whispers behind your back.
Be wise in investing your time. Time is the only coin that cannot be reclaimed. And yet, you spend it lavishly, casting venom where it serves nothing but your ego. Sweetheart, did you ever consider that silence and dignity could yield more than gossip ever could?
Some people pay back respect and silence. Quiet, unassuming, steadfast. They move through life with integrity, and their restraint becomes their armor. And others? Others pay back karma. Slowly. Deliberately. Remorselessly.
Do you feel clever now, as your words coil through circles, twisting perceptions, stitching shadows into my name? Do you not feel the weight of the eyes you cannot see, the judgment you cannot escape?
Your lies are like smoke. They drift, they burn, they suffocate. And yet, when the wind shifts, when the truth rises, you are left coughing, choking, grasping for a foothold that does not exist.
You cannot walk your talk. You cannot own your words. You cannot contain the chaos you so freely unleash. A man who spreads venom while preaching virtue is no master—he is a jester, dancing on the graves of his own dignity.
Haters do not build empires. Shadows do not create legacies. Gossip does not enrich the soul, nor the mind, nor the life. You trade ephemeral attention for permanent disgrace, and call it cleverness.
Do you hear it? The whisper of karma, patient, deliberate, circling closer with every lie, every manipulation, every act of malice. You cannot flee it. You cannot bribe it. You cannot charm it. It waits.
Time invested in venom is time wasted. Energy spent on deception is energy stolen from creation, from love, from truth. And you, master of all lies, squander both recklessly. Meanwhile, I sip my piña colada, receipts in hand, reverse uno card ready, knowing exactly when to play.
Some will remember your cruelty in silence. Some will repay it without words, letting the weight of justice fall unnoticed until it is too late. Some will let the universe itself deliver its verdict, patiently, with precision.
Sweetheart, you gained haters, not millions. You gathered contempt, not respect. And one day, perhaps, you will realize the truth too late: gossip is a currency the soul cannot spend, a poison the heart cannot digest.
Be wise in investing your time. Some people pay back respect and silence; others pay back karma. You will find which is yours, eventually. And when that day comes, the mask you wear will crack, the shadow you cast will falter, and your lies will finally meet their reckoning.
Master of all lies. A man who cannot walk his talk is a fool. And fools, darling, always pay their debts. Meanwhile, I drink my piña colada, collect my proof, and laugh quietly—because time and truth are mine, and yours are already running out.