Tiny Acts of Chaos: A Domestic Thriller
I found out the way women always find out: accidentally, while trying to fix the stupid WiFi.
His phone sat face-up on the counter next to the router, vibrating like a guilty conscience, when a notification popped up from a dating app I will not name because I refuse to give free marketing to emotional terrorism.
Someone named Brianna had sent him a heart and a smirky face. Oh, hello, Brianna.
Brianna did not exist in this reality.
Brianna did not wash this man’s sweaty socks.
Brianna did not buy the almond milk containers he sipped from directly, yet never finished.
Brianna thought she’d met a delightfully charming man who was going to take her on an actual date…
I stared at his phone the way archaeologists stare at ruins: with curiosity, grief, and the sinking realization that men have probably been this idiotic and disappointing for thousands of years.
When I confronted him (gently, calmly, like a woman trained in conflict de-escalation by decades of unpaid emotional labor), he explained that he wasn’t exactly cheating.
He was just “browsing.”
You know, to see what the boys were talking about.
“Of course, totally get it,” I replied, the sweetest smile I could summon spreading across my face.
The man was a raccoon in the dumpster fire of the dating ecosystem, consuming women’s hope and vulnerability like two-day-old donuts soaked in stale beer.
Apparently, he liked the dopamine, the attention, the thrill of being wanted. Of course, he wasn’t sure what he wanted yet; he just needed a little time to decide. Meanwhile, he was happily wasting the time of women who believed they were talking to a man capable of basic human integrity. Women who would later possess just a little less admiration for men, and inevitably build the wall around their heart just a tiny bit higher until even the finest prince on a white steed couldn’t scale it.
The disregard for people’s time and energy was possibly worse than stepping out. Cheating implies urgency, a physical need that demands to be quenched…this was emotional microdosing of other people’s faith in humanity.
I did what any sane woman does when betrayed: I watched six hours of true crime and briefly convinced myself I could disappear a man using only a Trader Joe’s receipt, three teaspoons of sand, and sheer female competence.
I fantasized about dripping a tiny bit of antifreeze or ExLax into every one of his beverages or secretly skin testing him for extreme food allergies while he slept.
Then I remembered I was lazy and not willing to sacrifice any part of my life for this idiot.
So instead, I chose the long game.
No violence.
No impulsive rants.
No prison jumpsuits in unflattering hues.
Psychological inconvenience.
Death by a thousand tiny, tasteful annoyances.
Phase One: Environmental Confusion
I began subtly moving his belongings just slightly off from where he left them. His keys migrated to a different surface each day. The mug his mom made him in pottery class slowly rotated shelves like a witness relocation program, then vanished entirely. Nightly, the phone charger on his side of the bed became a myth, a legend, a story told by elders.
These moves were not catastrophic, just enough to cause alarm and make his universe feel…unreliable.
Each day, I heard him muttering things like, “I swear it was right here.”
Yes, my love. Reality is fragile, and your trust in me is naive.
Phase Two: Algorithmic Sabotage
Every time he left his laptop open, I gently guided the internet toward chaos. The ads for designer deodorant and fun gadgets shifted to competitive ax-throwing competitions, real doll girlfriends modeled after Miss Universe contestants, and mail-order testosterone.
The carefully curated Spotify algorithm slowly evolved from his masculine sadness playlists into an emotional hostage situation filled with Gregorian chants, whale sounds, and Taylor Swift deep cuts.
He started asking if the WiFi was “haunted.”
I said maybe. Probably.
Phase Three: Culinary Gaslighting (Harmless Edition)
I didn’t poison him, I'm not a monster, only a menace. I simply became aggressively invested in his health and well-being…more so than any human should be.
Suddenly, everything was high fiber, omega-rich, and suspiciously good for gut longevity. I replaced his favorite snacks with green shakes that tasted like burps and dirt simultaneously. He began Googling phrases like “Is pooping seven times a day normal” and “Why do my farts smell like pennies?”
I declared we were gluten-free, sugar-free, and vegan now, trying not to smile as I watched joy leave his body completely.
Phase Four: Social Minor Inconvenience (aka Gaslighting Like a Man)
I subtly corrected tiny facts in front of friends and called out the terrible grammar in his Instagram comments.
“Oh, actually, it was 2016, not 2015.”
“Cute, but I think you meant YOUR, not YOU’RE.”
“Pretty sure that actor is Australian, not British.”
“It’s actually BROUGHT, not BRANG, but we know what you mean.”
“I think you’re thinking of a different manosphere podcast.”
Nothing emasculating. Just… destabilizing and correct.
He began to doubt his own judgment, much like a man in a low-budget psychological thriller.
I remained warm. Supportive. Calm. A benevolent ghost.
Phase Five: Existential Discomfort
This is where I truly started thriving and blocked out chunks of “self-care” on the shared calendar.
My new routines included more gym time and longer walks. I was sleeping better than I had in years, and the eye bags were a fading memory. I laughed at my phone in ways that sounded hopeful, almost flirty, and watched him look up from across the room. I read books with women on the cover who looked like they’d burned something down and had plans to do it again.
My happiness became louder than his secrecy, which was the most unsettling development of all.
Occasionally, my true crime brain would flare up and whisper, “You could escalate, you could really commit to the bit and push him into a giant pit under the deck.”
But then I’d remember:
I don’t like digging holes
I don’t want to explain anything to a jury
I look terrible in fluorescent lighting
I refuse to become a podcast for anything less than being an absolute badass
Instead, I poured my vengeance into mild inconvenience and radiant indifference.
Eventually, he grew jumpy. Forgetful. Weirdly tired. Haunted by invisible forces and fiber intake.
One night, he asked, very softly, “Do you feel like something’s… off lately?”
I smiled.
“I think people feel off when they live dishonestly,” I said, sipping my tea like a woodland witch with a day job and Equinox membership.
Sadly (for him), he didn’t last much longer after that.
Not because I destroyed him, but because entropy always eats men who try to farm women for dopamine.
I simply adjusted the lighting and watched him fade in the rear-view mirror.