After the meltdown, the dates from hell, and the highs and lows of Cub energy, I knew it was time for a final, definitive act of transformation. And by transformation, I mean something literal: hair bleach. Not just a trim or a new style, I went full orange hair, orange eyebrows, unapologetic chaos.

For months, I had been sitting in the residue of heartbreak, anger, and frustration. My curls were tired, my energy was restless, and my Instagram feed was begging for life. It wasn’t just hair; it was armor. I didn’t want to look like myself anymore. I wanted to look like someone who had survived, who had thrived, who had laughed in the face of chaos, and who wasn’t asking for permission to exist loudly.

My ex before my ex was the first man I dated who loved my hair in its natural state, curly. He would literally spray me with water when I would straighten my hair because he loved the curls that much. By loving them so much, he taught me how to embrace them fully too. And my ex after him the one who made me display a desperate need for an exorcist at Yankee Stadium loved my hair natural too. He loved it dark. He said it brought out my eyes and features, that to him it never drained me but enhanced what God had already given me. And every time I looked in the mirror, I wanted to be nothing more than somebody none of us knew.

I went to Sally’s, grabbed bleach like it was my weapon, and went to work. Each strand Lupita coated felt like shedding an old version of myself the one who overthought, tolerated nonsense, and entertained underwhelming men out of boredom and rage. As the bleach worked its magic, I felt my energy shift. The orange wasn’t just hair; it was freedom, a neon declaration that I had lived, survived, and emerged victorious from a month that tried to burn me down. I watched the darkness lift from my hair with the biggest smile. Nobody was going to recognize or know this version of me I was free. Then after it was all done, I remember staring in the mirror and analyzing myself, thinking, “I look good, but oh my God, I just bleached my fucking hair.”

Social media reacted immediately. I was going viral not because I asked for it, but because energy like mine is contagious. People weren’t just seeing a hair transformation; they were seeing rebirth, chaos, fun, and unapologetic joy in action. Men I had entertained during the October madness? Ignored. Exes? Irrelevant. Cub? Cherished memory. And me? Fully alive, fully me, fully unstoppable.

It was a moment of pure exhilaration. I danced in my apartment, selfies in hand, blasting music that matched my new energy. Each photo, each story, each video screamed: “I survived it all, and I am back, baby.” The chaos of last October, the meltdown at Yankee Stadium, the dates from hell—they had all led to this moment. And Bleach Please wasn’t just a hair statement; it was a life statement.

The transformation also reminded me of one crucial lesson: fun is a form of survival. When you’re navigating heartbreak, ego-driven disasters, and the emotional residue of chaos, having fun is revolutionary. I had been strategic, impulsive, chaotic, and careful all at once. But bleaching my hair? That was pure joy. That was freedom. That was me reclaiming the month I had almost let destroy me.

Bleach went to my curls, orange went to my eyebrows, and everything else all the drama, all the frustration, all the absurdity of dating, work, and life, was washed away in the glow of my new energy. I felt fun, fresh, and unstoppable. I was no longer a passive participant in my own chaos; I was the star, the director, and the producer of this wild October saga.

For anyone watching, anyone following, anyone doubting this is what surviving looks like. It’s messy. It’s orange. It’s unapologetic. It’s laughter after tears. It’s dancing at 2 a.m. because the universe can’t contain your energy. Bleach was the punctuation mark on a sentence of chaos, a declaration that I am alive, I am bold, and I will continue to thrive, no matter what October throws at me next year.

So here’s the final act of my Menacing Muse: Bleach Please era: I survived, I thrived, I laughed, I dated, I raged, I loved, I ignored, and I went orange. And let me tell you, the world is lucky to witness this level of energy. Bleach and I? We go together. Hair and chaos? Unstoppable. And me? Fully alive.