Bitch Fest
The Real, Unfiltered Side of Modern Parenting Let’s be real: parenting today isn’t a picture-perfect scene from a magazine or a carefully curated Instagram reel. More often than not, it feels like a messy, unpredictable adventure filled with equal parts chaos and love. Some days you’re winning with bedtime routines that go smoothly, and other days you’re just trying to survive the morning school rush without losing your mind. This is the space where we drop the filters, tell the truth, and laugh at the absurdity of it all. Parenting has always been a challenge, but modern parenting comes with its own unique set of trials. The endless advice columns, conflicting parenting books, and pressure to keep up appearances can leave parents feeling like they’re falling short. Here, we say enough is enough. Perfection is overrated, and honesty is everything. This section is a safe place for rants, funny stories, and unfiltered conversations about the rollercoaster that is family life. We’ve all experienced those days that feel like a comedy of errors. Maybe your toddler decided to stage a full-blown meltdown in the middle of the grocery store. Maybe your teenager rolled their eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. Or maybe you just stepped on yet another Lego while carrying a laundry basket. These moments, as frustrating as they are in the moment, often become the stories we tell later with laughter. They’re the raw material of parenting—the bloopers that don’t make it onto social media but define the real experience. This is where parenting rants become a kind of therapy. From endless battles over bedtime to the stress of helping with homework you barely understand yourself, every parent has stories that deserve to be shared. Venting doesn’t mean you don’t love your kids. It means you’re human. Sharing these rants gives us perspective and reminds us that nobody has it all together, no matter how perfect their family looks online. Of course, it’s not just about venting. This is also a place for funny, relatable stories that bring a smile to your face even on the hardest days. Kids have a way of surprising us with their unfiltered honesty and wild imaginations. One minute they’re driving us up the wall, and the next they’re saying something so hilarious or sweet that we forget the frustration. These moments are the balance—the little reminders that parenting is as rewarding as it is exhausting. Behind all the chaos, there’s also the emotional side of being a parent. We talk about the anger, the guilt, and the exhaustion that come with the role. We talk about mom rage when the day has been too long and the patience has run too thin. We talk about the guilt of snapping at your kids when all you wanted was five minutes of peace. These are the realities that many parents keep bottled up, but sharing them helps lift the weight. The beauty of this space is that it builds solidarity. When one parent shares their rant, another nods in recognition and says, “Me too.” That shared understanding creates community. Parenting isn’t meant to be a solo journey, and knowing others are living through the same chaos makes it all a little easier to handle. Here, you’ll also find unfiltered advice that’s rooted in reality. Forget the complicated ten-step plans for perfect parenting. Instead, we talk about what actually works in the messy, unpredictable world of raising kids. It’s about survival tips, small victories, and finding joy in unexpected places. The best wisdom often comes from parents who are still figuring it out themselves, because let’s be honest—none of us ever really have it mastered. So, whether you’re having a rough day or just need to laugh at the absurdity of family life, you’re in the right place. This is the parenting section that celebrates imperfection, embraces honesty, and finds humor in the chaos. It’s a reminder that everyone is just trying to hold it together, and that’s perfectly okay. Parenting may be the hardest job in the world, but it’s also the one filled with the most laughter, love, and unforgettable stories. Together, let’s vent, laugh, and support one another through the glorious mess that is modern parenting.
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THE QUIET REBELLION
I built my media company in Pakistan when everyone told me not to. Pakistan’s youth proved them wrong.When I told people I was building my media company in Pakistan, the warnings came fast.Be careful.Why would you do that?Do you have security?My followers acted like I’d announced I was relocating to an active war zone. Some of them literally thought I was going to Afghanistan.One message said: “You’re a Gora. Be careful out there.”For those who don’t know: gora is a slang term some Pakistanis use for white foreigners. And yes, I’m very white. Italian-Canadian. Loud. Zero filter. I stand out. I don’t blend. I’m not mysterious. I’m not subtle. I’m a walking neon sign.But here’s what those warnings ignored: I’d been working with fourteen Pakistanis for a year and a half. Remotely. Building my company from Canada while they built it from Lahore and Islamabad. Day after day. Deadline after deadline. They showed up early, stayed late, pushed back when I was wrong, and delivered work that was better than anything I’d paid for in Toronto or New York.So I came to Pakistan to meet the people who were already building my company.What I found wasn’t what North America thinks Pakistan is.It was a country in the middle of a quiet revolution—economic, generational, personal—and the West is too busy clinging to its old story to notice.The Flight Everyone QuestionedThe warnings started the moment I booked the ticket.Friends: “Have you told your family?”My mother: “Why can’t you run it from here?”Random people online: “Do you have a security detail?”The subtext was always the same: Pakistan is dangerous. Pakistan is backwards. Pakistan is a place people like me don’t belong.I get why people think that. The narrative has been sold for decades: Pakistan equals instability. Terrorism. Poverty. Religious extremism. A place to fear, not a place to build.But fear based on what?None of the people messaging me had been there. None of them had worked with Pakistanis. They were reacting to a story they’d absorbed, not a reality they’d experienced.I’d spent eighteen months working with my team through Zoom calls and What’s App messages—watching them solve problems, build systems, ship product, and handle pressure with the kind of calm competence that makes you realize how much of North American “professionalism” is just performance. I knew what they could do.What I didn’t know was who they were beyond the screen.So I went.And the moment I landed, I realized how much of what we’re told about Pakistan is less about Pakistan—and more about the West needing somewhere to project its fear.I Didn’t Do Pakistan a FavorLet me be clear about something before we go any further: I didn’t build my company in Pakistan out of charity. I didn’t do it because I’m noble. I didn’t do it because I wanted to “help.”I built here because the talent is better—and North America is pricing itself out of relevance.Here’s the math that no one wants to discuss at dinner parties:In late 2025, the United States imposed a $100,000 fee tied to new H-1B visa petitions. One hundred thousand dollars to hire a single skilled foreign worker—on top of the existing filing costs.The stated goal was to force American companies to hire Americans instead of foreign workers.The real result is a brain drain with consequences no one wants to own.A huge share of H-1B holders are Indian and Pakistani professionals—software engineers, data scientists, doctors, researchers, the kind of people who built the modern economy. People with graduate degrees and specialized skills. People American companies depend on.And when you make it that expensive—or that humiliating—to hire them, you don’t suddenly create a domestic workforce overnight.You just push talent away.Canada tried to capitalize on that shift. But Canada is also becoming unlivable for many people. The cost of living is punishing. Housing is obscene. Winters are brutal. And immigrants get tired of being treated like they should be grateful for the privilege of enriching a country that still keeps them slightly outside the circle.So people go home.And here’s the part North America still isn’t saying out loud: Pakistan is ready for them.The Economy We Refuse to SeeThe numbers don’t lie, even when the narrative does.In October 2025, Pakistan’s IT exports hit a record $386 million in a single month.Pakistan’s broader targets are even more ambitious: multi-billion-dollar annual IT exports now, with a stated push toward $10 billion in the coming years.Pakistan has a deep pool of English-speaking IT and business-process professionals, and tens of thousands of new tech graduates each year trained in the same languages and frameworks Silicon Valley uses: Python, JavaScript, React, Node, backend systems, full-stack engineering. This isn’t “cheap labor.” It’s modern talent.And yes—Pakistan’s developers cost dramatically less than North American developers.Not because they’re less skilled.Because currency exchange rates make the same work cheaper in dollars. Because a massive, young workforce creates scale. Because Pakistan’s economic instability—devastating for everyday people—has created a brutal reality: their world-class skill is undervalued in Western currency.The work is the work. The quality is the quality. The only thing that changes is what the West pays for it.And while the West argues about immigration, Pakistan keeps building.Large multinational companies have long had operations in Pakistan—real engineering, consulting, and R&D work. Not the caricature of “call centers reading scripts.” Actual technical infrastructure.So when Western companies can’t bring talent in, they don’t stop needing the talent.They move the work out.Which means Pakistan gains economic power while North America pays them to do it.I didn’t do Pakistan a favor by building my company here.Pakistan made my business possible.My TeamI landed in Lahore on a Sunday Evening.The air was warm, even in January. The city hit me immediately: the hum of traffic, the honking, the street vendors, the call to prayer echoing in the distance. Lahore didn’t feel like a place people were “surviving.” It felt like a place that was alive—messy, loud, layered, and moving.My CTO and my assistant met me at the airport in Lahore. They’d hired a driver—steady, unbothered, navigating the city with the kind of calm that comes from knowing exactly where you are.I was only in Pakistan for three days. Lahore was my entire world during that time.We didn’t go straight to the hotel. We went to dinner.They took me to the Lahore Polo Club, and it immediately dismantled whatever expectations I’d arrived with. The grounds were immaculate. Green, expansive, elegant. It felt layered—historical without being stuck, refined without trying to impress.The food was exceptional. Deeply flavored, intentional, generous. The kind of meal that makes you question how often you’ve accepted “good enough” elsewhere without realizing it.But what stayed with me most wasn’t the food.It was the atmosphere.The service wasn’t performative. The staff weren’t rushing or resentful or going through motions. There was pride there. Ease. A sense that they belonged to something that worked.It was my first real moment of dissonance. Pakistan wasn’t matching the story I’d been told.Before we talked about work—before platforms, logistics, timelines—I gave them the floor.And that mattered.They were honest with me in a way that took courage.They told me they were scared.Not of the work. Not of the ambition. But of what Between the Covers represents.BTC is real. It speaks the truth. And in Canada, that truth includes conversations around LGBTQ identities, cannabis, bodily autonomy, and systems that don’t align neatly with Pakistani culture or religion.They worried about what it would mean to bring a magazine known for honesty into a context where honesty carries different risks. Different responsibilities. Different consequences.They weren’t asking me to dilute BTC. They weren’t asking me to censor it.They were asking whether BTC Pakistan would listen before it spoke.That conversation mattered more than any strategy meeting could have.We talked about Pakistan having one of the largest youth populations in the world. About how young people here are deeply aware of global conversations—but also deeply rooted in faith, family, and cultural responsibility. About how many Pakistanis leave to work in Dubai or abroad, and how many come back not because they failed—but because they want to build something at home.And that’s when the direction of BTC Pakistan became clear.Pakistan doesn’t need a magazine for women aged 35 to 65 modeled on Western exhaustion. That story doesn’t fit here.BTC Pakistan will be younger.It will speak to a generation navigating ambition, belief, identity, economics, and change—often all at once. A generation that is educated, globally fluent, politically aware, and deeply conscious of its cultural and religious frameworks.This isn’t about importing Canadian conversations and forcing them onto a different society.It’s about creating a platform that reflects the reality Pakistani youth are already living—their questions, their pressures, their hopes, their contradictions.I wasn’t there to tell them what BTC Pakistan would be.I was there to listen to what it needed to be.That conversation—open, careful, honest—was its own kind of rebellion. Not loud. Not performative. Just people choosing integrity over convenience.And it set the tone for everything that comes next.The Generation North America IgnoresPakistan has one of the largest youth populations in the world. Roughly two-thirds of the country is under 30.Think about that.A country the West writes off as “dangerous” is mostly young—ambitious, impatient, educated, connected, and done waiting for permission.And they’re not just building apps and startups. They’re pushing for accountability. For change. For a democracy that functions.In 2025, Pakistan’s youth showed up again and again despite arrests, internet shutdowns, suspended mobile service, and state pressure designed to exhaust them.They kept showing up.Imran Khan—former cricket star, former prime minister—has been in prison since 2023, serving multiple sentences on corruption charges he says are politically motivated. His supporters argue the same. And international scrutiny has intensified around reports of detention conditions.Whether you love him or hate him, his imprisonment has become a symbol: for political suppression, for institutional power, for the cost of dissent.And young Pakistanis understand that symbolism.My team is part of this generation.We don’t sit around debating politics in meetings. That’s not my lane and not my right to center. But I see something political in how they work: the conviction. The insistence that the future can be built, not begged for.In Toronto, young people are exhausted. Burned out. They’ve been sold hustle culture, then priced out of the life hustle promised. They’re working harder for less and being told to “practice gratitude” for the privilege.In Pakistan, young people are exhausted too—but in a different way.They’re tired of being underestimated.So they build anyway.What I Found in PakistanI met two Types Pakistans.The first is the one the West rarely acknowledges: old money and young millionaires. Families who built empires. Entrepreneurs who run logistics, textiles, tech, real estate. People living lives Canadians assume only exist in Dubai or London. Beautiful homes. Impeccable food. A level of luxury that makes Toronto look modest.I had dinner with a family connected to major industry. The house was marble and light. Art on walls that belonged in galleries. The meal served with a kind of ritual seriousness that made me want to straighten my posture.We talked about supply chains and global markets and the way Pakistan is positioned in a world that loves using Pakistan for labor but refuses to give Pakistan credit for competence.The patriarch, in his sixties and sharp as hell, said something I couldn’t stop thinking about:“The West thinks we need them. We don’t. They need us. They just haven’t realized it yet.”The second Pakistan is the one the West uses as its whole story: young people who want change, who want freedom, who want the right to speak without being punished for it. People who are brilliant and ambitious and working nonstop—and still struggling because systems are inconsistent, corruption is real, inflation is brutal, and opportunity doesn’t always match effort.Both Pakistans exist. Both are real. And that’s what the West refuses to do: hold complexity.We want simple narratives. Pakistan is either a dangerous hellscape or an undiscovered paradise.But Pakistan is complicated. Like every place that’s alive.The Hospitality North America MisunderstandsI stayed at Lahore Grande, a boutique hotel in Lahore. The owner, Aisha, made me feel at home in a way that didn’t feel like service.Within a day, she knew how I took my coffee. She knew I worked late and slept in. She knew I was constantly in motion, constantly thinking, constantly half-stressed even when I’m pretending I’m not.Every morning, she asked about my plans. If I mentioned wanting to see something, it was arranged. If I looked tired, tea appeared. If I came back frustrated, someone noticed before I had to say anything.One night, I returned to the hotel carrying the kind of tension you can’t hide. A meeting earlier that day hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped. Decisions were heavier than they’d felt that morning. The familiar questions had started looping: Was I moving too fast? Was I underestimating the risks? Was I asking too much of people I barely knew in person?I hadn’t said a word. I hadn’t complained. But somehow, it was visible anyway.Aisha noticed before I made it past the lobby.She didn’t ask what went wrong. She didn’t offer solutions. She didn’t try to fix anything. She simply asked if I wanted tea, without a word she poured it, and said quietly, “Don’t work to much.”It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t sentimental. It was simply true.And it landed harder than any motivational speech ever could.This is the part North America consistently misunderstands about Pakistani hospitality. We mistake it for politeness. For softness. For deference. We assume warmth means people are easy to exploit, easy to overrun, easy to take advantage of.That assumption is wrong.Hospitality in Pakistan isn’t weakness. It’s intelligence. It’s awareness. It’s a deeply ingrained understanding that people do their best work when they feel safe, seen, and respected.In North America, we perform friendliness to close deals. We smile, network, exchange cards, connect on LinkedIn, and then disappear the moment the transaction ends. Relationships are provisional. Conditional. Useful until they’re not.In Pakistan, hospitality is relational, not transactional. It’s an investment in trust. It’s the long game. It’s understanding that business, loyalty, and reputation are built through consistency—not optics.You’re welcomed not so you’ll owe something later, but so you’ll stay. So you’ll return. So you’ll build something that lasts.That night, sitting in a quiet lobby in Lahore, it became clear to me that what I was experiencing wasn’t kindness for show. It was cultural confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to announce itself. The kind that knows its value without demanding recognition for it.North America confuses loudness with strength. Pakistan understands that steadiness is power.And once you see that, you can’t unsee it.What This Means for Between the CoversI’m announcing something here that will surprise some people and make perfect sense to others:Between the Covers is expanding to Pakistan.Not just Marbella. Not just Canada. Pakistan.BTC Pakistan will launch in 2026.And before anyone asks: yes, it’s still a magazine for women. But for different reasons than Canada or Marbella.In Canada, BTC exists because women are exhausted from performing. From being told to lean in, optimize, self-care, practice gratitude, and somehow stay beautiful and productive while the world keeps extracting from them.In Marbella, BTC exists because women want luxury without the bullshit. Not aspirational branding. Not perfection theatre. Just real life with better lighting.In Pakistan, BTC will exist because women are navigating a different set of systemic barriers—and still building businesses, raising families, and shaping change inside constraints most Western women don’t have to think about.I’m not going to pretend I fully understand what Pakistani women need yet. I’ve been here once. I met incredible women—smart, ambitious, building empires while navigating restrictions I don’t face and never will.But I know this:Pakistani women don’t need me to save them. They need a platform that doesn’t patronize them.They need stories that reflect their actual lives—not the “exotic Pakistan” bullshit Western media sells. They need a magazine that understands rebellion looks different depending on what systems you’re refusing.And they need it run by Pakistanis.My team will build BTC Pakistan. Not me. I’ll fund it. Support it. Protect the vision. But Pakistani editors will run it. Pakistani writers will shape it. Because they understand the terrain in ways I never will.That’s not virtue signaling.That’s respect.The Truth About PakistanI’ve lived around the world. I’ve worked in multiple countries. I’ve seen wealth, poverty, innovation, corruption, beauty, violence.And I’m telling you: I see more truth in Pakistan than I see in North America.More directness. More genuine connection. More people who say what they mean instead of performing what they think you want to hear.In Toronto, people smile and nod and ghost you. In New York, everyone’s networking. In LA, everyone’s a brand. In Vancouver, everyone’s performing wellness while quietly falling apart.In Pakistan, when someone commits, they commit. When someone says you’re family, it often isn’t a line. When they invite you in, you’re inside. Fully.And yes—before anyone accuses me of romanticizing—Pakistan has real, severe problems. Poverty. Corruption. Political repression. Violence against women that makes my blood boil. Systems that need dismantling and rebuilding from the ground up.I’m not pretending Pakistan is perfect.I’m saying the West has decided Pakistan is only its problems—and that decision is lazy.Because while the West warns people like me not to go, Pakistan is building an economy the West now depends on.While the West clings to superiority, Pakistan’s youth are building leverage.Quietly. Strategically. Without asking for permission.The RebellionHere’s what rebellion looks like now:It’s building your company in Pakistan when everyone tells you not to.It’s highly skilled Pakistani professionals walking away from Western systems that tax their existence and returning home to build something better.It’s youth demanding accountability while also building the infrastructure of the future—one line of code, one startup, one business, one refusal at a time.It’s women navigating barriers and still building empires, raising families, and refusing silence.It’s hospitality as strategy, not weakness.It’s proving North American assumptions wrong not by arguing with them—but by outworking them.There’s a revolution happening in Pakistan. Quiet. Economic. Political. Personal.While North America was busy warning me, Pakistan was building the workforce the world now needs.I came to Pakistan expecting to meet employees.I found people building a country while the rest of the world looks away.That’s not hospitality.That’s rebellion.And Between the Covers Pakistan will tell that story.Because if there’s one thing I learned in Pakistan, it’s this: the people the West has been taught to fear are already building the future. And we’re too arrogant to see it.Between the Covers recognizes the importance of responsible storytelling and affirms that this feature is not intended to speak on behalf of Pakistani citizens, institutions, or movements. The publication respects Pakistan’s cultural, political, and social diversity and supports local editorial leadership in all regional editions.
ASMA JAHANGIR: The Woman Who Said No First
Every rebellion needs an origin story. Asma Jahangir is Pakistan’s.At 18, she marched to the Supreme Court to demand her father’s release from military detention. He had been imprisoned for speaking against the government’s actions in East Pakistan—what the world would later recognize as genocide in Bangladesh. Most teenagers wouldn’t know where to begin. Asma filed a petition.She won.That victory—Asma Jilani v. Government of Punjab—became a landmark constitutional case. It established that even military governments could not detain citizens without legal justification. She was barely an adult, and she had already handed the Pakistani state its first lesson in accountability.She never stopped teaching.What She BuiltIn 1980, Asma and her sister Hina Jilani founded AGHS Legal Aid Cell—Pakistan’s first law firm run entirely by women. Their clients were the people everyone else refused: Christians facing death sentences under blasphemy laws. Women accused of adultery for being raped. Bonded laborers. Teenagers on death row. The voiceless, the erased, the inconvenient.She co-founded the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan. She co-founded the Women’s Action Forum. She became the first woman elected President of the Supreme Court Bar Association in 2010—after decades of men telling her she didn’t belong in courtrooms at all.The United Nations appointed her Special Rapporteur on Extrajudicial Executions, then Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Religion. She investigated human rights abuses in Sri Lanka, Israeli settlements, and Iran. She stood on international stages and said what needed saying, even when governments wanted her silent.Especially then.The CostIn 1983, police beat, tear-gassed, and arrested Asma during protests against laws that reduced a woman’s legal testimony to half a man’s. She was imprisoned. Then placed under house arrest. Then imprisoned again.In 1995, she defended two Christian teenagers accused of blasphemy. Mobs surrounded the courthouse. They smashed her car. They threatened her children. She sent her children abroad to keep them safe—and kept showing up to court.In 1999, a gunman walked into her office and shot a client dead. The bullet missed Hina by inches. The client, Samia Imran, had come seeking help to escape an abusive marriage. Her own family had ordered the killing.Asma didn’t stop taking cases.In 2007, Pervez Musharraf declared emergency rule and had her detained. She spent months under house arrest. In 2012, U.S. intelligence uncovered a plot by Pakistani security officials to have her assassinated.She kept going.Why She MattersAsma Jahangir didn’t just challenge laws. She challenged the assumption that laws were unchallengeable.She defended people accused of blasphemy in a country where that accusation is a death sentence—social if not legal. She fought honor killings when the culture called them tradition. She represented women accused of adultery for the crime of being raped, then watched courts overturn unjust verdicts because she refused to let them stand.She made rebellion look possible.Every woman in Pakistan who starts a business, builds a platform, or speaks without permission is walking a path Asma cleared. She didn’t do it politely. She didn’t do it quietly. She did it while governments tried to silence her, mobs tried to kill her, and critics called her a traitor.“I cannot bear to live where there is so much injustice and I cannot do something about it,” she once said. “What kind of a torturous life is that?”The InheritanceAsma Jahangir died of a heart attack on February 11, 2018. She was 66. The day before, she had spoken at a protest demanding justice for a young Pashtun man killed by police. She called the detained children of Swat “her own kids.” She was still fighting.Her name means world conqueror. Her legacy is simpler—and fiercer: she proved that one woman’s refusal to accept injustice can reshape what an entire nation believes is possible.Aleena Mohsin Mughal builds ethical fashion empires.Shameelah Ismail restructures who gets to earn.Myra Qureshi dismantles toxic beauty standards through market power.They stand on ground Asma Jahangir broke open with her bare hands.She said no first. She said no loudest. And she never, ever stopped.
The Thirty-Two: When TV Chose Kites Over Bodies
At 1:38 PM on February 6, 2026, CCTV captured the exact moment a suicide bomber detonated explosives at the Khadija Tul Kubra Mosque in Islamabad. Security guards had stopped him at the entrance. He opened fire. Then he walked into a hall packed with Shia worshippers mid-Friday prayer and blew himself up.Thirty-two people died. One hundred and seventy were injured. Glass and debris scattered across bloodied floors. Victims visible in the mosque's garden. Families running. Ambulances screaming toward hospitals already placing surgical teams on standby.And on Pakistani television? Kites.For hours after the bombing—the deadliest attack in Islamabad in seventeen years—major TV channels continued airing Basant festival programming. Celebrity interviews about kite-flying. Entertainment segments. Cheerful coverage of Lahore's spring celebration. Geo TV had actor Naeema Butt discussing Basant just as news of the blast broke.The contrast wasn't subtle. It raised a question that applies far beyond Pakistan: What does it mean when a country's major news channels continue entertainment programming while the capital buries its dead?I have a team in Islamabad. They texted me within minutes of the blast. My first instinct was to turn on the television—the way you do when something catastrophic happens, when you need to see it to believe it.Basant coverage was still running.I've seen this before. I lived in Bahrain during their internal conflict. I know what it looks like when certain communities' deaths become routine enough that regular programming continues. I know the math that gets done—consciously or not—when news organizations decide which bodies merit interrupting the schedule.My best friend is Shia. So I know what it costs to be the community that gets calculated away.This isn't theoretical for me. This is what I watched happen, again, on February 6.The Metrics That Should Have MatteredBy every traditional news standard, the Islamabad bombing should have dominated coverage:Deadliest attack in the capital since the 2008 Marriott Hotel bombingSecond major attack in three months (November courthouse bombing killed twelve)Happened during Friday prayers—maximum casualties, maximum horrorCCTV footage of the exact explosion momentISIS claimed responsibility within hoursInternational condemnation from the UN, EU, USA cousin of Islamabad's own Inspector General among the deadPakistani print media covered it extensively. Dawn ran comprehensive reporting. Express Tribune documented the aftermath. International outlets from Al Jazeera to CNN to the Washington Post covered it immediately.But in Pakistan, television is how most people consume news. And for hours, television showed kites.Were editors waiting for verified information? Avoiding broadcasting graphic scenes? Operating under regulatory constraints? Worried about inflaming sectarian tensions?Perhaps. But Journalism Pakistan, a media watchdog, noted that "critics linked extended entertainment coverage to commercial interests and advertising." The Islamabad Bar Association called for a day of mourning.Whatever the internal reasoning, the result was the same: viewers who turned on their TVs while the injured were still being pulled from the mosque saw spring festival coverage instead of the deadliest attack their capital had seen in nearly two decades.The Pattern That Precedes the SilencePakistan's Shia community represents about twenty percent of the population—roughly fifty million people. They've been systematically targeted for decades. ISIS explicitly stated after this attack that it views Pakistani Shias as "legitimate targets." This bombing wasn't anomalous: the 2017 shrine attack killed ninety-plus, regular attacks plague Kurram district, sectarian violence that analysts warned would "inflame tensions" continues.There's a calculation that happens—conscious or not—when news organizations decide what merits urgent coverage. Commercial considerations. Political pressure. Audience fatigue with certain types of violence. The normalization that happens when specific communities are targeted so regularly that each new massacre becomes, somehow, less newsworthy than the last.You can call this systemic bias. You can call it market forces. You can call it editorial caution. But you can't call it coverage.The Narrative That Moved FasterWithin hours, Defence Minister Khawaja Asif blamed Afghanistan and India for the attack—claims made without immediate evidence, rejected by both countries. Interior Minister Mohsin Naqvi announced four arrests including an "Afghan ISIS mastermind." The narrative took shape quickly: foreign enemies, cross-border terrorism, external threats.What got less attention: This was the second major Islamabad attack in three months. The bomber operated freely in a heavily guarded capital. When asked about security lapses, Naqvi responded that "if one blast happens, 99 others are being foiled."Al Jazeera's correspondent in Islamabad interviewed people after the bombing. "They say this is a lapse of security," he reported, "that authorities knew very well there was an imminent threat, given the fact that intelligence-based operations are going on in Balochistan and in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province."Whether through coordination or coincidence, the extended entertainment coverage meant fewer hours of uncomfortable questions about how thirty-two people died in Friday prayers while intelligence agencies were supposedly conducting operations against known threats.It's easier to watch kites.The Mechanics of DisappearanceThis is how marginalized communities disappear in real-time. Not through dramatic censorship or obvious propaganda, but through the accumulated weight of editorial decisions that—individually—might seem defensible. Waiting for confirmation. Avoiding graphic content. Balancing competing priorities. Considering audience appetite.But when those decisions consistently result in certain communities' deaths receiving delayed or diminished coverage, the pattern reveals something darker than any single choice.The victims' families buried their dead on Saturday. Thousands gathered for funeral prayers. Coffins lined up. Mourners screaming. All of it well-documented by photographers whose images ran in international media.But for hours on February 6, while bodies were still being identified, Pakistani viewers who turned on their TVs saw entertainment programming.You could argue this was editorial judgment. Caution. Market-driven programming decisions. Fear of inflaming tensions.You could also ask: How many times does this have to happen before the pattern becomes the point?What Gets CountedThere's a reason print media covered this and television delayed. Print doesn't rely as heavily on advertising from festivals and consumer brands. Print doesn't face the same regulatory pressures. Print can afford to publish uncomfortable truths and wait for subscribers to find them.But television's reach dwarfs print's. Television shapes what most people understand as urgent, important, newsworthy. And on February 6, television made a choice about what mattered most.This matters beyond Pakistan. Every marginalized community worldwide knows this calculation. Knows their grief only becomes news when it's profitable or politically convenient. Knows that some deaths will lead broadcasts while others won't interrupt regularly scheduled programming.The mechanics aren't subtle. They're mathematical. The question is whether we're willing to name what the math reveals about whose humanity gets counted and whose gets calculated away.The Names You Don't KnowThirty-two people died on February 6. Their names were printed in Dawn, Express Tribune, international outlets. Their families held funerals while TV aired festival coverage.Analysts warned after the bombing that it could be part of a broader attempt to inflame sectarian tensions. They urged the government to take action against urban militant networks. They noted the danger of normalization.But something was already normalized: that certain deaths aren't urgent news. That commercial and political pressures can delay coverage of mass casualties. That you can have bodies in a mosque and kites on screen, and the kites win.This isn't speculation. It's what happened. The interpretation is yours.But if this pattern continues—if the next attack on a marginalized community receives the same delayed coverage while entertainment programming runs—we'll know it wasn't an aberration.It was a choice.And systems don't build themselves—but they do sustain themselves.Joseph Tito is the Editor-in-Chief of Between the Covers. He operates businesses in both Canada and Pakistan and has teams in Lahore and Islamabad.
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Winning Her Way: How Melissa Grelo Redefines Success
THE NOTE WAITING IN HER HOTEL ROOMMelissa Grelo was on the brink of one of the boldest moves of her career - a wellness retreat built on her Aging Powerfully platform, the passion project she’s nurtured alongside running a podcast, parenting an 11-year-old, and hosting The Social, Canada’s most-watched daytime talk show. Her daughter, Marquesa, had tucked a note into her bag with strict instructions: Don’t open until you get there.Alone in her hotel room, minutes before leading a room full of women who’d come to learn from her and the group of experts she had curated, Melissa finally opened it. On the first page, in her daughter’s unmistakably confident handwriting:I am so proud of you.“It was a very long letter,” Melissa laughs now. “She’s a very prolific writer. Her vocabulary is fabulous.”But the message was simple: Go. Do this. I’m good. I’m cheering for you.This is what it looks like when a woman builds a life that supports her joy - and raises a daughter who sees and celebrates it.THE GAME IS RIGGED. SHE PLAYS IT ANYWAY.Let’s get something straight: Melissa Grelo hasn’t come undone. She’s building a life, a career, and a rhythm that reflect her strengths, not society’s expectations. What she has done is thrive in an industry where women, especially those on camera, still face extra layers of scrutiny: age, appearance, composure, perfection. Viewers often expect media personalities to be flawless, polished, and ever-present, even when their lives are evolving behind the scenes.And still, Melissa moves forward with clarity and confidence.When The Social finally premiered, it wasn’t just another show for her. It was something she had dreamed up, pitched, and championed for years. So even though she was only 11 weeks postpartum, she chose to be there - excited, grateful, and fully aware of the significance of stepping into a project she had helped bring to life.“I went back to work really fast after I had her,” she says calmly. Not apologizing. Not justifying. Simply acknowledging that the moment mattered to her. She wanted to show up for something she had helped build.Men call this dedication. Women are often told it’s “balance.” But the truth is simpler: Melissa followed her ambition and trusted herself.WHEN HER BODY HIT PAUSE, SHE HIT RESETA year and a half after Marquesa was born, Melissa was hosting Your Morning and The Social. Early mornings, long days, big interviews, and two live shows that demanded focus and energy. Her career was expanding quickly, and she was embracing every opportunity that came with it. Mid-flight to Calgary, her body signaled it was time to calibrate - dizziness, racing heart, the kind of symptoms that demand attention. Doctors checked her vitals: all perfect.The lesson wasn’t “slow down,” it was “support yourself.”She did exactly that. Therapy. A later call time. And a more intentional approach to her already full life.“I’m very bad at resting,” she admits with a smile. “I’ve always been foot-to-the-floor.”But instead of pushing harder, she adjusted smarter. She didn’t crumble; she evolved.THE MATH OF MODERN PARENTHOODMelissa had Marquesa at 36, and like many parents who have children later in life, she occasionally does the quiet calculations – how old she’ll be at major milestones, how life stages might line up. “Always, always,” she says. “Everybody does the math.”But here's what the math doesn't consider: wisdom. Experience. A fully formed self."What we feel like we might be behind in or losing in age, we've gained in wisdom," she says. "We're bringing a whole different self to parenting."Her daughter gets the version of Melissa who knows who she is. Who lived a full life first. Who built a career and collected stories and mistakes and victories before motherhood.This Melissa doesn't crumble when the culture whispers that she's "aging out." She launches a podcast called Aging Powerfully and fills a retreat with women who want what she's modeling: strength without shame."I'm going to be the youngest version of my age at every step of the way."CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.CHOOSING A FAMILY PLAN THAT FITS THEIR LIFEAfter four years of fertility treatment and two clinics, Melissa conceived naturally the very summer The Social was greenlit.Later, when she and her husband Ryan discussed having a second child, they communicated honestly and without pressure.“I’m not slowing down,” she told him. “If we have another, lead caregiving will fall on you.”They talked it through. They both had ambitions. They chose one child. A thoughtful, mutual decision.No guilt. No external expectations. Just a family designing a life that makes sense for them.“I’m very proud of how I’ve navigated the challenges,” she says, recognizing her own growth and the strength in choosing intentionally.RAISING A DAUGHTER WHO KNOWS SHE BELONGSPeople often ask ambitious mothers how they teach their daughters that they can “have it all,” but Melissa reframes the question. For her, the focus is helping her daughter understand that when challenges arise, the issue isn’t her, it’s the world she’s moving through.The approach in their household is simple and open. “There are no secrets in our family,” she says. “Just living life.”Marquesa knows the real stories behind Melissa’s journey - the fertility challenges, the anxiety attack, and the truth of what ambition can cost and give. She also sees something her mother developed later in life: strong boundaries.“She has boundaries very clear in a way I didn’t figure out until my mid or late 30s,” Melissa says. “When my daughter sees me pushing myself too hard because I don’t have good boundaries, she already does.”Their connection is built in everyday moments. At bedtime, Melissa asks: “What makes you feel loved?” and “What moments matter most?” And the answers are always the same - braiding her hair, cuddling on the couch, the rituals that make her feel safe and seen.It’s presence over perfection. Consistency over performance. Love woven into the ordinary parts of life.THE COSTUME AND THE TRUTHEvery morning, Melissa puts on the polished on-air version of herself. Every night, she settles into sweatpants on the couch.“This is who I am,” she tells her daughter. “Work-Mommy is a costume.”Marquesa prefers the no-makeup version.Melissa even built a clothing line - MARQ, named after her daughter, because she wanted kids to feel free before the world labels them.“I’m not throwing gender expectations on a child who still has placenta on her,” she jokes.Their house uses RuPaul’s Drag Race and Love Island as jumping-off points for conversations about character and confidence.“What’s more important than being pretty?” Melissa asks.Marquesa never hesitates: Being smart. Being kind.WINNING LOOKS DIFFERENT THAN THEY TOLD USOur interview took place on Melissa’s train ride home, a quiet moment in her busy day. As the train pulls into the station, Melissa gathers her things. Ryan is on pickup duty. Tomorrow she’ll do it all again, the work she loves, the routines she cherishes, a life she’s built intentionally.Tonight, she’ll braid Marquesa’s hair. She’ll ask the questions that matter. She’ll settle into the couch as her real self.The version that is fully present.The version that embraces every part of her life with intention.The version showing her daughter what’s possible when you follow your own path.And someday, when another letter comes, it won’t say I miss you.It will say:I see you. And I’m proud.
The Woman Who Wouldn't Giggle: Elvira Caria's Four Decades of Refusing to Play Nice
After 40 years of fighting for her voice in broadcasting, Elvira Caria lost the only title that ever mattered to her: Matthew's momThere's a street named after Elvira Caria in Vaughan. She didn't pay for it, she'll tell you right away. Awards line her walls—forty years' worth of recognition for lifting up her community, for being the voice that shows up at every damn event with her phone and her genuine give-a-shit attitude.But when I meet her at The Roost Café on a grey autumn morning, she says the work that matters most is the stuff nobody sees."My real satisfactory work?" She pauses, weighing whether to trust me with this. "I help young girls escape human trafficking. You can't put that on social media."This is Elvira Caria: the woman who refused to be radio's giggling fool, who chose late-night shifts over morning show glory so she could be home when her son's school bus arrived, who now sits across from me one year after burying that same son at 25."I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the community," she says. And she means it literally.The Day She Found Her Voice by Refusing to Use ItPicture this: a young Elvira in a radio control room, told by a well-known male broadcaster that her job was to giggle. To be the pretty voice that makes him sound better."I don't do giggling fool," she says now, decades later, the Southern Italian fire still in her voice.She stopped showing up to giggle on cue. Got fired on a Friday. Instead of folding, she handed her termination papers back: "If you can find a better reason to fire me on Monday, I'll accept it. If not, I'm coming back."Monday passed. So did Tuesday. By Friday she expected another dismissal—everyone fires on Fridays. But a month later the man who told her to giggle was gone. Elvira stayed for six more years."I found my value voice," she says. "I wasn't going to bend for someone else's value."The Choice That Looked Like SacrificeAt the height of her career, being groomed for a morning show at one of Canada's top stations, Elvira walked away."Nobody quits Rock Radio," her boss said."Well, I just did."She took the shifts nobody wanted—weekends, evenings, 3 a.m. hits at Yonge and Dundas. People called it sacrifice. She calls it choice."While others were sleeping, I was talking to the people we now call homeless. Nobody wakes up saying, I want to be on the streets when I grow up. Nobody."The choice meant she was home when Matthew got off the school bus. It meant knowing his friends, his teachers, his world. For 25 years, it meant being Matthew's mom first, Elvira Caria second.The Irony That Breaks YouHere's the part that will gut you: she spent decades insisting she was more than just Matthew's mom. She was a broadcaster, a journalist, a voice for the voiceless. She built a career on authenticity when authenticity could get you fired.And then, in 2024, Matthew was gone— twenty-five years old and on the edge of everything. Suddenly all Elvira wanted was the one title that had been stripped away."Matthew never saw me as a radio announcer," she says, voice steady, eyes somewhere else. "He saw me as his mom. And that's all he cared about."The Part Where She Stops Pretending Everything's FineLet's talk about not getting out of bed. About hygiene being optional when grief is bone-deep.Her sister-in-law was the one who finally broke through: "They need you. My boys need you! You're more than their Zia." So Elvira took small steps. A shower became a victory. Coloring her hair, an achievement. Looking in the mirror and trying to recognize whoever stared back."I'm mad at God," she admits. "People say everything happens for a reason. What's the fucking reason? Why take away a kid who never did anything wrong, who was just starting his life?"The Community That Saved Her When Awards Couldn'tTen people can tell Elvira she's wonderful. One critic cuts deeper at 3 a.m. That's human.She'll admit some awards now feel hollow—accolades in a season of loss. The recognition doesn't heal the absence.But the community? They showed up in ways that mattered. The woman from her coffee shop who just sat with her, no words needed. The neighbor who mowed her lawn without asking, week after week, because grief means grass keeps growing when you can't. The radio colleague who took her shifts without question when she couldn't form words, let alone broadcast them. The mothers from Matthew's old baseball team who still text her his jersey number on game days. Or the Baseball league who named an umpire award after him."Someone left groceries at my door every Tuesday for three months," she tells me. "Never found out who. Just bags of real food—not casseroles, not sympathy lasagna—but the exact brands I buy. Someone paid attention to what was in my cart before. That's community."The vigils, the legacy fund in Matthew's name, the quiet notes slipped under her door—that's what kept her standing."The real work happens in shadows," she says. "Helping a girl escape trafficking. Watching her graduate two years later. That's when I think—okay, maybe I've done enough to meet my maker."The Wisdom of Not Giving a FuckAfter decades of answering every critic, she's learned the most radical act: indifference."You don't have to react to everything," she says. "Not everything requires an explanation."She still hates small talk, still loves a stage. The influencer economy baffles her. "People think having a phone makes them reporters. Broadcasting is an accreditation—you're trained how to interview, how to fact-check, how to smell bullshit."Who She Is NowA year later, she's still figuring it out. Still showing up at community events with her phone and her give-a-shit intact. Still ironing her underwear (yes, really) because some control is better than none.The street sign with her name stands in Vaughan, but she lives in the in-between—between public recognition and private purpose, between the veteran broadcaster and the grieving mother."The evil grows faster than good," she says. "We're always catching up."So she keeps going. Not because grief eases—it doesn't. Not because she's found a new purpose—she hasn't. But because stopping isn't her style.She refused to giggle back then. She refuses to perform now. And maybe that's the lesson: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is keep showing up, even when you don't know why you're still here. Especially then.Elvira Caria continues to support multiple charities across the GTA while maintaining her broadcasting career. She's still mad at God, still helping girls escape trafficking, still learning who she is now. She does not need your sympathy. She might need you to know that grief has no timeline, authenticity isn't content, and sometimes the bravest thing you can do is refuse to play along.
The Dentist Is Between My Legs: Bif Naked on Heart Surgery, Picking Felons, and Why She's Just Getting Started at 54
The punk icon who found euphoria on an operating table talks death doulas, divorce gratitude, and why her failing marriage hurt more than cancerBy Joseph Tito | Between the Covers | November 2025Bif Naked is cutting up her dog's food with her hands when I ask how it feels to be a legend.She looks at me like I've asked her to explain quantum physics in Swahili. "I'm a dog mom," she says, and goes back to mincing. Her fingers work methodically, tearing dog food into smaller and smaller pieces. The woman who once spit on audiences from punk stages now performs this daily ritual of care with the focus of a surgeon.This is going to be that kind of conversation—where every expectation gets shredded like dog food.The Operating Table High"So I was wide awake," Bif says, settling into her Toronto condo couch, miniskirt riding up as she crosses her legs. She's talking about her heart surgery like most people describe a spa day. "They thread a little camera through your leg all the way to your heart, and they can see what they're doing on the screen."She leans forward, eyes bright with the memory. "The surgeon is wearing a pineapple hat—like, the surgical hat had cartoon pineapples on it. And they're listening to William Shatner singing. Have you ever heard him sing? Who knew this album existed?"This is a woman describing having a hole in her heart closed with what she calls "a little umbrella device," conscious the entire time, finding it all hilarious and profound in equal measure. Her voice gets almost reverent: "I thought, this is the coolest shit ever. How is it possible that in this lifetime, I can listen to these people talking about their day jobs, which is fixing my stupid heart?"Then comes the moment that gives this article its title. They need to inject Novocaine into her leg to make the incision. You know that heavy, aching feeling from the dentist?"I said, 'Oh! It feels like the dentist is between my legs.'"She covers her face, laughing and mortified simultaneously. "The nurses started howling. This patient is on the table, making what they think is dirty talk. But I just meant—" she gestures helplessly "—the Novocaine!"Her whole body shakes with laughter now. "Of course that's what I said. How fucking funny is that?"God's Rejection and Other Love Stories"God is not going to choose me for whatever reason," she says, the laughter suddenly gone. "I'm going to stay here on earth and have to deal with it. Because I'm not learning my lessons yet."The shift in energy is palpable. She's talking about her pattern now—the violent men, the criminal boyfriends, the marriages to liars. "If there's a wrong guy, send him my way. If he is a criminal, if he's a violent felon, send him my way. I'm going to fall in love with that idiot every time."She delivers this like a weather report, no self-pity, just fact. When I ask why she got divorced, she doesn't hesitate: "Because I married liars." Then, catching herself: "But I have to look at what my fault was."She discovered what healthy relationships actually look like at 54. Fifty-four. After two failed marriages, cancer, and enough medical trauma to kill most people twice. "I had no idea relationships were supposed to be healthy," she says, and the wonderment in her voice is genuine. "I think that I've always been chasing true love. I'll never give up on love, ever."The contradiction sits there between us: the woman who picks monsters still believes in fairy tales."My emotional crisis of my failing marriage trumped my cancer experience."She says this so matter-of-factly that I almost miss it. The dissolution of her marriage during treatment hurt more than the actual cancer. Her hands, which had been still, start moving again—straightening pillows, adjusting her jewelry."Which was good," she adds quickly, "because it forced me to throw myself into volunteering."The man who married a rock star got a cancer patient instead, couldn't handle the plot twist. Now she trains as a death doula, works in palliative care. "If I was told tomorrow that I could not be a performer anymore," she says, her voice steady, "I think I would go into hospital administration."The Stage She Was Always SeekingBefore Bif Naked existed, there was a theatre kid at the University of Winnipeg who'd taken ballet for 13 years. She demonstrates a position, her leg extending with muscle memory from decades ago. "I wanted to be an actress and a ballet star."Then a drummer named Brett needed a singer. Suddenly she had a vehicle for all her poetry, all her rage about El Salvador and Indigenous treatment and misogyny. Whether it was ballet slippers or combat boots, she was always searching for a stage—just took her a while to find the right one."I got to stand up there. I got to spit on the audience. I got to say, fuck you, you can't objectify me." Her voice rises with the memory, that old fire flickering. "I didn't even have to sing very well. And believe me, I could not. I sounded like a dying cat."She pauses, grins. "And I don't mean the band Garbage."They opened for DOA. NoMeansNo. Bad Religion. She dropped out of university, and here's the kicker—"I'm still waiting to go back to school," she laughs, thirty-something years later, like she might actually do it.The same rage that fueled her screaming about El Salvador now targets Doug Ford's Ontario. "I couldn't figure out why I moved here," she says. "Then Ford got elected and I thought, 'Oh. I'm here to use my big mouth.'"The Children She'll Never Have (Or Will She?)When she cuts up that dog food with such maternal precision, I have to ask about kids. Her whole body language shifts—shoulders dropping, a softness creeping in."My ovaries were taken out at 36. So breast cancer didn't just cut up my tit." She says this with the same directness she uses for everything else, but her hand unconsciously moves to her stomach. "I've been in menopause since I was 36 years of age."People ask about adoption—she is, after all, adopted herself. The sarcasm returns, protective: "Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Let me turn around as a divorcee who's working nonstop as a self-employed artist in Canada and get right on the adoption train."But then, unexpectedly: "Now in my mid-50s? Yeah, I suppose I am ready."The possibility hangs there. Not this year. But the door isn't closed.Tina Turner's Miniskirt Ministry"I look to women like Tina Turner," she says, smoothing her miniskirt with deliberate intention. "Tina Turner didn't start playing stadiums till she was in her 50s."At 54, she genuinely believes she's just getting started. The documentary premiering across Canada this month (November 12 in Toronto, November 4 in Vancouver). The album finally released after she shelved it during the George Floyd protests because "the world didn't need a fucking Bif Naked record" during that summer of unrest."The sky is the limit," she says, and means it.When I ask who she's fighting for now, what her voice stands for at 54, she barely breathes before answering."When I was singing 'Tell On You' on my first record, I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says, her voice dropping to something harder, older. "I was the only girl with a microphone."The room goes quiet. Even the dog stops moving.She calls herself "a square" now—no cocaine, no partying. "I can be thoughtful and intelligent. I can try very hard to be a voice for the voiceless."But square doesn't mean silent. She's angrier about politics than ever, advocating for animals, healthcare inequality, LGBTQ+ rights rollbacks."Unfortunately," she says with a grin that's pure punk rock, "I'm still the one holding the mic."What's Next Is What She WantsThey're making a feature film about her life. The documentary's touring. When I ask what's next, she almost defaults to "that's a Peter question"—her manager's domain—then catches herself, takes ownership."We're working on the feature film based on the book."But really, what's next is whatever the fuck she wants. She's earned that.I ask what she'd tell a young girl starting out in music today. She thinks, really thinks, her face cycling through decades of memory."Never take it personally. Never take anything personally, no matter what."Then she says something that makes me stop writing: "There's room for everybody."This from a woman who had to claw for every inch of space. Who quit drinking partly to avoid being "misinterpreted" by men who'd use any excuse to discredit her. Who's been assaulted, dismissed, divorced, nearly killed."Anybody can make music on their computer, anybody can learn piano on YouTube, anybody can upload a song and send it to their nona," she continues, and she means it. "That's actually a gift."As I'm leaving, she's back to cutting up dog food, this ritualistic care that anchors her. I think about what she said about God not choosing her yet, about having to stay here and deal with it.But watching her hands work—the same hands that punched stage divers, that held microphones during cancer treatment, that reached for violent men who couldn't love her back—I realize something.She keeps saying she hasn't learned her lessons. But maybe she has. Maybe the lesson is you can marry liars and still believe in love. You can lose your ovaries at 36 and mother the whole world anyway. You can tell your surgical team the dentist is between your legs and still become a legend.She looks up from the dog bowl, catches me staring."I wasn't the only girl who was sexually assaulted," she says again, quieter this time but somehow louder. "I was the only girl with a microphone."Bif Naked's documentary tours Canada this month. Her album "Champion" is available now. She still wears miniskirts and heels. She's just getting started.
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“New Year, Same Circus”
You ever notice how January shows up every year like an overconfident personal trainer who’s never met you but is somehow convinced you’re about to become a whole new woman? Like—calm down, Brenda. I just survived December, which is basically The Hunger Games but with relatives and pastry.Everywhere you look, it’s “New Year, New Me!”Sweetheart, I’m still trying to find the Me from 2017. The one who slept eight hours, had opinions, and didn’t get winded walking up the stairs with a load of laundry.And then February rolls around — Valentine’s Day season — where we all pretend to be thriving romantically, emotionally, spiritually… meanwhile half of us are googling “Is it normal to resent everyone in my house?” while eating chocolate we bought for ourselves.This is the time of year when society screams:“FIX YOUR LIFE! IMPROVE YOURSELF! REINVENT EVERYTHING!”And I’m sitting here like, babe, I’m just trying not to scream into a pillow at 3 PM.It’s wild — somehow the coldest, darkest, most miserable months of the year are the ones where we’re supposed to glow-up, level-up, boss-up, shut-up, sit-up…Girl, I can barely stand up.Everyone else seems so put together — the vision boards, the color-coded planners, the “discipline era” declarations — and here I am, starting the year the same way I start most things:With good intentions and absolutely no follow-through.But here’s the thing nobody says out loud:Most of us aren’t failing.We’re just human.We’re doing the best we can in a world that keeps raising the bar while lowering the support.So no — you don’t have to reinvent yourself.You don’t have to become a brand-new person.You don’t have to run a marathon, start a business, fall in love, break up, declutter your house, heal your trauma, or knit a fucking sweater by February 1st.You can just… be.Messy, tired, trying.That’s still growth.This is the season of honesty — and honey, honesty looks a lot less like a Pinterest board and a lot more like staring into the fridge at midnight, contemplating your life choices, and eating shredded cheese with your hands.New year, old chaos — and somehow, still enough strength to get up and do it again.Welcome to Bitch Fest.Let’s get into it.This is Joseph Tito—and I bitch so you don’t have to.Letter 1: “New Year, Same Shit”Dear Bitch Fest, Every January I tell myself this is the year I get my shit together. I buy the planner, sign up for the gym, meal prep for exactly three days, and then by mid-January I'm eating cereal for dinner and crying into my unwashed hair. My Instagram is full of people running 5Ks and starting businesses and I can't even remember to water my fucking plant. When does it stop feeling like I'm failing at being a person?— Stuck in First GearFirst of all, sweetheart, that plant has crossed over. Send it love and move on.Second: January is a scam. It’s the Fyre Festival of months — hyped to hell and absolutely no infrastructure to back it up. You’re expected to reinvent your entire life while freezing, broke, bloated, and spiritually dehydrated from December. No wonder cereal feels like a win.You’re not failing at being a person. You’re just a person — which means tired, overwhelmed, and occasionally held together by dry shampoo and vibes. Meanwhile Instagram is serving you people jogging at 6 AM with green juices and a smile like they’re auditioning for a cult. Half of them are lying, and the other half are clinging to sanity with a decorative planner and a ring light.You know what’s actually impressive?Showing up. Eating anything. Surviving another Monday.So here’s your new resolution:Stop trying to become a completely different human being every January. Be kind to the hot mess you already are. She’s doing her best in conditions that would break a Navy SEAL.And get a succulent. It’ll live longer.Letter 2: “My Mother-in-Law is Still Happening”Dear Bitch Fest, The holidays are over but I'm still rage-simmering over my mother-in-law's comments about my parenting, my body, and my “career choices.” My husband says I'm being “sensitive” and that “she means well,” but I'm pretty sure “means well” doesn't include asking when I'm going to lose the baby weight (my kid is four) or telling me I should be home more. I'm so tired of being the villain for having boundaries. How do I deal with this without nuking my marriage?— Done Being PoliteYour mother-in-law doesn’t “mean well.” She means control, superiority, and chaos, wrapped in a cardigan and baked into a casserole.And your husband? Saying you’re “sensitive” is emotional Switzerland with a side of gaslighting. Not acceptable.Here’s the truth:She’s not going to change. But the way you handle this can.Step 1: The Boundary Line. Next time she comments on your body, parenting, career, uterus, or aura, flash a polite smile and say:“That’s not a conversation I participate in.” Then pivot. Or walk away. Repeat until she combusts.Step 2: The Husband. Sit him down and say:“I need you to stop choosing silence. Your mom is hurting me, and your job isn’t to referee — it’s to back me up.”Make it clear that neutrality is not neutral when someone is attacking you.Step 3: Protect Your Peace. Limit contact. Text instead of visits. Celebrate holidays in your own home. You don’t need free emotional violence just because it’s wrapped in family ties.And if she asks about the baby weight again?Smile sweetly and say:“I’ll lose it when you lose the audacity.”You’re done being polite. Good.Letter 3: “Is This Love or Just Inertia?”Dear Bitch Fest, I've been with my partner for five years and I don't know if I'm still in love or just… used to them. We don't fight, but we also don't really connect anymore. Valentine's Day is coming and I feel sick thinking about pretending everything's fine over overpriced pasta. My friends say "all relationships plateau" but this feels like more than a plateau—it feels like we're roommates who occasionally have sex. Do I stay and work on it, or am I just wasting both our times?— Numb and ConfusedLet’s cut right to the ache:Apathy is louder than anger.People confuse “not fighting” with “healthy,” but sometimes silence is just two people emotionally ghosting each other while sharing rent.Here’s the one question that matters:If they disappeared tomorrow — like, poof, politely vanished — would you feel relief?If the answer is yes… or even “maybe”… sweetheart, you already know.But either way, honesty is non-negotiable.Step 1: Have the conversation. And not on Valentine’s Day. If you’re crying in a bathroom stall at a restaurant while a violinist plays “Unchained Melody,” that’s on you.Tell them the truth:“Are we partners or roommates with occasional nudity? Because I can’t tell anymore.”Step 2: If you fight, fight together. Therapy. Real talks. Actual effort.Not grand gestures, not performative date nights — the gritty, uncomfortable stuff.Step 3: If one of you won’t try? That’s the answer.You don’t need a villain or a dramatic reason to leave. “I’m not happy” is enough.Choose the life that feels alive.Letter 4: “Friend Breakups Hit Different”Dear Bitch Fest, I'm mourning a friendship and I feel insane because nobody talks about this. My best friend of 10 years and I had a slow, painful falling out—no big fight, just... drift, resentment, and realizing we're not the same people anymore. I see her posts online living her life and it guts me. But when I try to talk about it, people say "just reach out!" or "friends grow apart, it's normal!" and I want to scream. This feels like a breakup but nobody's bringing me wine and ice cream. How do I grieve someone who's still alive and posting brunch pics?— Heartbroken and InvisibleRESPONSE:Friend breakups are pure heartbreak without the sympathy meals. No casseroles, no condolences — just you spiraling while she’s posting a boomerang of her mimosa.This is a breakup. A real one. A painful one. And your grief is valid.Here’s what you need to know:1. “Reach out” is lazy advice. Some friendships aren’t meant to be resurrected. And reaching out just stretches the wound.2. Mute her. Immediately. You cannot heal while watching someone else’s highlight reel. You don’t need to see her living her life when you’re mourning the ghost of what you had.3. Let yourself feel devastated. Cry. Scream. Journal. Do all the things you’d do after a romantic breakup but without the Taylor Swift soundtrack (unless you want it).4. Reframe it. This friendship mattered. It shaped you. It filled a chapter. Not every chapter belongs in the sequel.Losing someone who’s still alive hurts in a way nobody warns you about. But you’re not alone. You’re not dramatic. You’re grieving.So go ahead — pour the wine. I’ll bring the ice cream.
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BITCH FEST: Holiday Edition Where your holiday meltdowns get roasted with enough love to keep it festive (and just enough restraint to keep us out of court).
Dear Bitch Fest,My mother-in-law announced she's hosting Christmas dinner and invited my entire extended family WITHOUT ASKING ME. She knows I've been planning our first Christmas as homeowners for months. When I mentioned this, she said, "Oh honey, you're so busy with work, I thought I'd help." Now my husband is acting like I'm the problem for being upset. I want to scream.—Hostess with the Mostess StressDear Hostess with the Mostess Stress,Okay, here's where you and I are different: If my mother-in-law wanted to invite me for dinner, cook amazing food, and handle all the cleanup while I sit there in stretchy pants? YES PLEASE! Sign me up for that holiday miracle.But honestly? Just talk to her. Be real about this. I'm sure she's not the Wicked Witch of the North—you saw Wicked, even she had a heart. Maybe she genuinely thought she was helping, or maybe she's one of those people who needs to control everything and didn't think about how it would land.And it sounds like you're newly married, so let me ask you this: Do you really want to start this marriage off fighting at Christmas? Girl, there's Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year's... pick another day if you really want to cook and clean yourself into an early grave.That said...Oh, you sweet summer child. Your mother-in-law didn't "help" you—she power-moved you like a chess grandmaster, and your husband is about as useful as a chocolate teapot.Here's the thing: She knew exactly what she was doing. This wasn't an accident or a favor. This was a territorial pissing match, and she just marked her turf all over your perfectly planned Pinterest Christmas.But guess what? You have three choices here: 1) Roll over and let this woman steamroll every major holiday for the rest of your marriage, 2) Have a come-to-Jesus moment with your husband about whose team he's actually playing for, or 3) Host your own damn Christmas anyway and let the family choose.My vote? Option 3 with a side of Option 2. Tell your husband that his mom can host whoever she wants, but you're still doing Christmas morning at YOUR house for YOUR family. And if he has a problem with that, he can spend Christmas mediating between his wife and his mommy like the grown man he allegedly is.The audacity of this woman is actually impressive. Learn from her.Dear Bitch Fest,I'm dreading my office holiday party because everyone always asks about my love life. I'm 42, single, and frankly having the time of my life, but apparently that makes people uncomfortable. Last year, Stacey from accounting literally said, "Don't worry, your person is out there!" while patting my arm like I was a terminal cancer patient. How do I survive this year without committing homicide?—Single and Tired of Your ConcernDear Single and Tired,Karen from accounting needs to mind her own damn business, but since she clearly won't, let's give her something to really chew on.First of all, congratulations on living your best life while everyone else is arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash. You're out here thriving, and they're projecting their own relationship insecurities onto you like you're their personal therapy session.Here's your holiday party survival kit: When someone makes a comment about your singleness, smile sweetly and say, "Actually, I'm focusing on my relationship with myself right now, and it's going really well—we never fight over the remote."If they persist, escalate: "You know what? You're right. I should definitely settle for the first person who shows interest, regardless of compatibility. That worked out so well for [insert recently divorced coworker's name here]."And if Karen really pushes it, go nuclear: "Karen, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not collecting pity like you're collecting cats. Some of us are complete humans without plus-ones."Then walk away and get another drink. Life's too short to spend it explaining your happiness to miserable people.Dear Bitch Fest,My teenage daughter wants to spend Christmas with her dad (my ex) and his new girlfriend instead of with me. She says it's because they "don't make everything so dramatic." I've spent 15 years building Christmas traditions, and now I'm supposed to spend it alone because his 25-year-old girlfriend makes better TikToks? I'm devastated but don't want to guilt-trip my kid.—Mama's Last ChristmasDear Mama,Ouch. This one actually hurt to read, so let me be gentle while I hand you some hard truths.Your daughter isn't choosing them over you—she's choosing ease over emotion. And honestly? That's pretty normal for a teenager who's probably exhausted from being your emotional support system through your divorce.I know this stings like hell, but here's what's really happening: You've been working overtime to create "perfect" Christmases to prove you're the better parent, and your kid is picking up on that pressure. Meanwhile, dad and his girlfriend (who, let's be honest, is closer to your daughter's age than yours) are probably just... existing without all the weight of proving anything.So here's your assignment: Let her go. Don't guilt her, don't make her choose, don't turn Christmas into a loyalty test. Instead, plan something amazing for yourself. Book that spa day, take that trip, have Christmas morning in your pajamas with champagne and trashy movies.And next year? Ask your daughter what SHE wants Christmas to look like instead of trying to recreate some hallmark movie. She might actually want to come home to a mom who's happy instead of desperately performing happiness.Your worth as a mother isn't measured in who shows up on December 25th. It's measured in raising a kid who feels free to make her own choices without fear. Sounds like you did that part right.Dear Bitch Fest,I came out to my family last year and they said they were "supportive," but now they're insisting I bring my girlfriend to Christmas dinner while also asking me to "keep things low-key" for grandma. Apparently, holding hands is fine but nothing "too obvious." I want to spend Christmas with people who celebrate my relationship, not tolerate it.—Conditionally AcceptedDear Conditionally Accepted,Hold up there, rainbow warrior. Take a breath and step back from the gay rights ledge for a hot second.Look, I get it. You came out, the world didn't end, and now you want your happily-ever-after complete with family Christmas cards featuring you and your girlfriend in matching sweaters. But honey, you came out last year. These people are still adjusting to you being gay, and now you're rolling up demanding they throw you a parade?Here's some tough love: Stop being such a lesbian and U-Hauling this family situation. You want them to go from "our daughter likes women" to "welcome to the family, future daughter-in-law" in twelve months? That's not realistic, it's exhausting.Your grandmother is probably 80-something and still figuring out how to work her iPhone. Give her a minute to wrap her head around the fact that her granddaughter isn't going to give her great-grandchildren the traditional way before you start demanding she celebrate your PDA at Christmas dinner.I didn't introduce my partner to my parents until years after I came out, and guess what? The world didn't implode. Sometimes taking baby steps means everyone actually gets to the finish line instead of face-planting halfway through.Your family didn't disown you. They're inviting your girlfriend to Christmas dinner. They're just asking you to maybe not make out under the mistletoe in front of Nonna. Is that really the hill you want to die on?Work Grandma in slowly. Let her see that your girlfriend is just a person who makes you happy, not some political statement she has to navigate. And maybe appreciate that your "supportive" family is actually trying instead of writing them off because they're not moving at your preferred speed.Chill, girl. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is family acceptance.
The Bitch Fest: Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unbothered.
LETTER 1Dear Bitch Fest, My best friend just had a "life-changing" ayahuasca retreat and now she won’t stop telling me I’m “vibrating at a low frequency.” She literally interrupted my story about getting promoted to tell me I need to “release my capitalist trauma.” Last week she brought a shaman she met on Hinge to brunch, and he tried to sage my mimosa. I miss the version of her who made inappropriate jokes and ate gas station sushi with me. How do I get her back—without attending a sound bath? — Missing My Low-Vibe BestieDear Missing My Low-Vibe Bestie,Ah yes, the post-psychedelic personality transplant—where your perfectly good trash goblin bestie returns from the jungle convinced that her sarcasm was just suppressed trauma and now only speaks in wellness word salad.Here's the cosmic joke your friend doesn't get: nothing says "low vibration" quite like constantly telling everyone else they're vibrating wrong. That's not enlightenment. That's just judgment in yoga pants.She didn't find herself in the Amazon. She got lost in the gift shop.Let me paint you a picture of what actually happened: Your friend paid $3,000 to throw up in a yurt while some white guy named Trevor (who now goes by "Cosmic Eagle") played a rain stick he bought on Etsy. She confused hallucinating geometric patterns with profound wisdom and now thinks every human emotion needs a spiritual bypass. The girl who used to help you slash your ex's tires is now suggesting you need to "thank your triggers" and "honor the lesson." The lesson? That some people will pay resort prices to have their personality professionally ruined.Real transformation doesn't require becoming a walking Instagram caption who prescribes shadow work like it's ibuprofen. And brunch isn't a spiritual intervention—unless the pancakes are really good.Try this: "I love that you found meaning. I'm just not applying for spiritual reconstruction right now. My chakras are great. My aura? Spectacular. And our friendship doesn't need a rebrand."Then suggest terrible takeout and reality TV. If she can't get through one episode without using the phrase "divine masculine," she's not evolving—she's just exhausting.She'll either remember that spiritual growth includes accepting people as they are (revolutionary!), or she'll float away in a cloud of Palo Santo to spiritually colonize someone else's boundaries.Either way? You win.LETTER 2Dear Bitch Fest,My coworker brings her emotional support ferret to the office and it has bitten three people, destroyed my lunch twice, and sleeps in the printer tray. When I complained to HR, they said I was being "ableist" and suggested I "examine my relationship with unconventional support systems." The ferret isn't even a real support animal—she got the vest on Amazon. Yesterday it got into the ceiling tiles and we had to evacuate the building. How is this my life?— Ferret SurvivorDear Ferret Survivor,I'm sorry, did you just describe a workplace hostage situation orchestrated by a weasel in a knockoff vest? Because that's what this is—emotional manipulation with tiny teeth and a side of liability lawsuit.Your coworker has weaponized both the ADA and an aggressive rodent, which is honestly impressive in its audacity. She's discovered that if you slap "emotional support" in front of anything, corporate America will bend over backward to accommodate it rather than risk a discrimination claim.Here's what HR doesn't want to admit: actual service animals don't hide in ceiling tiles like they're planning a hostile takeover. They don't bite coworkers or nap in office equipment. You know what does that? Regular-ass ferrets whose owners are too cheap for doggy daycare.Let's talk about what's really happening here: Your coworker has created the perfect crime. She gets to bring her badly behaved pet to work, terrorize the office, and hide behind disability protections she ordered off the internet. Meanwhile, you're stuck eating lunch in your car because a tube sock with anger issues claimed the break room. The ferret has more job security than half your department, and everyone's too scared of a lawsuit to point out that emotional support animals are supposed to provide support, not require their own crisis management team.Document everything. Every bite, every evacuation, every printer tray nap. Take photos. Get witness statements. Create a paper trail so thick that when someone finally gets ferret rabies, HR can't pretend they didn't know.And maybe casually mention to your coworker that emotional support cobras are having a moment. See how committed she really is to this bit.Time to make HR choose between one faker's ferret fantasy and an entire office's right to work without wildlife encounters. Start CC'ing lawyers on your emails. Nothing makes corporate wake up faster than the smell of litigation in the morning.Because that's what this is—a bit that's gone too far and now has dental records.Your coworker found the loophole, but you're about to find the lawyer.LETTER 3Dear Bitch Fest,I've been dating someone for six months and just discovered they've been using AI to write all their texts to me. Every sweet message, every "thinking of you," every carefully crafted response to my emotional shares—all ChatGPT. I found out when they accidentally sent me a message that started with "Here's a romantic text for your girlfriend:" Am I wrong to feel like I've been dating a robot? They say I'm overreacting and that they were just "optimizing their communication style."— Apparently Dating HAL 9000Dear Apparently Dating HAL 9000,Oh honey, you haven't been dating a robot—you've been dating someone who outsourced their entire personality to Silicon Valley. That's somehow worse."Optimizing their communication style"? That's tech-bro speak for "I couldn't be bothered to feel actual feelings so I hired a computer to pretend for me." They turned your relationship into a customer service interaction where you're the client and ChatGPT is the underpaid emotional labor.Every "I love you" was crafted by an algorithm. Every moment you thought you were connecting, you were actually interfacing with a large language model trained on Reddit posts and WikiHow articles about romance.The truly twisted part is they probably felt like a genius. Like they'd discovered the cheat code for emotional intimacy. Why waste energy on authentic human connection when you can just prompt your way through a relationship? They treated your heart like a coding problem and decided the solution was automation. Six months of your genuine emotions met with copy-pasted responses from a chatbot that's probably also writing breakup texts for twelve other relationships right now.The sickest part? They probably thought they were being clever. Like they'd found some life hack for human connection. "Why waste time on authentic emotion when you can just prompt engineer your way through a relationship?"Here's the thing: using AI to write work emails? Fine. Using it to maintain intimate relationships? That's just dystopian laziness dressed up as efficiency.Dump them. But first, ask ChatGPT to write your breakup text. Include the prompt. Really lean into the irony.You deserve someone whose emotions aren't crowdsourced from the internet. Someone who fumbles their words and sends typos and occasionally says the wrong thing because they're an actual human having actual feelings.Not this digital ventriloquist act masquerading as intimacy.Got something to rage about? Send your disasters to info@jeopublishing.com and watch us turn your chaos into catharsis.
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Bitch Fest: Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unbothered.
LETTER 1Dear Bitch Fest,I'm 34, recently divorced, and my ex-husband is already engaged to someone he met three months ago. Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to figure out how to use dating apps without wanting to throw my phone into traffic. Everyone keeps telling me I should "get back out there" and "you're so strong," but honestly? I feel like a garbage person most days. How do I not hate myself for taking longer to bounce back than apparently everyone else on the planet?—Slow & Steady Loses the RaceDear Slow & Steady,First off, fuck everyone who's clocking your healing timeline like you're running a marathon they have money on. Your ex-husband didn't "bounce back"—he ricocheted directly into another person's life because sitting alone with his feelings was scarier than a horror movie marathon. That's not recovery; that's emotional whiplash with a ring attached.Here's what nobody tells you about divorce: there's no prize for speed-healing. You're not "losing" because you need more than a season to figure out who you are without someone else's dirty socks on your bedroom floor. You're being a goddamn adult about it.Let me paint you a picture of what's actually happening here. While you're doing the hard work of untangling years of shared everything and figuring out which version of yourself exists without his commentary, he's playing house with someone new. That's not strength—that's avoidance dressed up in wedding planning. He's using this poor woman as a human band-aid, and honestly? I feel sorry for her.Meanwhile, you're over here having actual feelings about the end of something that mattered. You're grieving not just the relationship, but the future you thought you were building and the comfort of knowing someone's coffee order by heart. That's not weakness—that's being human with a capital H.Here's what I want you to do: take all that energy you're spending on feeling like a "garbage person" and redirect it toward something that actually matters. Learn to cook that one dish you always wanted to try. Buy yourself flowers on a Tuesday for no reason other than you're still breathing. The goal isn't to become someone new—it's to remember who you were before you became half of a "we."Those dating apps? They'll still be there when you're ready to swipe through the wasteland of men whose entire personality is "I love The Office." Right now, your job is to remember that you're a whole person, not half of something broken. And for the love of all that's holy, stop measuring your progress against someone who clearly makes decisions the way a toddler picks breakfast cereal. You're not slow—you're thorough. There's a difference.LETTER 2Dear Bitch Fest,My best friend of 15 years has become completely obsessed with wellness culture. She won't shut up about her morning routine, her supplements, her "toxic" job (which pays well and she actually likes), and how I need to "align my energy." Last week she tried to sell me a $300 course on "feminine leadership" and got genuinely offended when I said no. I miss my friend, but I don't know how to talk to this MLM wellness robot she's become. Help?—Missing My Actual FriendDear Missing,Your friend didn't find wellness—she found a very expensive way to avoid her actual problems. That $300 course? It's not about feminine leadership; it's about buying a sense of purpose when you're too scared to examine why you feel empty.Here's the thing about wellness culture: it's designed to make you feel like you're constantly failing at being human. Your friend has found a community that tells her she's "awakened" while everyone else is "asleep," which is both incredibly seductive and incredibly isolating. She's not trying to hurt you—she's trying to save you from the same existential dread that's eating her alive.You have two choices: set boundaries harder than a prison wall, or have one brutally honest conversation about what's really going on in her life. Try this: "I love you, but I need you to hear me. I don't want to buy anything, join anything, or optimize anything. I just want my friend back. Can we hang out without talking about your morning routine?"If she can't do that, then you're grieving someone who's still alive, and that's its own kind of hell. But sometimes people need to get lost in the wellness sauce before they find their way back to being human.LETTER 3Dear Bitch Fest,I'm a 28-year-old woman who just started a new job at a company I actually love. The problem? My manager is a woman in her 40s who seems to hate me for no reason. She's supportive of everyone else on the team, but with me, she's cold, dismissive, and finds fault with everything I do. I've tried being extra friendly, staying late, bringing coffee—nothing works. I'm starting to think she just doesn't like young women, but I don't know how to handle this without looking like I'm playing the victim. What do I do?—Trying Too HardDear Trying,Stop tap-dancing for someone who's already decided not to clap. You're not imagining this, and you're not being dramatic. Some women absolutely do hate other women, especially younger ones, and it's usually because they're projecting their own insecurities about aging, relevance, or missed opportunities onto your unsuspecting face.Here's what you're going to do: document everything. Every dismissive comment, every impossible deadline, every time she treats you differently than your colleagues. Keep it factual, keep it dated, and keep it detailed. You're not playing victim—you're collecting evidence.Then stop trying to win her over. Seriously. No more coffee runs, no more staying late to prove your worth, no more performing the "cool, agreeable girl" routine. Do your job well, be professional, and let her weirdness be her problem, not yours.If it gets worse, you have options: HR, her boss, or finding a new team within the company. But first, try showing up as yourself instead of as a people-pleasing machine. Sometimes the only way to deal with a bully is to stop giving them the reaction they're looking for.LETTER 4Dear Bitch Fest,Okay, so I don't have a problem, but I can't fucking stand when people put their phone on speaker or FaceTime in public. It bugs the shit out of me. I don't care to hear about other people's conversations. People need to be more considerate of others around them. No, I'm not a Karen, but fuck, I feel like I'm getting there... lol—Almost KarenDear Almost Karen,Welcome to the club, baby. Population: everyone who's ever been trapped on public transport listening to someone's entire family drama unfold at maximum volume. You're not becoming a Karen—you're becoming someone with boundaries, and there's a difference.Here's the thing: people who blast their personal business in public spaces are the same people who think the world is their living room. They genuinely don't understand that the rest of us didn't sign up to be extras in their life documentary. It's not malicious; it's just breathtakingly self-absorbed.The real tragedy? These phone-blasters have somehow convinced themselves they're being "authentic" and "real" by turning every grocery store aisle into their personal therapy session. Meanwhile, you're standing there trying to pick out yogurt while learning intimate details about someone's UTI symptoms.You have three options: invest in noise-canceling headphones and join the rest of us in our protective bubbles, master the art of the pointed stare (works about 20% of the time), or embrace your inner petty and start loudly commenting on their conversation like you're providing live commentary. "Ooh, she should definitely dump him!"Just remember: wanting basic courtesy in shared spaces doesn't make you a Karen. It makes you someone who understands that civilization is held together by the thin thread of people not being complete assholes to each other.LETTER 5Dear Bitch Fest,I'm 29 and just found out I'm pregnant with my first kid. I'm excited, but I'm also terrified about what this means for my career. I work in marketing at a tech startup, and while they talk a big game about "work-life balance," I've watched two other women basically disappear after having babies. One got "restructured" out during her mat leave, and the other came back to find her responsibilities had been "redistributed." My manager keeps making jokes about how I'll "probably want to take it easy now" and asking if I'm "still committed to the big projects." I haven't even told them my due date yet. How do I protect myself without looking like I'm expecting special treatment?—Pregnant and ParanoidDear Pregnant and Paranoid,Welcome to the fucked-up world of pregnancy discrimination, where companies hang motivational posters about "supporting working mothers" while quietly pushing pregnant women toward the exit. Your paranoia isn't paranoia—it's pattern recognition, and you're absolutely right to be worried.First, start documenting everything immediately. Every "joke" about taking it easy, every comment about your commitment, every meeting you suddenly stop getting invited to. Keep a paper trail that would make a lawyer weep with joy. Email yourself summaries of conversations, save texts, screenshot everything. You're not being dramatic—you're being smart.Here's what your manager's "jokes" actually are: illegal interview questions disguised as casual conversation. They're fishing for information about your plans while pretending to be supportive. Don't take the bait. When they ask about your commitment to projects, respond with something like, "I'm fully committed to delivering excellent work, just like I always have." Keep it professional and give them nothing to twist later.The unfortunate reality is that pregnancy discrimination is rampant, especially in tech startups that love to talk about disruption but can't figure out basic human decency. Your company's track record speaks louder than their diversity statements. But here's the thing: knowledge is power, and you now know exactly what you're dealing with.Talk to an employment lawyer now, not after something goes wrong. Many will give you a free consultation to understand your rights and options. Know your provincial employment standards inside and out. Connect with other working mothers in your industry—they've navigated this bullshit before and can be invaluable allies.And remember: you're not asking for special treatment by expecting not to be discriminated against. You're asking for basic human rights and legal protections. The fact that this feels revolutionary says everything about how broken the system is, not about your expectations.A Note from the EditorThe inbox is overflowing with your workplace nightmares, family drama, dating disasters, and general life chaos, and honestly? I'm here for all of it. Your willingness to share the real, unfiltered truth about your lives is what makes this column worth reading. Before we go any further, let me be crystal clear: I am not a therapist, counselor, or any kind of licensed mental health professional. My advice should be taken with a massive grain of salt and the understanding that what works for one person's dumpster fire might not work for yours. If you're dealing with serious mental health issues or abuse, please seek help from qualified professionals who actually know what they're talking about.What I can offer is perspective, solidarity, and the occasional reality check delivered with zero filter. Think of this as advice from your most brutally honest friend—the one who loves you enough to tell you when you're being ridiculous and supports you enough to help you burn it all down when necessary. If you have something to bitch about, contact us at info@jeopublishing.com.
The Bitch Fest: Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Unbothered.
LETTER 1Dear Bitch Fest,I'm drowning in other people's expectations. My boss wants me to be a "team player" (code for working weekends), my partner wants more quality time, my friends are mad I keep canceling plans, and my mother keeps asking when I'm going to "settle down and get serious" (I'm 34 and a hospital administrator, but apparently that doesn't count as "serious"). I'm stretched so thin I might actually disappear. How do I tell everyone to back off without burning every bridge in my life?- Disappearing ActDear Disappearing Act,The problem isn't that you need better time management or a more efficient calendar app. The problem is you're trying to be a full-time employee, full-time partner, full-time friend, and full-time daughter with exactly one human body and the standard 24-hour day. The math doesn't work, and no amount of productivity hacks will fix it.Here's what nobody tells you about adulthood: disappointing people is a non-negotiable life skill. Not a fun one, not one you put on your resume, but absolutely essential to your survival.Your boss calling weekend work "being a team player" is manipulative corporate-speak for "I'm going to exploit your fear of being disliked." Your partner, friends, and mother all have legitimate desires for your time and attention, but their desires don't constitute your obligations.So here's your new script: "I can't do that, but here's what I can do.""I can't work this weekend, but I can help prioritize what needs to be done by Friday." "I can't do dinner Tuesday, but I'm all yours Saturday morning." "I can't call every day, Mom, but I'll send you updates and we'll have our Sunday chats."The bridges you're worried about burning? The real ones are fireproof. The ones that go up in flames because you set reasonable boundaries weren't bridges—they were trapdoors.The only person you're genuinely at risk of losing here is yourself. And between your boss, partner, friends, mother, and you—you're the only one you can't replace.LETTER 2Dear Bitch Fest,I've been seeing someone for six months, and everything seemed great until I accidentally found out they've been blatantly lying about their education, career history, and financial situation. I'm not talking about small embellishments—I'm talking fabricated degrees and nonexistent jobs.pThe thing is, I genuinely like who they are as a person. The connection feels real. But now I'm questioning everything. Can I trust anything they say? Does this mean they're a pathological liar in all areas? Or is this just some weird insecurity they have about their background?- Dating a Resume PadderDear Dating a Resume Padder,When someone shows you who they are through elaborate, sustained deception...believe them the first time.Look, we all have insecurities. We all occasionally say "I'm fine" when we're not or claim to have read books we've only skimmed. But there's a Grand Canyon-sized difference between social white lies and manufacturing entire life chapters.The fabricated degrees and phantom jobs aren't just lies—they're a carefully constructed alternate reality. That kind of deception takes consistent effort and endless follow-up lies. This isn't a moment of weakness; it's a campaign strategy.The connection you feel might be genuine on your end, but how can you know it's real on theirs when their entire presented self is fiction? It's like saying you love someone's cooking when they've been secretly ordering takeout and transferring it to their own dishes.You're not questioning everything because you're paranoid. You're questioning everything because you've discovered you're dating a counterfeit person.The hard truth: This won't be the only area where fabrication feels easier to them than truth. People who go to these lengths to appear impressive instead of working to become impressive don't suddenly develop authenticity in other areas of life.You deserve someone who doesn't make you a supporting character in their personal fan fiction. Someone whose flaws and successes are equally real. Every day you spend trying to decode what's authentic in this relationship is a day you're not building a life based on truth.Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is admit we've been conned, learn the lesson, and walk away with our dignity.“Dump the fantasy. Delete the résumé. And block the sequel.”LETTER 3Dear Bitch Fest,I've become the default therapist/life coach/emotional support human for literally everyone in my life. Friends, family, coworkers, and even casual acquaintances seem to view me as a safe space to dump their heaviest problems. I've heard about marriages falling apart, substance abuse issues, workplace harassment—you name it, someone's crying to me about it.I want to be there for people I care about, but I'm completely drained. My own problems pile up while I'm helping everyone else sort through theirs. How do I maintain boundaries without becoming the heartless bitch who doesn't care about other people's struggles?- Everyone's Emotional DumpsterDear Everyone's Emotional Dumpster,Congratulations! You've achieved that special level of emotional intelligence where you've become a free, unlicensed, uncompensated mental health service for your entire social network. Your empathy has turned you into a human suggestion box for other people's pain.Here's the thing about being the go-to emotional support human: people aren't coming to you because they think you can fix their problems. They're coming to you because you make their problems feel temporarily lighter—by taking them onto yourself.That's not friendship or family support. That's emotional outsourcing.You're not heartless for having limits. You're not selfish for needing reciprocity. You're not a bad person for occasionally saying, "I don't have the bandwidth for this conversation right now."Try these boundary-setting phrases that won't require you to turn in your "Good Person" card:"I care about you, but I'm not in a place where I can take this on right now.""This sounds really challenging. Have you considered talking to a professional who might have better tools to help than I do?""I've got about 15 minutes I can listen, but then I need to focus on [whatever you actually need to do].""I notice our conversations tend to focus on your struggles. I'd love to create more balance where we support each other."Some people will respect these boundaries. Others will suddenly find you "less fun" or "changed"—which really means they've lost their emotional dumping ground. Those relationships weren't friendships; they were free therapy sessions with occasional social benefits.Remember: licensed therapists have supervision, training, professional boundaries, and get paid for the emotional labor you're providing for free. Even they don't listen to problems all day without support.You're allowed to close the emotional suggestion box occasionally. You're allowed to be a person, not just a service. And anyone who can't respect that difference was never there for the real you anyway.You have something to bitch about? Write us at info@jeopublishing.com
The Bitch Fest - Where we embrace the unspoken
LETTER 1Dear Bitch Fest,I've been with my partner for 7 years. We have a life that looks pretty good on paper—good jobs, nice apartment, solid friend group. For our anniversary, they bought me a Peloton. A PELOTON. I'm not an exercise person. I've never expressed interest in spinning. When I asked why, they said, "You've been complaining about not having time for self-care, so I thought this would help you prioritize yourself!"Now I have a $2,000 reminder of how little they know me taking up space in our bedroom, and I'm fantasizing about either selling it and taking a solo vacation or using it to barricade them in the bathroom. Is that too harsh?- Spinning With RageDear Spinning With Rage,Let me get this straight: Your partner's solution to you not having enough time was to give you another obligation? One that comes with its own special shoes and a monthly subscription fee? And they wrapped up "you should work out more" in a self-care bow and expected gratitude?The audacity is almost impressive.Here's what's happening: Your partner heard "I need more support" and translated it to "I should help you fix yourself" rather than "maybe I should step up more." It's the fitness equivalent of buying someone a vacuum cleaner—a gift that creates work disguised as a treat.The Peloton isn't the real issue here. It's what it represents: the fundamental misunderstanding of what you actually need and want. And that's where the rage comes from—not the machine itself, but the gap between being known and being assumed.So no, fantasizing about barricading them in the bathroom isn't too harsh (though maybe keep that one to yourself for insurance purposes). But before you turn the Peloton into a very expensive clothes hanger, try this:"I need to talk about the Peloton. I know you meant well, but this gift made me feel unseen and misunderstood. When I talk about needing self-care, I'm really saying I need more support with our shared life, not another thing on my to-do list. I'd like to return it and use that money for something that would actually replenish me—like household help or time away—and then have a bigger conversation about what support really looks like for me."If they get defensive, hold your ground. This isn't about gratitude; it's about communication. And if they truly want to help you prioritize yourself, they can start by actually listening to what you want instead of prescribing what they think you need.Whatever you do, don't force yourself onto that bike out of guilt. Life's too short to spend your precious free time doing something that makes you seethe with resentment. That's not self-care—it's self-punishment.And for what it's worth? I'm betting there's a hot secondary market for barely-used Pelotons.“Each ping is just code for: ‘Please stop being a person and start being my solution.’”LETTER 2Dear Bitch Fest,I want to run away every time someone says my name. It's constant. From the moment I wake up until I finally sleep, it's texts and Slacks and emails and IMs, all needing my immediate attention. Even when my roommates are RIGHT THERE, people still come to me. Yesterday I locked myself in the bathroom and put in earbuds just to not hear my phone ping for five minutes.I love my friends and colleagues more than anything, but I'm starting to think I should change my name and move to a cabin in the woods. Am I a monster?- My Name My Name My NameDear My Name × 3,If being irritated by the sound of your own name makes you a monster, then we're going to need a bigger castle, because you've got plenty of company.There's actually science behind this phenomenon. It's called "semantic satiation"—when a word is repeated so often it temporarily loses meaning and just becomes an irritating noise. Except in the case of your name, it's not just semantic; it's existential. Each ping is actually code for "I need you to stop being your own person and attend to my needs immediately."No wonder you're hiding in the bathroom.The constant demand for your attention isn't just annoying—it's depleting. Humans aren't designed to be constantly accessible, constantly responsive, constantly ON. And yet that's exactly what modern life often demands, especially from those of us who've been socialized to prioritize others' needs above our own.So no, you're not a monster. You're experiencing a normal reaction to an abnormal expectation: that you should be available all the time, to everyone, without limits.Some practical suggestions:Institute specific times when you're "off duty" and unavailable (and vice versa)Teach people to wait their turn when you're engaged in something else (unless it's bleeding or burning)Create a visual cue that signals "not now" (like turning off notifications or setting status to busy)Practice not responding immediately to non-urgent pingsBut beyond tactics, consider this: Your irritation is information. It's telling you that your boundaries are being crossed, that your personhood is being eroded in small increments with each summons. Listen to that feeling. Honor it.The next time you feel like changing your name and moving to another continent, try this: "I'm feeling overwhelmed by how many people need things from me right now. I love being helpful, but I need a little quiet time for my brain right now. Unless it's an emergency, can you please try to solve this yourself or ask someone else?"People won't suffer from learning that you're a human being with limits and needs of your own. In fact, it might be one of the most important boundaries you establish.And keep those earbuds charged. Sometimes, five minutes of not being "on call" is exactly the reset you need to be able to answer the next ping with something other than a primal scream.LETTER 3Dear Bitch Fest,I love my creative work, but I HATE the business side. Like, would rather clean the bathroom with a toothbrush hate it. The endless emails, the invoicing, the pitching, the networking that feels like performance art—it all makes me want to claw my eyes out. But I've been told repeatedly that this is just "part of being a professional." How do I balance making art with the soul-crushing reality of selling it?- Pretending to Like CapitalismDear Pretending to Like Capitalism,Let me liberate you with this truth: You can be an exceptional creative and still hate the business side with the fire of a thousand suns.The creative industrial complex has convinced us that "real artists" effortlessly embody both visionary genius and savvy entrepreneurship. It's an impossible standard that no previous generation of creatives was expected to meet.Think about it: Did Picasso handle his own invoicing? Did Virginia Woolf design her own website? My point is, this expectation that creative people should also excel at—or even enjoy—the administrative, financial, and marketing aspects of their work is both recent and unreasonable.So first, let's ditch the guilt. Hating the business side doesn't make you unprofessional; it makes you a human with preferences. Some creatives thrive on the hustling aspects; others would rather eat glass than write another "just following up" email.Now for the practical part: How do you balance your art with the necessary evil of commerce?Set a timer. Ten minutes of focused, unpleasant business tasks is better than an hour of procrastination and dread. "I can send three follow-up emails and then get back to my real work" makes it doable.Outsource when possible. This doesn't have to mean hiring an assistant (though if you can afford it, do it). It could mean bartering services with a friend who's good at the stuff you hate, using automation tools, or finding a collaborative partner whose strengths complement your weaknesses.Batch similar tasks. "Money Mondays" or "Admin Afternoons" contain the psychological contamination of these tasks to specific times, leaving the rest of your schedule protected for creative work.Reframe the narrative. The business side isn't separate from your creative practice—it's what creates space for your creative practice to exist. Each invoice sent is an hour of creative freedom purchased.Be honest (in a strategic way). "I'm primarily focused on the creative aspects of my work, so I prefer to communicate about business matters on Thursdays" sets expectations without apology.Remember: Your job isn't to love every aspect of your work. Your job is to create meaningful art while building sustainable structures that allow you to keep creating. You can absolutely do that without pretending to enjoy the parts that drain your soul.The gatekeepers want you to believe that enthusiasm for capitalism is a prerequisite for creative success. It's not. Many of the most successful artists I know have assistants, managers, or systems specifically because they recognize their own limitations and priorities.So the next time someone tells you that you should learn to love pitching or networking, try: "I've recognized that my energy is best spent on creating excellent work. I'll handle the necessary business aspects efficiently so I can get back to what I do best."You're not failing the creative life by having boundaries. You're creating a sustainable one that won't burn you out before your best work is made.Besides, capitalism is overrated. Your art isn't.
BITCH FEST: ASK JOSEPH
For when your husband’s version of “helping” involves applause.Q: “Joseph, how do you handle a husband who thinks he deserves a standing ovation for doing one chore? Like, he empties the dishwasher once and suddenly he's the Patron Saint of Domestic Labor. I do a thousand things a day, no applause. Am I being petty?”— Exhausted in EtobicokeA: Oh darling… you're not being petty. You're being observant. And possibly under-applauded.This phenomenon is well-documented in parenting circles. It’s called Weaponized Incompetence meets Gold Star Syndrome, and it’s more common than socks in the couch cushions. It’s when a grown man completes a single, bare-minimum task and expects a parade. Bonus points if he announces it like a royal decree:“I took the garbage out.”Wow. Brave. Heroic. Should I call the mayor?Here’s the thing: we love our husbands. Truly. Deeply. In sickness and in “I loaded the dishwasher but didn’t press start.” But sometimes… sometimes they need a gentle, sarcastic reality check.So next time he goes full Beyoncé over folding one basket of laundry, try this:“Oh babe, amazing. I also wiped tiny human butts, made five meals no one ate, answered 36 quevstions about ants, and negotiated a treaty over who gets the pink fork. But yes—your laundry folding was vital to our survival.”Or… just slow clap silently while staring into his soul. Your call.The truth? You’re not asking for applause. You’re asking for partnership. For the mental load to be shared, not gifted. For recognition, not a résumé update.And honestly? He might not even realize it. So if the mood strikes, hit him with some humor and honesty.And if not? Come here, vent it out, and know that yes—you’re seen.Even if no one’s clapping when you change the toilet paper roll.Got something to bitch about? We’re all ears. If you’ve got a story, a rant, or just need to scream into the digital void—we’ve got room for it right here.Email us at info@jeopublishing.com, and maybe your chaos will end up in the next issue of Bitch Fest.
BITCH FEST: The Advice Column Where We Say What Your Therapist Can’t (Because Licensing)
This isn’t about venting.It’s about refusing what no longer works.Dear Bitch Fest,My mother-in-law keeps “accidentally” calling me by my husband’s ex’s name. It’s been six years. At Easter dinner, she did it twice. My husband says I’m overreacting. Am I?— Still Not JenniferDear Still Not Jennifer,Let’s be very clear.This isn’t about a name.It’s about whose comfort matters more in the room.Right now, the expectation is that you absorb the disrespect so everyone else can stay comfortable. That’s not neutrality. That’s a choice.And when your husband says you’re “overreacting,” what he’s really saying is:It’s easier for me if you swallow this.Six years means this isn’t accidental. It’s a pattern that’s been tolerated long enough to become normalized. And the only reason it continues is because there’s been no consequence.Your rebellion doesn’t need theatrics. It needs a mirror.The next time she does it, calmly say:“That’s not my name.”Don’t explain. Don’t soften it. Don’t laugh it off.Then stop talking.Let the silence sit where it belongs.If your husband rushes to smooth it over, that’s the real conversation. Because a partner who minimizes your experience is still participating in it.Rebellion doesn’t always flip tables.Sometimes it just refuses to smile anymore.Dear Bitch Fest,I lie about having plans so I can stay home alone. Not because I’m depressed—I just genuinely prefer my couch to most people. Is this a problem?— Antisocial or Just Done?Dear Just Done,You’ve reached a very adult realization:Most social plans are emotional group projects where everyone’s annoying and nobody gets credit.There’s nothing wrong with preferring your own space. What is wrong is the idea that enjoying solitude needs to be justified, explained, or diagnosed.Many social obligations aren’t about connection. They’re about maintaining appearances. Loud rooms. Forced conversations. Shared bills for experiences you didn’t actually enjoy. You don’t leave nourished—you leave depleted.Your couch has never:made you split a check unfairlytalked at you instead of with yourequired a personality performanceIt just holds you. Quietly. Reliably.The only adjustment I’d suggest is this: stop lying.Not because lying is immoral—but because it keeps you managing other people’s expectations instead of resetting them.Try this instead:“Do you want to come?”“No.”“Why?”“I don’t want to.”The discomfort passes faster than you think. People adjust. Invitations slow down. Your weekends open up.That’s not antisocial.That’s choosing where your energy goes.Dear Bitch Fest,My boss wants us to start every meeting with a “gratitude share.” I want to quit on the spot. How do I survive this?— Grateful for NothingDear Nothing,A gratitude share at work is not about gratitude.It’s about extracting emotional labor under the guise of culture.You are there to exchange labor for money. Not optimism. Not vulnerability. Not access to your inner life.Here are three rebellion options, depending on your risk tolerance:1. Malicious Compliance“I’m grateful to be employed in this economy.”Polite. Accurate. Uncomfortable.2. Radical EarnestnessShare something just heavy enough that the room tightens. Not inappropriate—just real. You will quietly be removed from the rotation.3. The FilibusterTake so long that the practice becomes inefficient. Meetings hate inefficiency more than honesty.And remember:They pay for your labor, not your soul.Save your gratitude for people who earn it.That list should be very short.Dear Bitch Fest,I finally told my family I’m not hosting Christmas anymore after years of being the default. Now I’m selfish and “ruining tradition.” Did I do the right thing?— Done Being the DefaultDear Done,If you have an Italian mother, let’s clarify something immediately:You were never hosting Christmas.You were assisting a woman who has been running that kitchen like a military operation since 1974.What you actually did was retire from being the emotional support staff.“Selfish” is what people call you when you stop giving them something they felt entitled to.Traditions survive just fine without martyrs. What people miss isn’t the holiday—it’s the unpaid labor, the emotional smoothing, the quiet logistics you handled so everyone else could relax.When you step back, someone else steps up. Or they don’t. Either way, it stops being your responsibility.Rebellion isn’t burning traditions down.It’s choosing not to carry them alone anymore.Got something you’re done tolerating?Send it to info@jeopublishing.com.Anonymous. Protected. Honest.This is Joseph Tito—and you don’t owe anyone an explanation.
Podcasts & Interviews
All episodes in Bitch Fest
The Drop-Off Demons
Pinterest Moms & The Competitive Birthday Party Industrial Complex
The Pinterest Bitch & The Part-Time Hero
The Emotional Vampire & The Boss Babe
The After-Hours Asshole & The Public Executioner
Family Fuckery
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