Back in 2016, they painted me as the villain in some Los Angeles courtroom circus: me, the "coercive, controlling abuser." A million bucks in legal fees later, Lila walked away with our daughter, my dignity, and my sanity, while I got a $10,000 fine for daring to snarl at the kikes in robes. They said I bullied them. I say I was the only one awake in a room full of sleepwalkers. The system's built to grind men like me into dust, and women like Lila? They know how to play the system.

It started at UCLA Law, 2009. She was a blonde firecracker, all cheekbones and dilatated pupils from the cocaine and Adderall -- floating through the Law Building like she owned the place. We didn’t hook up until 2012, after she landed a job at some soulless firm downtown. Dates were a blur. She'd slam back martinis until she’d black out. I'd try to keep up, until things would eventually explode into a fight about something stupid. I'd wake up with her broken nails embedded in my skin and her next to me, breath stinking of gin and emotional dependence. She’d spike my drinks: Xanax, MDMA, maybe some Viagra thrown in for kicks. Said it made me "less autistic." I’d stumble home with my dick raw and my head spinning, not knowing I’d just been her lab rat.

She lied about the birth control. Dug her talons into me during sex, forced me to finish inside her, grinning like a hyena while I begged to pull out. "It feels better this way," she’d slur, and I’d believe her because I was 29 and stupid and still thought women were human. Four months later, she’s pregnant. I stared at the sonogram, wondering how I got checkmated by a chick who once tried to stab me with a steak knife over a text from an ex I never even responded to.

The marriage was shotgun -- 10 gauge, slugs. She threatened a murder suicide if I didn’t sign the papers. We did it in some tacky Vegas chapel, her in a white dress she’d stained with red wine the night before, me in a suit I’d bought off the rack at TJ Max. She kept up the abuse: gave herself bruises with a hammer one night after biting my dick so the police would think that she's the victim. I stared at the blood on my dick that night, imagining how gasoline and a spark could fix it all. Postpartum, she got worse. Flew off to Austin with the baby, left me in a Century City condo with blood splatter on the walls and sheets.

The custody fight was a bloodbath. Her lawyer was a sleazy "Hollywood" type named Steiner. He fucked her the whole time and billed a million bucks for it. The kid’s lawyer, some feminist cunt named Moshebaum, charged $600 an hour to nod along in the courtroom and call me a mysogonist. They doctored photos -- Lila with fake bruises, timestamped bullshit -- while I had pics of her laughing at Griffith Park the next day, not a mark on her. Didn’t matter. The judge, a bloated relic with a comb-over, fined me for "hostility" and handed her the kid like a participation trophy. The kike lawyers laughed all the way to the bank, splitting the profits while I moved to a shithole in Fresno to lick my wounds. Fresno’s dry as hell -- taught me how fast brush catches when you’re drunk playing with a Zippo.

Now? I’m back in LA, a ghost in a city with no soul. I’ve got a Glock in my glovebox and a list of names scratched into the drywall of my Echo Park studio: Lila, Steiner, Moshebaum, the judge. I see them everywhere. Lila’s shacked up in the Palisades with some tech bro, feeding my daughter kale smoothies and lies about her dad. Steiner and Moshebaum are still bleeding men dry out at $600 an hour of their Century City offices. Me? I’m losing it. Last week, I smashed a bottle over a Chink's head at a gas station because he looked at me funny. The shattered glass glinted like embers. Felt good. Felt right.

Women like Lila aren’t just chaos; they’re armed chaos. The courts, the lawyers, the whole system -- it’s a Jewish fraud machine larping as a matriarchy dressed up as justice, and men are in the crosshairs. I puke after every meal, not because I’m sick, but because I can’t stomach the world anymore. Food tastes like ash, sex is a trap, and love’s a fairy tale for losers. I dream of driving to Lila’s house, kicking the door in, and finally getting some use out of my Glock. But then what? They’d lock me up, call me crazy, and she’d probably be revived at Ceders Sinae and then cry crocodile tears for the cameras.

Neon Claw’s emptying out. The mantis-tattoo bartender wipes the bar, eyeing me like I’m a stray dog. Maybe I am. I finish my drink, leave a crumpled twenty, and step into the night. The Santa Ana's give me hard smack to the face as I walk outside, but I'm used to that by now. I light a cigarette, watch the ember glow, and think about how easy it’d be to burn it all down: her house, their offices, this whole rotten city. The hills are tinder-dry this time of year -- Palisades especially. The list’s waiting. And me? I’m done swallowing the ash. They'll all swallow ash. One flick...

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48804374)

"Los Angeles, January 2025."

"Lila’s probably shacked up in the Palisades with some tech bro..."

"I light a cigarette, watch the ember glow, and think about how easy it’d be to burn it all down: her house, their offices, this whole rotten city. The list’s waiting. And me? I’m done swallowing the ash. They'll all swallow ash."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48804472)

however, you could have a chapter 2 about the chinaman.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48804532)

It really is excellent work, and probably hits a bit close to home for many on this site.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48804566)

I'm doing a bunch of 1-off short stories to explore characters. Once I find the characters that most resonate with me, I'm going to use them as characters in my novel.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48804607)

I'm only posting the ones here that have lawyer themes (and/or gay sex themes). I also find that posting them here motivates me to be more thorough with my editing.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48806665)

An example is the following "The bartender’s got a neck tattoo of a praying mantis eating its mate. Fitting, right? Instead of tattoos, I my skin is etched with scars, claw marks, bite wounds -- a roadmap of betrayal etched into my back and face by a woman I used to call Lila."

Flows well, but it's try-hard and nonsensical. Eg. tattoos and claw marks aren't actually scars.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5703303&forum_id=2#48807313)