There’s a particular breed of human waste that somehow survives on pure toxicity. The kind that drains your mental battery faster than a phone running TikTok, Wi-Fi, and a flashlight at the same time. You know exactly who I’m talking about. They always find a way to crawl into your peace, shit on it, and then act like they’re doing you a favor.

Now and then, they throw you a bone. Not a good bone, either. It’s the emotional equivalent of a bag of steaming hot dog shit on a cold day. Yeah, technically it’s warm. It might even keep your hands from freezing for a second. But it’s still a fucking bag of dog shit. You don’t hold onto it like it’s a treasure, you don’t rub it all over yourself for extra warmth, and you definitely don’t parade it around like a gift from the heavens.

But these people have mastered one dirty trick: intermittent reinforcement. They kick you, gaslight you, and drain you until you’re ready to walk. Then suddenly, boom… here comes a compliment, a half-assed apology, a “thanks for being nice to me”, a “you’re the only one who understands me.” That’s their leash. They give you just enough dopamine microdose to stay confused. It’s not kindness. It’s maintenance. You’re not dealing with a person, you’re dealing with a psychological slot machine.

And we fall for it. Because we remember the warmth, not the smell, we crave that one good moment, that rare crumb of decency, and ignore the mountain of bullshit it came wrapped in. The human brain is a cruel comedian like that. It teaches you to associate pain with potential, like some twisted emotional casino where every spin might pay out affection. Spoiler: it won’t.

These people aren’t your friends. They’re not misunderstood souls with “trauma” who just need love. They are manipulators in denial. They operate like emotional stock traders; buy low on your self-esteem, sell high on your guilt, and profit off your confusion. They condition you to chase validation from the same hand that sucker punched you.

So next time they hand you that steaming emotional hand warmer, drop it. Don’t sniff it. Don’t analyze it. Don’t think “maybe this time it’s different.” It’s not. You’ve seen this movie before, and it always ends the same way: you standing there, holding the bag, wondering why your hands smell like regret.

Cut the cord. They’ll move on to the next person to poison anyway. You? You’ve got better things to do than play fetch with a psychopath.

Because warmth is supposed to come from fire, not feces.