Saint Dirty Face

Sunday night is already a crime scene.

Laundry staring at you.

Alarm clock lurking like a debt collector.

Monday warming up its bullshit.

And then—boom—some poor bastard decides to comment on another girl’s selfie:

“Hot af.”

Sir.

You didn’t just light a match.

You poured gasoline, set your phone down, and walked away like an action movie villain.

Because now?

Everything is hot af.

The car? Hot af.

The couch? Hot af.

Your peaceful evening? Cremated.

And the smile?

That sweet, plastic, Barbie-from-hell smile that says:

“Oh my… look what else is hot, babe.”

That’s not anger.

That’s calculated chaos.

This is why Sunday night demands discipline.

You don’t poke bears.

You don’t test physics.

And you do not admire selfies out loud when you’re already on thin emotional ice.

Sunday night is about survival.

Keep your comments inside your skull.

Save your opinions.

And remember—

Silence is cheaper than flowers, apology dinners, and sleeping on a couch that’s mysteriously also hot af.

Sleep tight, sinners.

Monday is coming.

Saint Dirty Face says:

If you’re gonna play with fire on a Sunday night…

don’t act surprised when everything burns.