Saint Dirty Face
Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.
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Today isn’t about gratitude yet.
That’s tomorrow.
Today is prep day.
The bird’s getting rubbed down like it owes us money.
Seasoned. Rested. Ready for judgment.
The sides?
Corn on deck.
Mashed taters getting whipped into submission.
Stuffing soaking up flavor like it knows its destiny.
Desserts lined up like a sugar-coated SWAT team—waiting to strike.
This is also the day we stretch the belly a little.
Light workouts.
Extra steps.
A few deep breaths between tastes.
Not because we’re disciplined—
because tomorrow is a contact sport.
Fork endurance training starts now.
No speeches today.
No big reflections.
Just prep, laughter, stolen bites, and kitchens that look like controlled crime scenes.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow we slow it down.
We eat.
We breathe.
We remember what actually matters.
For now—
Pass the spoon.
Check the oven.
Save the gratitude for after the first plate.
Stay dirty.
Stay hungry.
— Saint Dirty Face
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Everyone hears the word vanity and assumes it belongs to her.
The glances.
The laughter.
The way she scans the room like a mirror waiting to confirm she still shines.
That’s the easy read.
But watch the man in the corner of the bar.
Saint Dirty Face™ isn’t pacing.
He isn’t flinching.
He isn’t pretending not to see what’s unfolding right in front of him.
He saw the stare.
That’s the moment Vanity by Big Terrible lives in—the quiet second when you catch it: her eyes locking with someone else, not by accident, not in passing. Long enough to ask a question without words.
Did you notice us… or do I wait to see if he tries to take you from me?
Most men panic right there.
Some confront.
Some collapse into hope.
SDF does neither.
Because sometimes the vanity isn’t hers at all—it’s his.
Not the loud kind.
The colder kind.
The kind that says: I’ve seen this loop before.
She wants to be wanted.
That’s human.
Friday nights feed on it.
But he sits back, not because he’s weak—but because he’s certain. Certain that desire follows gravity. Certain that attention seekers orbit whatever doesn’t chase them.
And that’s the gamble.
Because this is where Self Esteem sneaks in, humming under the surface like a warning label everyone ignores:
She’s drunk again and looking to score… I’m just a sucker with no self-esteem.
The line between confidence and complacency is thinner than most men admit.
Is he grounded—
or is he just convinced she’ll be back?
That’s the dangerous question the song never answers.
Maybe she circles back, startled by the absence of pursuit.
Maybe she doesn’t—and he mistakes inertia for strength and calls it wisdom.
Either way, nothing was stolen.
Nothing was hidden.
The truth was visible the entire time.
Friday nights don’t reveal character—they expose assumptions.
And sometimes the real vanity isn’t wanting attention…
it’s believing you don’t have to earn it.
TGIF.
Sit in the corner if you want.
Watch. Read the room.
Just make sure the story you’re telling yourself is confidence—and not comfort dressed up as control.
Stay dirty.
Stay self-aware.
🖤
—Saint Dirty Face™
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There’s something about midnight, man.
One minute you’re civilized… brushing your teeth, scrolling like a responsible adult who swears they’re going to bed early.
Next minute? Boom. Gremlin mode activated.
The clock hits 12 and suddenly:
That snack you ignored all day starts calling you by your government name. Your brain wakes up like, “Hey, remember that one embarrassing thing you did in 1998?” You start having deep philosophical thoughts about laundry. And every horoscope you’ve never believed suddenly feels accurate.
Everything gets a little darker, a little funnier, a little more feral.
Midnight is where logic dies and chaos punches in for the night shift.
It’s when the Saint Dirty Face crowd crawls out.
The misfits. The night owls.
The people who can’t sleep because their demons prefer late-night office hours.
But here’s the thing…
I kinda love it.
Because at midnight, the world finally shuts up.
No emails.
No bills tapping on the window.
No “did you clock out early?” nonsense.
Just you…
your thoughts…
and the little gremlin version of yourself who wants snacks, revenge, and maybe a nap.
So here’s tonight’s confession:
If midnight turns you into a creature—embrace it.
The daylight expects perfection.
The night only expects honesty.
Peace, love, and don’t feed me after 12, bitches.
— Saint Dirty Face™
Stay Dirty, Stay Human™
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You know what hits me tonight?
Not the bills.
Not the noise.
Not even the existential dread that rolls in around 8:30 PM like a drunk uncle.
It’s this:
We forget to say thank you.
Not the cutesy, social-media-gratitude-journal-hashtag stuff.
No.
I mean the real one.
The quiet one.
The one that actually matters.
“Thank You for another day of life.”
No guarantee.
No warranty.
No fine print escape clause.
Just one more sunrise you didn’t earn but got anyway.
Say thanks for that.
Daily. Bare minimum.
Then comes the tribe —
Family. Friends.
Even the ones who push every button you’ve got,
grind your gears,
and have you questioning if homicide is technically taxable.
Be thankful for them too.
They’re yours.
They’re imperfect.
They’re part of your story.
And the basics?
Food.
Water.
A roof that only leaks when the universe feels cute and chaotic.
You’ve got the essentials.
Never take them for granted.
Some people pray for what you already have sitting in your fridge.
Life gets grim, no doubt.
It swings hard, sucker punches harder,
and sometimes steps on your throat just to show off.
But you —
yeah, you —
you keep getting up.
You dust off.
You move forward like a stubborn, scrappy miracle with attitude.
So tonight, be thankful.
Tomorrow, be thankful.
And every damn day after, at least say the words once.
It’s not cheesy.
It’s survival.
It’s soul maintenance.
Peace and love, you heathens.
Stay dirty. Stay grateful. Stay alive.
— Saint Dirty Face
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(A Saint Dirty Face Survival Guide)**
Look… I’m not saying you should do it.
I’m just saying if you were going to do it, here’s how to not get fired by Janet from HR — the woman who still types with one finger and believes WiFi runs on holy water.
1. Master the Art of the Innocent Tab Switch
Be faster than a tax refund disappearing.
You hear footsteps?
BAM — weather.com.
Nothing screams innocence like pretending you care about humidity levels.
2. Become a Screenshot Ninja
Open everything as a screenshot, not the real webpage.
That way if your thumb slips, you’re busting open a JPEG, not your entire career.
3. Use Earbuds. Real Ones.
Not those “oh they’re connected… I think?” Bluetooth ghosts.
Last thing you need is your entire office hearing:
“Ohhh yes—”
while you sprint to your phone like you’re defusing a bomb.
4. Know Your Surroundings Like a Prison Escape Artist
Two monitors?
Sweet.
Back to the wall?
Legendary.
Coworkers with peripheral vision like eagles?
Avoid them like expired sushi.
5. Keep a Decoy Email Open
This is your alibi.
Your “I’m being productive” costume.
Excel sheet, budget report, or a blank Word doc titled Q4 Metrics.
Nobody will ever click it.
Not even you.
6. NEVER… EVER… Forget the Volume Button
One accidental full blast and suddenly you’re the Main Event at the Monday Morning Morality Council.
7. And Finally… The Golden Rule
If your boss walks in,
you were checking policy updates.
ALLLLLWAYS policy updates.
That phrase is HR-proof.
It spreads fear and confusion.
They won’t question it.
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Look around, amigo. The whole damn world is one big digital strip mall, and every storefront is flashing thighs, cleavage, and the kind of “Oops, did my shirt accidentally fall open?” poses that would make a Victorian faint and a Gen X kid shrug.
We already know the truth:
Nobody is trending because they’re demonstrating the proper way to sauté onions or fold a fitted sheet.
Nah. They’re trending because she’s in a bikini so thin it might as well be a government transparency policy…
or because she’s “stretching” in yoga pants made out of painted-on sin.
Sex sells because it always has — caveman brain, dopamine, survival, desire, all the primal circuits lighting up like Times Square with bad intentions.
And in a world where living is stupid expensive and the bills show up like uninvited cousins at Christmas…
people will do anything to stand out.
Which brings us to Saint Dirty Face™.
Maybe it’s time he throws on a leather bikini, cut-off shorts, and boots that scream “I don’t get paid enough for this bullshit.”
Why not?
If the world wants eye candy, give ‘em a cracked-halo snack with attitude.
Hell, let SDF pose like a divine thirst trap:
halo crooked, cigarette dangling, hips doing the Lord’s indignant work.
Because if sex sells…
then Saint Dirty Face is about to run a clearance sale on sin, sass, and survival.
Living ain’t free.
And dirty sells.
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—A Saint Dirty Face Micro-Rant
Some mornings I wake up and think, You know what?
I was built for staying home, doing absolutely nothing, and telling the world to go hug a cactus.
No meetings.
No memos.
No administrators who think leadership is cosplay.
Just peace, pajamas, and me giving a middle finger salute to “the man.”
But then—like a punch in the wallet—I remember something tragic:
Bills exist.
Electricity costs money.
Kids need food.
Life keeps whispering, “Hey bro… you gonna pay these or nah?”
So here I am:
A modern saint of questionable patience,
torn between embracing my inner house-cat
and dragging myself back into the workforce like some Monday-morning zombie warrior.
Truth is?
I’m conflicted as hell.
Staying home feels holy.
Working feels necessary.
And somewhere between those two…
I’m just trying not to lose my damn mind.
Stay Dirty. Stay Rebellious.™
And may your bills someday pay themselves.
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(A Saint Dirty Face™ Public Service Announcement fueled by grape 5-Hour Energy and zero patience)
Some clown strutted onto my blog today — not once, but twice — just to announce, chest puffed and brain empty, that my post was “clickbait.”
Twice.
My guy… TWICE.
That’s like walking into a bar you hate, sitting down, ordering water, and then complaining the music’s too loud.
Get outta here, champ.
So I told him the obvious:
“You clicked my link. Not once… but twice. Congratulations, you played yourself.”
Then this man — bless his malfunctioning neurons — fires back with,
“You’re not selling anything!”
And at that point the cracked-halo tilted.
The patience evaporated.
My inner Gen X goblin climbed out of the trench coat.
So I replied with the most loving, Biblical kindness I could muster:
“Bitch, learn how to read.
I write BLOGS.”
I swear, some people out here arguing with gravity.
Let me be crystal clear:
I’m not here begging for coins like a medieval bard in the town square.
I’m building a brand, a world, a voice — a whole damn cracked-halo universe.
If you want to wander in and scream at the walls like it’s an exorcism gone wrong, that’s on you, not me.
And since this is my house, let me thank the real MVP of today’s emotional stability:
Grape 5-Hour Energy.
The tiny bottle that keeps me from throat-punching stupidity before breakfast.
It’s my coffee.
It’s my pre-workout.
It’s my “don’t go to jail today, Robert” potion.
Bless you, little purple beast.
Anyway…
To my real readers:
Stay dirty, stay loyal, stay laughing with me at the circus.
To the dude who cried “clickbait” twice:
Thanks for the traffic, sweetheart.
Next time bring your friends.
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Saint Dirty Face™
Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™
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Look, some people wake up to the smell of freshly ground coffee beans, pour-over setups, fancy mugs with inspirational quotes, all that wholesome nonsense.
Me?
I wake up like a half-resurrected cryptid, stare at the ceiling, and reach for a grape 5-Hour Energy like it’s holy water.
That tiny bottle?
Yeah—that’s my coffee.
My lifeline.
My spark plug.
My “let’s get this show rolling before the demons regroup” juice.
I don’t sip it.
I don’t savor it.
I don’t swirl it around like a sommelier with self-esteem.
I knock it back like a sinner taking communion behind the dumpster—because I’ve got things to do and zero patience for brewing anything.
And here’s the kicker:
**As a pre-workout?
Oh, brother… I go an extra damn mile.**
That little purple rocket fuel hits the bloodstream and suddenly I’m:
Walking faster, Thinking sharper, And fighting the treadmill like it owes me money.
Coffee could never.
Not for me.
Not for Saint Dirty Face.
Coffee warms the soul.
5-Hour Energy attacks it in the best possible way.
Call it chaotic.
Call it unhinged.
Call it chemically suspicious.
But it works.
Some people need a mug.
I need a bottle that looks like it was designed by NASCAR.
And honestly?
That’s fine.
We all choose our rituals.
Mine just happens to be 46 milliliters of purple lightning with a halo over it.
Stay Dirty. Stay Wired. Stay Moving.™
Saint Dirty Face 