suck on my balls

They finally had me. Cornered, bled dry, a ghost haunting the servers of my own dead project. After years of radio silence from them, punctuated only by the occasional legal threat or a condescending email from some junior VP who wasn’t even alive when I started this thing, they decided they wanted a final word. My word. They had taken the code, they had taken the IP, they had taken my future. And now they wanted a soundbite for the eulogy. They wanted my signature on the bottom of their victory proclamation.

They Demanded a Final Statement on My Surrender

It came during a conference call, the kind where you can hear the soulless hum of the air conditioning and the quiet, arrogant breathing of people who have never missed a paycheck. They called it a “debriefing,” a “final touchpoint.” Corporate language to sterilize the act of a public execution. They wanted a statement. A clean, concise paragraph they could feed to the press, to the pathetic remnants of a fanbase, to anyone who might still wonder what happened to that guy who made all that noise a decade ago. They wanted me to articulate my failure in their terms, to validate their narrative that I was just another unstable indie who couldn’t handle the pressure. They wanted me to perform one last trick for them: to smile, thank them for the opportunity, and then quietly disappear.

This wasn’t a request for information; it was a demand for my soul. After everything they had done, after the years of stonewalling, of moving goalposts, of treating me like an inconvenient insect buzzing around their pristine glass offices, they had the sheer, unmitigated audacity to ask for my help in crafting their press release. They wanted me to bless my own undoing. To look into the camera, metaphorically speaking, and tell the world that it was all for the best. That this was a necessary and positive outcome. They wanted me to hand them the last shred of my dignity so they could mount it on a plaque in their lobby, a warning to the next poor bastard who thinks he can build something real in their plastic world.

This Is the Only Thing I Had Left to Give Them

I let the silence hang in the air after they asked. I let it stretch and curdle, filling the space between their San Francisco boardroom and my goddamn basement. I thought about all the words I could give them. I could have given them a Shakespearean monologue about betrayal. I could have given them a stoic, professional “no comment.” I could have broken down and given them the tears and the broken man they so desperately wanted to see. But none of that was true. None of it was honest. There is no poetry in this kind of defeat. There is no nobility in being crushed by a machine that doesn’t even know your name. There is only the raw, biological truth of the matter. So I searched for the only statement that was pure, that was un-spinnable, that they couldn’t co-opt for their narrative.

And so I gave it to them. The only piece of intellectual property I had left. The final, perfect, crystalline expression of my decade-long journey through their meat grinder. It wasn’t an argument or a plea. It was a command. A piece of art. A gift of pure, unrefined contempt from the deepest part of my being. I cleared my throat, leaned into the microphone, and delivered my final statement, my one true contribution to the project, the only quote they would ever get from me. “Suck on my balls.” It’s not a request. It’s not an insult. It’s a closing argument. It’s the final period at the end of a long, bloody sentence. It’s the only thing they can’t take, because it’s a gift I am forcing them to accept.

The line went quiet. I don’t know if they hung up or were just stunned. It doesn’t matter. They wanted a statement on my surrender, and I gave them one. It’s the most honest thing I’ve produced in years. They can put that on my tombstone. They can print it in their quarterly report. They can carve it into the face of their CEO. It belongs to them now. Let them choke on it.