Well, I Self-Deported.

So if you didn’t confess your love to me before today, I hope you feel bad about it forever bitch. Now you’ll have to fly across the world just to do it. But honestly it’s more romantic that way anyway.

Despite my charming sense of humor and joie de vivre, I am not joking. I just self-deported. I feel like a crazy person. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing with my life. But that is my cross to bear and I’m prepared to carry it.

I was 10 years old when I learned I was an illegal alien. The legal term btw. I should know because I’ve signed many a document certifying I am one. Don’t ever fall for the psyop that undocumented immigrants exist. I promise a lot of tedious paperwork goes into stealing white peoples jobs. I was 10 years old and I didn’t really understand what it meant to overstay a tourist visa, but I grasped the concept of deportation quickly. I constantly had nightmares and paranoid intrusive thoughts about my family being torn apart. One of my reoccurring horrific fantasies was that I’d have to be a child prostitute in order to earn a living and raise my younger siblings. I know what you’re thinking.