Thanks, Stacey.
Born from betrayal.
Fueled by disbelief.
Cheaper than a felony.
Fueled by disbelief.
Cheaper than a felony.
Just when you thought you had it all...
That "Zsa Zsa Zsu" kind of love
then poof. Just like that, the fairytale disappeared. Turns out, it was a mirage, a knockoff. Sold to you by a very charismatic salesman.
what was once beautiful turned cruel. Your entire existence becomes not just wanting, but needing, what he once so freely gave: Love. Kindness. Honesty. Safety. Grasping for logic and peace of mind. Anything to make yourself stop questioning your instinct… you become an investigator. Logging, documenting, deep diving. A tool to see the control and contradictions in black & white. Ironically the investigative research became healing.
With each entry you recognize yourself. Your voice. You feel vindicated, stronger. Your instinct is not wrong. You’re not crazy. You have been crazy made. The writing gives you strength, it makes you laugh. You aren’t Goldilocks. The patterns are real. The hypocrisy, real. And the other woman, the older woman, very real.
The one constant. — your salvation — is your voice. Your humor. Your honesty. Your experience.
Dear Diary,
Welcome to the Fuckening.
What began as a diary entry has become something else. This is grief in glitter. Truth in typography. A way to scream without screaming. To sort the lies. To cope without crumbling. To heal without hiding.
Out of betrayal. Out of heartbreak. Out of sheer, wide-eyed disbelief…
Thanks, Stacey was born.
The worst betrayal wasn’t the lies...
sadly those were the norm. No, the worst betrayal, the greatest disappointment —Rolling in at 55, a grown-ass woman. a mother of young women. so desperate, she chose to be an active participant in our demise. Encouraging and supporting the destruction of our world— my childens world. Either completely audacious or the worst kind of woman there is..
you thought this was just a brand?
Nope.
The merch wasn’t part of the plan. But neither was Stacey. So here we are, quite literally branding the betrayal.
This is retail revenge
This is the wardrobe of the wronged. A love letter to anyone who's been replaced, erased, blindsided, gaslit, betrayed, or guilt-tripped into shrinking.For the ones who stayed too long.
Thanks, Stacey isn’t about one woman.
It is not about women at all. It’s about a type. Thanks, Stacey is a symbol. An archetype. It’s sacred rage. This is the wardrobe of the wronged. A love letter to anyone who's been replaced, erased, blindsided, gaslit, betrayed, or guilt-tripped into shrinking. For the ones who stayed too long.
It’s not just a store.
It’s a survival strategy.
A middle finger dipped in glitter for the side piece who knew better. A way to reclaim your story.You don’t have to be over it. You don’t even have to be healed. You just have to be honest — and maybe ready to laugh a little. No matter how your healing looks, for me, it’s… petty.
The merch wasn’t part of the plan. But neither was Stacey. So here we are, quite literally branding the betrayal.
You're the blueprint. You're the original. You're the one who survived a Stacey.
We know not every story looks the same.
We use “he” and “she,” but this betrayal isn’t bound by gender. Pain doesn’t care who you loved.
Inclusivity Matters.
Betrayal doesn’t discriminate.
Neither do we.
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Right title (heading) We didn't ask to join it either. But we're gonna make it iconic. (title)
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