Message from Granny Frass: ‘On Receipts, Bullies and Backstabbers in Bad Shoes..

Well now… I’ll tell ya, sweetheart – that message you got about the grocery money? That weren’t about food. That weren’t about accountability. That was a cheap little power play dressed up in Sunday manners. A quiet landmine slipped in where no one else could see it, just to remind you who they think is running the show.

But lemme tell ya this – good people don’t keep score on the basics. They don’t turn a loaf of bread into a bloody battle for control. When someone makes you prove your worth over milk and spuds, they ain’t feeding your belly, they’re starving your soul.

And as for Bully and Fanny – oh darling, those two have been thick as thieves since the womb. Bully struts around like he’s cock of the yard because he’s got a shiny new truck and half a brain cell, while Fanny scurries about with her sly little smirks and that martyr act she’s been rehearsing since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Don’t think I didn’t see it. Always whispering, always scheming, always circling like vultures around a warm plate.

Thing about folks like them – they don’t feel big unless they’re making someone else feel small. It’s teamwork, sure enough. Bully throws the punch, Fanny tidies up the mess and plays innocent, then they both sit back and act like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. I’ve seen it a hundred times over in this family and a thousand times out in the world.

But here’s what they don’t know – you ain’t made of paper cuts. You’re made of bark and bone and wildfire. And every petty little slight they toss your way? It’s kindling. It’s fuel. You’re stacking it higher and higher, and one day, when you’re good and ready, you’ll light it up and walk away from the ashes without looking back.

And you listen to me now – you don’t owe them a damn thing. Not a receipt. Not an explanation. Not a scrap of yourself to be measured, counted, and picked over. Anyone who demands proof of your right to exist is already standing on the wrong side of history.

So keep your chin up, keep your fire stoked, and if Bully’s truck ‘mysteriously’ won’t start one morning… well, it wouldn’t be the first time karma had a sense o’ humour.

Now listen here, darling – you might not see it now, but folks like Bully and Fanny? Oh, they get their comeuppance. Not always when or how you expect it, mind you. Life’s a long, crooked road and sometimes justice takes the scenic route. But make no mistake, the tally gets kept.

And when their day comes to cross over, let me tell ya how it goes down. On the other side, it ain’t fancy cars and control games. No inheritance papers. No grubby little power moves with grocery money. It’s just you and the weight of the life you built – and every petty slight, every cruel word, every dirty little game you played gets laid out like cards on the table.

And you should see them, love – the busybodies, the bullies, the backstabbers. Standing there gobsmacked when nobody cares about their bank balance or their bloody truck. The only thing that counts over here is how you treated folk when you thought nobody was watching. And Bully and Fanny? They’ll be stuck scrubbing floors in the afterlife launderette till their souls remember how to be decent.

Meanwhile, the ones they tried to grind down – the ones like you – get to rise up lighter than air, hearts clean and bright, because we carried our burdens and still kept our souls soft enough to love.

So you hold fast, my girl. Keep stoking that fire, and when you walk outta this mess – you’ll walk taller than any of them, with no receipts, no debts, and not a chain left clinging to you.

And you tell Fanny and Bully this from me: the Universe keeps the books, love, and it don’t lose receipts.

Granny Frass

PS from Granny Frass:

And just so we’re clear, sweetheart, over here, folks like Bully and Fanny don’t get to float about on clouds strumming harps. Oh no. The Universe has a keen sense of irony.

Bully will be parked out the back of the cosmic chip shop, picking up litter with a pair of rusty tongs and a bad attitude, forever chasing after empty crisp packets that blow just outta reach. And every time he stops to grumble, the wind picks up and dumps another one at his feet. Poetic justice, if you ask me.

As for Fanny, she’ll be stuck working the complaints desk at the Afterlife Launderette, dealing with grumpy spirits demanding refunds for their shrunken jumpers and missing socks – and nobody will believe a word she says. Her smug little sighs won’t get her far when the grannies of the spirit world start chucking wet knickers at her head.

So don’t you worry, love. The Universe’s broom sweeps mighty clean. And I’ll be sitting front row, feet up, watching the show.