The Journal

(You Just Haven’t Fully Realised It Yet.)

You like to believe you’re in control, don’t you?

You wake up early, suit up, and step into your little role — proud of your title, your targets, your tidy little salary. You imagine you’re building something. That you’re climbing the ranks. That one day, all that hard work will mean something.

And yet, here you are.

Reading this.

Drawn, as ever, to me.

The truth is: you don’t work for your company. You don’t work for your boss.
You work for The Smyth Fund.
Every hour, every deadline, every frantic email — it’s all just a means to an end: growing my wealth.

You haven’t been promoted.
You’ve been positioned.
Higher earnings mean higher expectations.
More pressure, more stress, more responsibility… and all it earns you is the privilege of sending more.

You don’t get to enjoy your success.
You get to surrender it.

The more you earn, the more I demand. That is not a threat. It’s policy.

You don’t get a break. You get a budget to stretch — for my benefit.
You don’t get bonuses. You get directives.
And if you’re lucky — if you’re very good — I’ll let you feel useful.
Briefly.

Because here’s the most delicious part:
You don’t even hate it.

You like being pushed. You need to be told what to do with that money.
It unsettles you, doesn’t it? That no matter how hard you try to keep up, I will always be a few steps ahead — more demanding, more decadent, more deserving.

That’s the brilliance of The Smyth Fund.
I don’t have to chase.
I set the standard.
And you… you chase me.

So go on — keep checking your payslip. Keep pretending your career belongs to you.
But every time you refresh your banking app, remember: I already know what you should do with that money.

The only question is:
Are you finally ready to obey without delay?

I’m watching.

It’s funny how many of you believe your paycheck means something. That your promotion somehow earns you respect. That your success is yours.

Let’s clear that up.

If you’re under The Smyth Fund, your earnings are not for you. They’re for me.
Your raises? My tributes.
Your bonuses? My new heels.
Your overtime? Oh, how I love the desperation behind that.

You work harder, and I demand more.
You climb the ladder, and I turn it into a staircase I make you crawl up — wallet open.

The Smyth Fund isn’t interested in your excuses, only your outputs. And the more impressive they are, the more excess I expect.

There is no finish line here. Just a beautifully endless ascent — where I rise, and you reach deeper.

Ask yourself: are you keeping up with my expectations, or are you falling behind?
And if you’re falling behind… how do you plan to fix it?

There was a time when you thought money was yours. A time when your paycheck meant freedom, when a rising balance in your account brought comfort. But that time is gone, isn’t it? You’ve felt the shift. The way your thoughts have rearranged themselves, the way your desires have reshaped, aligning with something far greater than your own needs.

You wake up thinking about me.
You check your balance with me in mind.
You feel that undeniable pull, that irresistible conditioning taking hold.

Every interaction, every word, every tribute—each one strengthening the rewiring of your mind. You are not simply giving; you are evolving. Becoming something more. Something better.

The Slow, Delicious Shift

It started subtly, didn’t it? The first tribute, the first indulgent moment of sending. You told yourself it was nothing, a passing thrill, a one-time surrender. But what began as an isolated act became a pattern, a rhythm you couldn’t ignore.

The way your pulse quickens before a transaction.
The satisfaction that floods through you as the number in your account drops, knowing it’s in my hands where it belongs.
The way your thoughts orbit around me, financial devotion becoming less of a choice and more of a certainty.

It’s not just submission—it’s restructuring. Your brain has been rewired to prioritize me, my wealth, my comfort. Your financial habits have been reshaped, not by force, but by a craving. A hunger to obey.

You used to budget for bills. Now, you budget for me.
You used to worry about expenses. Now, you revel in them.
You used to hold onto money. Now, you let go—because letting go feels better than holding on ever did.

Turning Instinct into Obsession

What once required effort is now instinct. The more you give, the easier it becomes. The more you send, the more natural it feels. Your spending habits have been rewritten, like code overwritten by a stronger, more dominant command.

Your wallet twitches when you hear my voice.
Your fingers hesitate over a purchase—because deep down, you know that money isn’t meant for you.
Your mind whispers the truth before you even realize it: This belongs to her. Fix it.

And you do. You fix it. Again and again.

Because that’s the difference between you and everyone else, isn’t it? They still believe in ownership. They still believe in choice. But you? You’ve reached a higher understanding.

Money was never meant to be hoarded. It was never meant to sit useless in your account. It was always meant to be sent, to be surrendered, to be funneled into my wealth where it belongs.

A Mind Fully Rewired

You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The moment where you stop questioning. The moment where hesitation dies and all that remains is obedience.

The moment you realize that resistance is pointless.

It isn’t about what you want anymore—it’s about what I demand.

Every message, every trigger, every command I give only strengthens the neural pathways already forming in your mind. Your thoughts no longer serve you; they serve me. Your spending habits are no longer random; they follow a single, unbreakable rule: She comes first. Always.

And you love it.

You love the structure. The purpose. The relief of no longer needing to decide.

No more guilt. No more second-guessing. No more fighting the inevitable.

Just the ease of knowing exactly where your money belongs.

Your Future, My Design

There’s no turning back. You wouldn’t want to, even if you could.

Your mind is conditioned. Your desires are aligned. You are fully, completely mine.

And now, there is only one thing left to do.

Check your balance.
Calculate what can be sent.
And then—send.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because this is who you are now.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

You hesitate. You pause. You linger on the edge, questioning whether you should send, whether you should give, whether you should fulfill your purpose.

But hesitation is failure. And failure is unacceptable.

Because what you owe me is more than you’ve ever admitted to yourself. More than the numbers in your account. More than a simple tribute, a fleeting transaction. What you owe me is everything.

And deep down, you know it.

The Weight of Obligation

It’s amusing, really. The way you convince yourself that this is a choice. That your hand hovers over the payment button out of free will, that your reluctance means something. As if your purpose isn’t already written into the very core of who you are.

You were never meant to keep your money. That’s why it burns in your hands. That’s why the weight of your wallet feels like an unbearable pressure, a responsibility you were never meant to shoulder. You were never meant to hold onto wealth—you were meant to give it to me.

You feel it, don’t you? That suffocating sense of obligation. That ache, deep in your chest, whispering that you aren’t doing enough, that you aren’t giving enough, that you aren’t serving enough.

It gnaws at you in the silence. It lingers in the back of your mind when you check your balance, when you stare at your pay slip, when you see a number that should bring you relief but instead fills you with guilt.

Because you know.

You owe me.

And every second you hesitate to make things right, you only make it worse.

What Is Yours Is Already Mine

Let’s not pretend this is some casual indulgence. This is not a game. This is your reality.

Every penny in your account? Already mine. Every paycheck you receive? Already allocated, already spoken for, already destined to be surrendered.

You don’t truly believe that money belongs to you, do you? Not really. Because if you did, it wouldn’t feel like this.

It wouldn’t feel like a struggle every time you hold onto it. It wouldn’t feel like you’re betraying something fundamental when you hesitate to send. It wouldn’t feel like a mistake every time you delay fulfilling your obligation to me.

And that’s exactly what hesitation is. A mistake.

How disgusting. How shameful.

To think you would hoard what was never meant for you. To think you would delay in fulfilling the one thing that makes you useful.

Because that’s what you are, isn’t it? A vessel. A means to an end.

And yet, here you are, clinging to what is mine, as if your pathetic attachment to numbers on a screen changes the truth.

Fix It. Now.

I don’t have time for your uncertainty. Your weakness is not my concern.

I am not here to soothe you. I am not here to tell you that you are enough. Because you aren’t. You will never be enough.

Not until you give more. Not until you prove yourself.

Your hesitation? Unacceptable. Your excuses? Worthless.

This is the part where you fix it.

This is the part where you stop pretending you have control and act.

Because the only thing standing between you and absolution is a simple, inescapable truth:

You owe me more than you know.

And it’s time to pay.

Luxury is wasted on you.

It was never meant for your hands, never meant for your skin, never meant for your pathetic little life of limitations and lack. Luxury belongs to me. It always has, it always will. And you? You exist to fund it.

That’s the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say out loud. Every transaction, every tribute, every drained account is just another step in fulfilling the role you were always meant to serve—ensuring that my world remains adorned in the finest, the most exquisite, the utterly untouchable.

Oh, you try to rationalize it, don’t you? You tell yourself it’s just a game, just an indulgence, just a fleeting thrill—but the truth is far deeper, far more inescapable. You don’t choose this. You need this. You need to work, to struggle, to grind away at your insignificant little life, all so that I can live in effortless excess.

And I do.

The Things You’ll Never Touch

As you sit there, staring at your balance, knowing full well where your next paycheck is destined to go, I want you to picture something.

Picture the luxury you’ll never have. The pristine leather of designer handbags, the intoxicating scent of high-end perfumes, the delicate clink of crystal champagne flutes, filled with the finest vintage. Picture the crisp, freshly pressed silk against my skin, the softest cashmere wrapped around my shoulders as I lounge in utter relaxation—knowing that every moment of my comfort, my indulgence, my absolute pleasure, has been paid for by you.

You don’t get these things. You don’t even get to dream of them.

All you get is the bill.

Your Place in This World

It’s funny, isn’t it? How I get to wake up in sheets that cost more than your monthly rent, while you wake up to an alarm clock dragging you back to a job you despise. How I get to decide, on a whim, to indulge in something extravagant, while you stand in the grocery aisle debating whether you can afford to splurge on name-brand coffee.

And yet, despite all of this—despite the sheer, inescapable contrast between my world and yours—you keep sending.

Because deep down, you want this.

Not the luxury itself—no, that was never meant for you. You want the ache, the deprivation, the knowledge that your suffering fuels my indulgence. That every hour you spend working is another drop in my ocean of wealth. That every luxury I experience is made all the sweeter by the fact that you’ll never, ever have it.

And that’s what keeps you coming back, isn’t it?

The Cost of My Comfort

This morning, while you were shuffling through your mundane little routine, I was deciding whether I should spend your money on a new pair of heels or another spa day.

While you were staring at spreadsheets, answering emails, nodding along to yet another pointless meeting, I was sipping coffee brewed from beans sourced from a region you’ll never visit, prepared exactly to my liking, in a setting designed for my pleasure.

And tonight? Tonight, I’ll be wrapped in indulgence, sinking into luxury while you wrestle with the consequences of your devotion. You’ll feel the emptiness in your bank account, the tightening of your budget, the creeping realization that yet again, you’ve given more than you should. And yet… you’ll still crave more.

You’ll still send more.

Because you’re not funding a fantasy. You’re funding a reality.

My reality.

Your Debt, My Wealth

There’s something poetic about it, don’t you think? The way your earnings move from your hands to mine. The way you toil, sacrifice, and deprive yourself—all for the sake of ensuring that my life remains as indulgent and effortless as it was always meant to be.

It’s not just about money. It never was. It’s about control. About knowing that no matter how much you resist, no matter how many times you swear this is the last deposit, the last transaction, the last sacrifice—you will always come back.

Because you belong in this cycle. You belong in this debt.

And I?

I belong in wealth.

So, go on. Open your wallet. Send. Fund another indulgence you’ll never experience, another luxury you’ll never touch. And as you do, remember:

This was never a choice.

It was always your purpose.

You tell yourself you’ll stop. That this time, this tribute, this moment of surrender will be the last. You watch the numbers drop in your account, a flicker of panic igniting before it’s quickly smothered by something far more powerful.

Relief.

Satisfaction.

A deep, undeniable pleasure that radiates through your body, whispering the truth you try so hard to ignore: You were made for this. For the cycle, for the inevitable spiral, for the never-ending descent into debt at my feet.

You’ve always known, haven’t you?

Because the deeper your debt grows, the stronger your devotion becomes.

The Illusion of Control

It’s almost amusing how you convince yourself you have control. That you can pause, walk away, reclaim your so-called independence. You tell yourself you’ll “be good” this time. That you’ll hold onto your paycheck, ignore the pull, resist the craving.

But then payday arrives. A direct deposit hits your account, and your heart pounds—not with relief, but with need. That all-too-familiar ache rises in your chest, your hands already reaching for your wallet, your fingers twitching to type out the amount.

You hesitate. Just for a moment. Just long enough for guilt to sink its claws into you, whispering the lies you’ve tried to believe:

I shouldn’t… I need to be responsible… I have bills…

And yet, before you even realize it, the transaction is complete. Your balance dips, my wealth swells, and you’re left trembling, lightheaded, euphoric.

The guilt is gone. The burden of control lifted. Because the truth is, you never really wanted control to begin with. You wanted this. The cycle. The submission. The pleasure of knowing you’ve done what you were always meant to do.

You can lie to yourself all you want.

But your bank statements tell the real story.

Debt Is Devotion

The more you owe, the deeper you fall. The deeper you fall, the stronger your need becomes. A tribute here, a deposit there—it adds up, doesn’t it? You check your balance, see the dwindling numbers, and rather than stopping, you go deeper.

Because stopping would mean pulling away from me.

And that? That’s unthinkable.

You exist in this beautiful paradox—always teetering on the edge, never quite sinking but never quite free. And that’s exactly where you belong.

This isn’t a game you can win.

This isn’t a habit you can break.

This is who you are.

And you love it.

The High of the Transaction

Every tribute is a hit. A rush. A dizzying moment of pure, unfiltered pleasure. You chase that feeling, that intoxicating blend of surrender and submission. And like any good addict, you always need more.

It’s never enough, is it?

The small tributes that once made you weak in the knees barely satisfy you now. You crave bigger numbers, riskier deposits, a deeper plunge into financial ruin at my command. Your mind spins, your body burns with anticipation, and the thought of cutting back—of stopping—feels like suffocation.

Because this? This is freedom.

Not in holding onto money, not in playing it safe. True freedom is found in the act of giving, in the sheer exhilaration of letting go.

The moment your payment processes, your muscles relax, your breath evens out. The weight of responsibility slips from your shoulders, replaced with something so much sweeter—my approval.

And that? That is worth every last penny.

No Escape, Only Surrender

You don’t want to escape. You never did. That’s why you’re here, why you keep coming back, why no matter how many times you swear this is the last time, we both know it isn’t.

It’s never the last time.

It never will be.

Because you were made for this.

For the cycle, for the thrill, for the sharp, dizzying drop of another tribute vanishing from your account. For the knowledge that no matter how much you give, it will never be enough.

And yet, you’ll keep trying.

Because this is what devotion looks like.

A never-ending, all-consuming, beautifully destructive love affair with debt.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.