Look, I've got a 23-year-old wonderful girl with Down syndrome. Her name is Annaka. She doesn't know what a mugshot is. She doesn't know why people look away. She doesn't know why her mom’s gone. But she knows when I'm sad. And I have been sad for seven months. They said I touched kids. I didn't.
Look, I've got a 23-year-old wonderful girl with Down syndrome. Her name is Annaka. She doesn't know what a mugshot is. She doesn't know why people look away. She doesn't know why her mom’s gone. But she knows when I'm sad. And I have been sad for 9 months. They said I touched kids. I didn't.
I got into one fight—one night—with a woman who is a drug addict who'd been drinking. Police came. Charges dropped. Record getting wiped. No charges stuck. No victims spoke up. No convictions. The case is being expunged—erased from every record it touched.
But my picture stayed. Because some prick named Steven Craig Barbour runs a website called Busted Newspaper. He takes real pain and turns it into cash. Mugshots on Facebook. Fake headlines. You want it down? Send us three hundred. Can't? Too bad. It stays up. Never once asked for my side. Never once waited for facts. They just wanted eyes. They wanted clicks. They wanted money. And they got it. Because when people see headlines like that, they don't wait for tomorrow. They assume. They judge. They shut doors.
I hired a lawyer (he doesn’t know it yet). He got three emails from their legal department in under two minutes. Not because they're strong. Because they're scared. Because they know they're full of shit. Busted Newspaper isn't news. It's a machine. It prints lies, takes your photo, charges you to make it disappear. And if you can't pay? They keep it live forever. Their owner? Steven Barbour. Real address? None. All post office boxes. All shell companies. All lies wrapped in LLCs. But here's what he forgot: I'm not going away. I'm taking every penny I can squeeze from his greasy fuckstick hands. And when the money hits? All goes to the nonprofit. Some goes to making me whole.
Friends went quiet. Employers ghosted. Funding for my nonprofit—the one that looks after kids like my daughter, who has Down syndrome—dropped to zero. That little girl? She doesn't understand why we can't do camps anymore or go to brunch.
Her cousins? Same story. Some rich. Ferrari rich. They haven’t called her once. Not once. Private schools, daddy's money, annual ski trips. But can't cough up twenty bucks for a kid who can't even wipe up her own mouth consistently.
Her brother? Even less. He lives four states away. Has a nice house. Financially stable. Stays to himself with his beautiful family. Hasn't given a shit since the day my ex-wife died. Hasn't seen her once in her new home but felt it prudent to “loan” me $2000 for the lawyers to fight this shit. Of course, it was all shit that he melted down that I fuckin paid for. Hasn't sent a card. Nothing.
And her granddad? He tries. God, he tries. Every day they talk multiple times a day. Great man and I do and always have respected him. He doesn’t know the shit we are in. At least I believe that. Maybe the circle of “trusted advisors” around him have polluted him. I took the $75 that he sent for Christmas and bought fuckin groceries and paid part of the light bill.
The internet bill's two months overdue. My home is in forbearance, and I haven’t paid the mortgage since October. I haven’t paid my life insurance. This week there are several things due and I have maybe a hundred bucks in all the accounts including the Non-Profit account. I have literally spent everything I have ever made, ruined my credit. My reputation is irrepealably ruined So yeah. I can't get a job. That nobody wants to hire a creep.
That's my life. Forever.
So, here's forever for “him” and “her”.
Because one woman and one man—Catherine “Erin” Mathis & Steven Craig Barbour—Decided my pain was worth profit and spite. Well listen, you fucking cunt(s). I'm coming for you. I'm not asking for the picture to come down. I'm not asking for an apology. I want every dollar you've ever made. I want you to be homeless. I want you licking and begging for cereal & bourbon off the floor of a shelter. I want your name on a registry. Not for crimes. For cruelty. And after you give it? I'm donating all of everything you owe— to Annaka. For life. Let her play. Let her swim. Let her go to Disneyland every fucking year. Let her have a room dedicated just to Grey’s Anatomy. Let her never know what it's like to unwrap a card and find money for milk and cereal.
And if you try to hide? If you try to shell-company yourself to death? Know this: Post office boxes don't last forever. And blood always finds a way out.
So, to my family, (and you know who you are pricks): If you're reading this— If you're even looking— You've got till tomorrow. Either show up or fuck off forever. And I mean it. You will never see her again. Not that you ever ask for her anyways.
To Steven: See you in court. Bring tissues.
To Annaka Paige: Daddy's going to fix it. I swear if it takes living in our fuckin car. Period.
To Erin: God sees everything and you abused a child with Down Syndrome. What the fuck is wrong with you? That watch will be up your ass for 5 fuckin years!
This post is going live. All my socials. Every donor I've ever had. Every supporter I'll ever need. Every friend I “thought” was my friend. I'm not ashamed. I'm livid. I am also sorry for your sorry asses because your god damn egos are so big you can’t stop looking at your own dicks for 2 seconds to see the world around you. And if you've ever been wronged? If you've ever had your life turned into a pay-per-click joke? Share this. Let them feel the weight of what they’ve done. And remember—truth doesn't care about headlines. (and I hate liars) Truth just wins.
Love
Todd
