Sorted by Steven

Excerpt from the memoir MissT never meant to write, but the internet demanded it.

So there I was, minding my roast dinner business, when Steven Donald — complete with emoji sunglasses and that red cap of misplaced confidence — slid into my DMs.

He wasn’t here to chat books.
He wasn’t here for poetry.
He was here… to sort my bills.

Not because I asked.
Not because I flirted.
Just because I dared to exist with a profile picture and a backbone.

He opened with:

“No, not at all. You aren’t for sale or either is your time. I just want us to be talking friends and in return I just sort out your bills as a way of saying thanks.”

Ah, the classic “financial gratitude for female attention” play.
The sugar-free sugar daddy — the budget benefactor — the Gas & Electric Casanova.

So naturally, I responded like any self-respecting woman who’s paid rent through heartbreak and still come out witty:

“Sort out my bills? Lol. I’ll give you my bank account number now — you can send me some money.”

And reader… he saw it.
Then vanished like a budget line in January.

💬 A Poem for Steven and His “Sorted” Energy

“Sort Me Out, Then”
By MissT — patron saint of sarcasm and direct debits

He said, “Let’s be friends, I’ll cover your dues,”
Like chatting was currency, and I should enthuse.
Not for romance, not for thrills,
Just a thank-you for chats… and maybe my bills.

But darling, my worth isn’t paid in pounds,
It’s built from bruises and battlegrounds.
You want my time? You want my wit?
Well, sort out the broadband — let’s see if it fits.

I don’t need fixing, I’m not your cause,
I’m not a “thank-you,” I’m not applause.
So cash your words, then kindly jog
There’s more sense in my cat than this dialogue.