“Justice wasn’t just served; it was plated, garnished, and savored.”

I work as a Writer at BuzzFeed, creating and curating quizzes, listicles, and articles that cover everything from pop culture chaos to food trends I immediately want to try and fashion moments I can’t stop talking about.

"So, while we were scrambling to get our stuff out, I got on a chair, pushed the AC vent up into the ceiling, and slid a spare tile in its place. I did the same thing with the air return, so the office was sealed. 

We moved out, and Dr. Dementia moved in. The first day, I knew we were going to love the show because he immediately closed his door so nobody could see him, probably not working. (I found out later he spent a lot of his time playing Solitaire—and that is another revenge story.) It was May in North Carolina, so it was already warm outside. By June, he would show up to afternoon meetings visibly sweating. He never thought to call maintenance about the temperature. So much for PhD-level smarts."

"HR: "So you got hit by the lunch thief again, and your medicine was in the bag?" Me: "Yes. I've had some digestive problems, and my doctor prescribed a powerful laxative and advised me to mix it into my midday meal." HR, going white: "You what?" Me, smiling: "I mixed a prescription-grade laxative into my food per my doctor's orders." 

Well, because stealing prescribed medication is a criminal offense, the police were called and found the lead man from a department over absolutely shitting his brains out. He was furious and accused me of poisoning his food. I asked, "At which point did you get the idea that the food was for you?" I continued, "Furthermore, now I no longer have the medication I was prescribed for my condition." It was about this time he knew he fucked up and shut his mouth until he got a lawyer, or so I'm told (small town). One of my buddies from high school took his position. I can make and eat my hoagies now, and I have no clue where the lunch thief went after his fines and community service."

"About 20 minutes later, a guy came blustering through the door and, in the same distinct voice, demanded that I tell him the way to the interview room because he was already late for an interview. I knew it was the same guy I had talked to before; he had the exact same voice. I calmly said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm just a typical woman and can't tell directions."

He turned beet red and just stood there for a minute. I could see he knew exactly what had happened and that he was talking to the same person he had yelled at earlier. He stomped off down one of the hallways and obviously didn't get the job because I never saw him again."

"At the other end of the floor was a nice conference room. It had a large table that could seat a dozen people, a big screen on one wall for teleconferencing, and a table along one wall for coffee and snacks. There was a sign-up sheet for the conference room with the administrative assistant outside the room, although it was rarely used. 

Once a year, my location hosted a powwow in the conference room. Most of the attendees came from out of town and stayed in a hotel that was about a mile away. Karl appointed himself the meeting coordinator and was spending a fair amount of time talking to the external personnel and driving our admin assistant crazy. 

Once I learned the date of the big meeting, I reserved the conference room. Karl had arranged to meet the out-of-towners at the hotel for breakfast before moving to the conference room for the 9:00 start of the day's meeting. Around 8:00, we gathered in the conference room, shut the door, put up a PowerPoint presentation on the big screen, and worked on our laptops. We heard voices coming down the hall, and one person stood up and started briefing us on the presentation on the big screen. The door opened a few minutes before 9:00, and Karl stopped in the doorway with a surprised look on his face. We could see people standing behind him, peering into the room. Karl told us to get out, that he had important visitors and needed the conference room. 

We could hear him arguing with her that he needed the conference room. That went on for about a minute before he came back, again demanding that we vacate. "First come, first served," was my answer, and he knew defeat when it was served up to him. 

The boss knew nothing about the meetings, although she should have been invited and participated. She also had no idea that Karl had appropriated the small meeting room as his office. When she went to talk to Karl about the emails detailing the train wreck of the meetings, she saw that Karl had moved from the cubicle he was supposed to be using. Karl had to move back to his old cubicle. Revenge is sweet."

"Confused, I answered, "I didn't have seats to the Super Bowl." He told me that he had given DickheadPartner a pair of his company's tickets for me as a gift so I could attend. I had zero idea what he was talking about. He looked shocked and told me to quietly ask around about it and get back to him. 

When I was back in the office the next week, I found out through one of the secretaries that DickheadPartner had given the pair of Super Bowl tickets to another one of his clients as a gift from our company. 

I considered confronting DickheadPartner myself but realized it was the client who had noticed I wasn't there in the first place, so if I let him handle it, there would be no blowback on me. So I texted him, "Hey, I just wanted to thank you so much for thinking of me with those seats. It appears that they were given to another one of our firm's clients." He texted back right away, in all caps, "ARE YOU SHITTING ME??" Then: "Pretend I never told you. Let me handle it." 

He followed up with me about formulating a plan. A few days later, we were asked to come down for a meeting at their office. The client requested that the partner be present, which wasn't entirely unusual, so DickheadPartner and I hopped on a flight the next week and headed over. When we entered the conference room, it was all the usual suspects, along with a woman in her 30s we didn't recognize. My client immediately introduced her. "DickheadPartner, this is Stephanie Suchandsuch, VP from [other department]. She wanted to sit in on this meeting. Hey, [OP], you guys must already know her from the Super Bowl!" She responded as she went to shake my hand, "Oh, I don't think so. Did we meet there? I'm sorry if I forgot." My client replied, "Jeez, Steph, how much did you have to drink? They were sitting right next to you!" He looked at me, and I said, "Sorry, [client], I wasn't there. Are you thinking of someone else?" 

At this point, DickheadPartner was looking visibly uncomfortable, probably trying to come up with an excuse. DickheadPartner let out another "Uh," and the client immediately spoke over him. "DickheadPartner, I gave you those tickets for [OP]." At this point, DickheadPartner was turning bright red. He responded, "Ohh, uhh, well, he wasn't able to make it, so he must have given the seats away to someone else?" and turned to me, looking for me to cover for him. 

I responded, "Uh, what are you talking about? Client, you gave me tickets to the Super Bowl??" The client suddenly raised his voice. "DickheadPartner, those tickets were a personal thank-you gift from me to [OP]. Did you give them away to someone else? ... Was it another client??" DickheadPartner cut in with, "Oh, uhm, maybe something got mixed up in the office?" The client then looked down, grabbed his portfolio and iPad, put them into his briefcase, and said, "[OP], it seems as if I owe you a thank-you gift. Let's go to lunch. Stephanie, you're welcome to join... DickheadPartner, I need to evaluate our relationship. Please go back home and expect to hear from us next week." 

The client told me to wait a couple of hours and then respond to him: Expect invoices for the resale value of the Super Bowl tickets (resale was WAY above face value—it was over $10K), as well as our lunch. Expect that I be given a direct apology. Expect a written apology to his company for what he considered theft. 

This whole thing caused a stir with the other partners, and I actually came off looking great because it appeared that I had made a good-faith effort to save the client for the firm despite being the victim in the situation. The client transferred to another partner, which meant DickheadPartner lost his profit share on any work with them. Oh, and the other partners made DickheadPartner pay the invoices out of his own salary."

"I playfully said something like, "Ah, you really want it, eh? Man, I see your name everywhere; it's like, just give up if you see Steve's name!" Steve: "Yeah, I have 3 people out there watching the tables and bidding for me." Okaaaaay...this is blatantly against the rules. Me: "Should I even bother to try bidding on it anymore?" Steve, condescendingly: "You can, but I'll just outbid you." 🤨 Okay, douche, I see you. 

At the end of the live auction, they announced it was the final 60 seconds for bids, and I noticed Steve was not near said cool item, so I sped over to the table and excitedly placed my bid. Then I realized the nearby (different) woman was one of Steve's assigned bidders, and she immediately outbid me. During those 30-ish seconds as she wrote the bid, I asked, "Oh, you're bidding for Steve, eh?" "Yeah..." She looked apologetic and embarrassed. Figuring let's at least make this sporting, I asked, "Well, do you have a top bid?" "No—he just told me to be sure to win it." Cool. Cool cool cool. 

Well, she happened to finish writing her bid and set the paper down just as the auctioneer started counting down the last 10 seconds. I immediately snatched up the paper and placed the winning bid with 1 second to spare, shamelessly throwing my 50-year-old arms up in the air with a "WOOO HOOOOOO!" of victory. He may outbid me, but I outplayed him. I felt a little bad for the woman for not doing what he'd impressed upon her to do, but SUCK IT, STEVE. IT'S MINE. Oh, and it looks AWESOME in my house."

"As the HOA treasurer, Todd had access to all the accounts, but he was notoriously cagey about sharing financial details. I asked for the budget during a meeting, and Todd laughed it off, saying, "Don't worry, I've got it under control." I filed a formal request for the financial records, which, under HOA rules, he was required to provide. Weeks went by with no response. 

Turns out, I wasn't the only one suspicious. Over a dozen homeowners had requested access to the budget over the years, only to be ignored. When Todd finally handed over the financial documents, they were a mess. Invoices were missing, payments were mislabeled, and some expenses were downright bizarre. A $15,000 "landscaping fee" had been paid to a company that didn't exist. 

I cross-referenced the HOA's bank statements with public records and found the smoking gun: Todd was funneling money to his personal accounts. I waited for the annual HOA meeting, which was typically a snooze-fest attended by only a handful of homeowners. But this time, I made sure people showed up. On the night of the meeting, the room was packed. I handed out copies of my report to everyone in the room. 

People started reading, whispering, and then shouting. Todd tried to regain control, but it was too late. I called for a vote to remove him as president. By the end of the night, Todd was out. After Todd was removed, we hired an independent auditor to go through the HOA's finances. They confirmed everything: Todd had embezzled over $50,000 and mismanaged tens of thousands more. 

Every time I walk past Todd's old house, now owned by a lovely family, I smile. The pool is open, the landscaping is beautiful, and the HOA fees are lower than ever. Todd, meanwhile, moved to a neighboring town, where he reportedly tried to join another HOA board—only to be laughed out of the room when someone Googled his name. Justice wasn't just served; it was plated, garnished, and savored."

"This is only a small portion of her abuse, but I promise her actions were nothing short of neglectful and exploitative. I'd tried for years to get my dad to move in with me, but he wasn't leaving the house he'd worked so hard to pay for. I brought him home on hospice the day after Thanksgiving and made sure his final days were the best they could be. 

After meeting with the funeral home to carry out his final wishes, I was told they required my mother's consent to allow me to cremate him. It was no surprise when she initially told me no and only agreed after I "allowed" her to keep the Social Security survivor benefits, which would have been hers anyway. 🙄 

I wrote his obituary and left her out of it. There was not a single word or mention that he'd ever been married or had a spouse. I didn't feel she deserved to be recognized or viewed as a grieving widow when she'd spent their marriage being a shitty spouse and person. She lost her mind, and there were many questions from friends and family alike. I've spent years in therapy working through maternal narcissistic abuse and believe that if she didn't want me to talk about it, she shouldn't have done it. 

When people asked about it, I was honest about the years of abuse my father and I endured from her. I've completely ruined the public image and victim complex she spent years creating. I might be the villain and the AH in this scenario, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"I got everything taped up and waited. A FedEx truck showed up to pick the boxes up. I asked to see the pickup details, and they had a tracking number. They took the boxes. I tracked them the next day, and they had been overnighted to Kenya. I'm sure somebody's credit card paid a crazy shipping charge. I never heard from them again, which is a shame because I really hoped they would get angry about the garbage."

"I felt that he should pay for the return postage due to his misleading description. I was ill-prepared for his retort. He snarkily responded by telling me that I should have asked what size the book was and that "a book is a book." 

He did offer to have UPS pick up the book on his dime and said he would issue a refund when he received it, with the offer contingent upon me not leaving him negative feedback. So... I packaged it up and let him know that it was ready for pickup. A box is a box. This one just so happened to have held a large chandelier at one time and measured about four feet by four feet. He should have asked me what size box I was shipping it back in. I would hate to see his UPS bill."

"It had a notability tag applied to the page saying that it really didn't meet Wikipedia's criteria for inclusion and should be improved if someone wanted it kept around. 

Well, I didn't want it kept around. So I applied the "Proposed Deletion" tag to it, which, if no one objected, edited the page, or removed the tag, would lead to the page being deleted seven days later. Surprise, surprise, no one objected, edited the page, or removed the tag, and seven days later, the page was deleted. I experienced a small frisson of delight seeing the page gone. F*ck that guy and his company."

"My bus stop was the first one on the route, which meant I was always the first passenger on the bus. Every morning, I'd connect my phone to the bus's Bluetooth before anyone else got on. Then I'd put in my earbuds and pretend I was listening to my own music. 

When the group got on, they tried to connect to the Bluetooth but couldn't. They would disconnect my phone, and I would connect again before they could. After a while, they started asking everyone on the bus whether anyone was connected to the speakers. The rest of us just shrugged and said no. This went on for months. 

Sometimes I'd let them use it in the morning just so it wouldn't become too obvious, but most of the time, the bus stayed blissfully quiet. The rest of us finally got to enjoy a peaceful ride instead of being forced to listen to their playlist at dawn. Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Also absolutely."

"Even having my friend, their landlord, intervene had no effect. Well, a few nights of one or two hours' sleep turned me downright ingenious. I remembered that once, while microwaving my dinner, I had started vacuuming the floor, and having both appliances turned on tripped the circuit breaker. I crossed my fingers that we were on the same circuit, and during the next morning's 3 a.m. showing of Willy Wonka, with the girlfriend screaming, "I love this movie!" and turning the volume up even louder than usual, I turned on the microwave and the vacuum.

Five seconds later...poof! Blessed silence!I heard a little shuffling around upstairs, then one of them went down into the basement and reset the circuit breaker. The power came back on, and so did the television. I waited about a minute before turning the microwave and vacuum back on. Poof! Silence! They reset the circuit breaker again, but this time there was no more TV. I went back to the most blissful slumber ever. 

My friend later told me that they complained to him about the power going out because it was such an expensive TV and that it could damage the electronics. I told him that if they kept the volume at a respectful level, then I wouldn't have to do anything about it, but I wouldn't hesitate to if it happened again. The microwave/vacuum trick was only necessary a couple more times before they got the hint and kept the noise down in the middle of the night."

"Cue my new tactic: For the past week, they’ve had their mailbox flag raised, so, in kind, I kindly lower it for them as I pass by. My headcanon wants to believe these geriatrics are mailing a check for their utilities, and I'm silently helping them rack up late fees."

"I made a big show of checking the fluids in my car and packing a few bags. I made sure the neighbor knew I was getting ready to go on a trip and I'd be gone for a while, hoping he'd take the bait. 

I came back home in about an hour. (Car trouble 😉) The thief was in his front yard pulling the rope on his lawnmower so hard it looked like he was going to have a stroke, turning bright red and cursing. Later, he got in his car, made it a couple of blocks up the road, and it suddenly broke down...I checked the gas can on my patio...empty! Also, I just wanted to add that this guy was a huge piece of crap. That's not the only thing he did. I found out he had arrest warrants, so I ended up getting him arrested by applying for a sheriff's ride-along program in his name."

"The young lady, very likely a newer driver, is growing upset as we're nearing the toll booths since she can't enter the lane. I really can't stand people who refuse to cut another driver some slack on the road, and the smug look on the battle-axe's face is irking me. 

I brake, lean over to the passenger side, roll down the window, and wave the girl in ahead of me. The new expression of anger on Madame Battle-axe's face in my rearview mirror was priceless. That was revenge enough, but the icing on the cake? When I pulled up to the booth, the young lady had already paid my toll!"

"She was crying, saying some weird people have cornered her. I ran to her with my oldest daughter to find six older women berating my daughter for being 'unChristian' for refusing to spend time with her paternal Grandparents or for wanting to be 'a good big sister to her poor orphaned baby brothers'.

 My daughters are the ones that found out about my ex cheating and the babies, so they aren't fond of the kids. It's trauma and they are working with a therapist. I got between the group and my daughter, telling my eldest to go pay the stuff her sister had and to go to the car. 

Then I turned to the women, some who I knew from when we went to my ex-inlaws' church, and rip them a new one. They told me I was worst for refusing to obey my ex-inlaws 'like a good Christian wife'. I managed to get in the car and drove away. After my girls went to bed, I got online to talk to another member of that church that I'm in good terms. 

I told him about what happened and after he apologized, he told me what was going on. My ex-mother-in-law posted this massive story in the church's facebook group about how horrible my daughters and I are, how we are leaving them homeless and penniless (they inherited my ex' personal bank account and his life insurance), and how my daughters don't even talk to them. She also accused us of being the reasons she lost her grandsons. 

Well, I decided it was time to clean up this mess and since I was mid-divorce when my ex died, I had all the evidence needed. I was off the next day and went to a print shop to get copies of all the delightful pictures of my ex cheating, his text conversations with his affair partner, the ones with his parents confessing to his cheating and getting support from them, my ex-inlaws harassing me about the divorce, and my coup-de-grace: all the emails and text messages of them bullying my daughters about their baby brothers. In one of them they call my daughters 'bastards' and telling them it was their fault their father died since they told me about the affair and I began the divorce. This one was literally two days after my ex died.

I paid extra for all of this to be printed in beautiful high quality paper. I took them to the church before service. There's a desk in the back with the song books for people that need/forget their own, and they never check them. The gossip mill was quick and harsh. People were angry at my ex-inlaws for their abuse to my daughters. They got shamed into leaving the church. My ex-mother-in-law made a post on her wall about how alienated she feels and how no one cares for the elderly anymore."

"When I spoke to my family back home to vent about the situation, a younger cousin came up with an idea: use some Russian service that pays people a few Russian rubles (one RUB is approximately one U.S. cent, for reference) each time they post whatever you ask them to on social media. This service worked like magic. The website even had the option to choose between American-looking profiles and other locales. 

After the best-spent $3 of my life and some AI prompts later, the credit union's social media was flooded with hundreds of complaints. I'm sure this got to the right ears because, on that same day...The bank's call center manager personally called me to say they understood my frustration and that, even if I didn't want my account anymore, the bank was ready to initiate a transfer of my full balance, plus a $50 compensation payment, to any other bank of my choosing.

Problem solved. They probably also realized there was no way to link this activity to me and therefore hinted at ending things on a positive note. Too bad I can't tell the Russian bots to remove their posts. That will be someone else's problem now."

"But this time, I embedded a series of hidden formulas into the documents. These formulas didn't do anything important—just enough to mess with the numbers if someone didn't know how to check for hidden cells. It took me a little time, but I was careful not to make it too obvious. 

The kicker? Every time Seth tried to copy and paste the data into his report, it would scramble everything just enough to be completely useless. On the day the report was due, Seth slacked off like usual, assuming I had handled it like always. When the client called, furious because the report was filled with nonsense numbers, Seth panicked. He rushed to fix it, but every time he fixed one part of the report, something else would break. 

He came to me, frantic, and asked for help. I acted confused and said, "Oh, I don't know what happened! Maybe it's a glitch?" I gave him some vague advice and watched as he spent the entire day trying to salvage the mess. Our boss found out, and for once, Seth couldn't talk his way out of it. He got lambasted for screwing up such an important project and was put on temporary leave without pay. I guess he'll be doing his own work from now on."

"Like, I genuinely don't know how he doesn't know how to use a fucking sink, but every time I go to the bathroom after he uses it, the whole countertop is so WET?????????? HOW??????????? And sometimes, THE FLOOR IS WET????????

Anyway, I tried the civil route and talked to my sister, just to ask her to tell him to dry the countertop after he uses it. But for some fucking reason, my sister used his ADHD as an excuse for why she wouldn't talk to him about it because "he'll just forget about it." Well, since I'm already stressed enough, every damn time I see that wet-ass countertop, I just get her towel and dry the sink (and the floor if he got that wet too) with it. 

I won't bother getting a cleaning rag to dry it because that's too much work. Her towel is already there, so I might as well just use it. She doesn't know about it and would probably get pissed off if I told her lol. I just don't care. Like I said, I don't mind doing all the housework since she is always at the hospital, but I expected my work to be respected, at the very least."

"So I refused to go. I explained that I did not feel like spending my time on something that ultimately would not contribute to the project. To their credit, they were very understanding. They left the next week and, in total, spent around three full days of our final week on this. 

Because I stayed behind, I got stuck finishing the actual research, while their excursions ultimately became little more than a footnote in the final report. This did not sit right with me, but since the end was in sight, I did not feel like making a big deal out of it, so I let it go.

 As we were finishing up the project, we decided to do a potluck and each bring something we made at home. Now this is where my plan started to hatch. I have a killer brownie recipe. They are incredibly moist and very flavorful, and I have honestly just been disappointed by every other brownie since. 

So, come the potluck, I brought a full tray of these brownies, and of course they loved them. Everyone came back for seconds, and the entire tray was empty before the end of the day. Then came the inquiries for the recipe. "OMG, these are so good. Please send me the recipe." "No way, I need this recipe!" Of course, I promised I would send it at a later time, but I never planned on doing that. I kept coming up with excuses like, "Oh, I forgot. I'll definitely send it tonight." 

Eventually, we finished the project, got good grades, and went our separate ways. But even years later, I occasionally get a message from one of my former group members asking for the recipe. I ignore them all. I feel satisfied knowing they will probably never have a brownie better than mine, which I feel is a fitting punishment for a minor annoyance."

Text has been edited for length and clarity.