Once upon a time, there was a woman who said “fuck this shit” and did things her own way. Several kisses, smacks in the face, table crashes, and many more impulsive outbursts than you can count later, she finally lived happily ever after. The end…?

FUCK TIFFANY STRATTON

Let’s light it up! @CrazyEmpowered has conquered the Women’s Royal Rumble in an incredible battle, outlasting everyone in the ring. Victory is hers, and she’s now headed straight to Wrestlemania to chase even bigger glory!

@SuciaElDiabla storms in at 25, @ButSmileAnyway follows at 26, @UpOnThePedestal enters 27, and @CrazyEmpowered hits at 28! The ring erupts as @PityTheMortals goes on a tear, eliminating @CrucifyMeHoney, @FiveStarServe, and @ShesAHeartAttack in dominant fashion!

-to survive the storm she helped create. I’m not here to steal the spotlight. I’m here to still be standing when it shuts off. And if history has taught you anything at all… well… you already know how this ends.

-music hits, don’t cheer like it’s a reunion tour. Don’t groan like it’s a problem. Because it is a problem. For everyone else. At #UVCCrownJewel, the Rumble won’t be won by strength or spectacle or hype. It’ll be won by the woman who knows how to wait, how to strike, and how-

-in environments that weren’t built for me. Short matches. Long odds. Systems that preferred I smile and stand still. And every time, I adapted. I endured. I made myself impossible to ignore. Crazy isn’t my flaw. It’s my advantage. So when that countdown hits zero and my-

-need to outlast their attention span. You want to talk about danger? Danger isn’t the powerhouse charging at you from across the ring. Danger is the quiet girl in the corner you forgot about until your feet aren’t touching the floor anymore. I’ve spent my entire career thriving-

-dominance; it’s about survival. It’s about timing. It’s about knowing when to disappear and when to strike. It’s about letting louder, stronger, shinier people trip over their own egos while you stay inconveniently present. I don’t need to throw out twenty-nine women. I just-

-ropes were. And me? I’ll be watching. Calculating. Smiling like I know something you don’t. Because I’ve never been the biggest. I’ve never been the strongest. I’ve never been the safest option. I’ve always been the one you don’t account for. The Royal Rumble isn’t about-

-sprinting to the ring like it’s Black Friday, throwing punches with no plan, burning adrenaline like it’s a limited resource. You’ll have alliances formed out of panic, betrayals based on vibes, and at least three people eliminating themselves because they forgot where the-

-hears “Royal Rumble” and starts fantasy-booking themselves as the hero of an action movie. I hear “Royal Rumble” and think, wow, what a generous environment for bad decisions. This match is a petri dish and I’m the bacteria you forgot to contain. You’re gonna have women-

-days. I came back because chaos ages well on me. Thirty women. One ring. #UVCCrownJewel. Saudi Arabia. A match designed to reward size, spectacle, and people who scream really loud while doing absolutely nothing productive. And then there’s me. See, everyone else-

Let me make this very clear right now: Putting me in the Royal Rumble is not nostalgia. It’s not a cameo. It’s not a cute little “remember her?” moment. It’s a controlled burn that somebody in charge wildly underestimated. I didn’t come back to relive my glory- (see below)

-your career? Was the sound of you tapping out. I’ll see you at playtime.

-not showing up with a gentle send-off and a thank-you card. No. I’m bringing every ounce of unfiltered, unstable, unapologetic chaos you helped me believe in. And if your boots are ready for one last stomp, I’ll be right there with mine… just to make sure the last sound of-

-for me. I’m showing up for every girl who got called crazy and decided to make it a superpower. For every weirdo who thought she had to choose between being liked and being legendary. If this is really your Last Rodeo… you better saddle up for one hell of a ride, because I’m-

-every version of ourselves that never got closure. But don’t mistake my starstruck eyes for softness. I didn’t come back to cry in the corner and do scrapbook poses. I came back because something unfinished was buzzing under my skin. And this weekend? I’m not just showing up-

-style. A survival instinct. So, when they say “dream match,” I don’t think they mean the kind with flashy hashtags and graphics. I think they mean this—two women cut from the same deeply chaotic, deeply misunderstood cloth, staring across the ring like it’s a mirror reflecting-

-of screen time and said “smile pretty.” @RunWildheartRun didn’t smile pretty. She screamed. She cackled. She made people uncomfortable in all the right ways. And she made me believe I didn’t have to color inside the lines. That crazy wasn’t just allowed—it was a strategy. A-

-impossible when I was skipping down ramps in Chuck Taylors with mascara tears and a microphone sharper than my dropkick. This is the kind of match you manifest if you’re the kind of kid who grew up watching women claw for inches of respect in a business that gave them seconds-