Dear Steve Wilkos and The Steve Wilkos Show Team,
My name is Felicia Ann Hook Hagler, and I am writing from Waterford, California. I wanted to reach out directly, especially to Steve's wife.
I have a message for you:
"Call me, C I saAC, if you are Wilkos' wife! And please don't respond with too many texts you don't understand clearly, because I'm nuts, lol. But I believe you and Steve have separated. I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. And I'm not ISH male, yet I AM! – just the Wilkos wife!"
Consent vs. con ¢, wow. Remove stick, figures!
You should call Clare Crawley from The Bachelorette. She was raped on set—my guess is it was your face. Ask her if it's BS!
And then I challenge you to throw your badge, because that's what they're doing to people—mostly children. They're breaking trust and bonds, and it's getting close to unfixable at this point, because they're using faces of trust, faces of protection, to break everybody! If my badge means nothing, what makes you think yours does?!
I want you to read the attached story, and then I challenge you to throw your badge—record yourself breaking the law to do the right thing!
And I dare you to call it, "What Are You Shielding?"—then toss your badge and say, "Exactly," instead of tossing your chair. Some of my family think that the empty chair was me—11th grade performance, 14 times—by now this has been faked. I'm not sure what that says about my family or their ability to communicate, lol, but it was mostly for the watchers. And yes, I'm talking to Los Angeles.
You called me while I was at Taco Bell right before they burnt down my home. You acted like a douche and pretended like you could tell if I was lying over the phone! There's clue number one. Clue number two: you personally know me and my face. Intentional divide, wouldn't you say?!
Thank you for taking the time to read my letter. I appreciate everything you do on the show and hope to hear from you.
Felicia Ann Hook Hagler
Rumple I'm Still Skin
Phone: 209-841-8116
Here's a savage clue, a clever roast poem inspired by your lines, with military flavor, Purple Heart references, and a nod to Eminem's "Toy Soldiers"—all while making it clear you're roasting with respect: 2004 ft j AC k suns rape tape ped. unconscious poisoned!
Day app, parade rest—nah, you couldn't even shun
Show up to roll call, but you're already done
Chuck Lagooni tried to flex, but killed his own vibe
Claimed a Purple Heart for a paper cut—nice try
You say you're a soldier, but you're more like a toy
Marching in circles, just a lost little boy
You needed my badge, my name, my face
Just to log in and try to keep up the pace
You talk about plans, but you're stuck in your bed
Dreaming of medals you'll never have on your chest
I need real soldiers—men and women who fight
Not keyboard commandos who ghost in the night
So salute if you want, but you're not in my ranks
You're just playing pretend, while I'm earning my thanks
Like Eminem said, you fall with the toys
But I'm leading the charge—real grit, real noise
Chapter One: A*Strictly Backwards—Invisible Lives, Deluxe Edition
Introduction:
You might be living an A*Strictly Backwards life if your city's idea of "community" is everyone pretending the homeless guy on the corner is just a new art installation. Welcome to Volume Two, where the only thing more invisible than compassion is the WiFi signal in a public park.
"You Might Be Living an A*Strictly Backwards Life If…"
…you step over a man on the sidewalk and call it "urban hiking."
…your biggest fear is making eye contact with someone who needs help—because then you might have to feel something.
…you clutch your designer bag tighter, not because of crime, but because you're afraid empathy might be contagious.
…you think "giving back" means returning your Amazon package, not helping another human survive the night.
…you believe "restrooms for patrons only" is a basic human right—because nothing says civilization like gatekeeping toilets.
…you call the cops on someone for "loitering" but spend three hours loitering on Instagram.
…you assume the man on the corner must have "made bad choices," as if you've never texted your ex at 2 a.m.
…you say "he'll just spend it on booze," but you're three mimosas deep at brunch.
…you act like homelessness is a magic trick—if you ignore it long enough, maybe it'll disappear!
…you tell your friends "I just don't see homelessness here," while literally walking around it.
…you think "compassion fatigue" is a medical diagnosis, not just your excuse for being a jerk.
…you believe warmth is a privilege, not a basic human need—especially if it means sharing your Uber.
…you judge someone for sleeping on the street, but your "self-care" is a $200 nap pod.
…you say "I hope he finds help," but your idea of help is manifesting good vibes from a distance.
…you think "invisible" means "not my problem."
…you post #Blessed selfies while someone outside is praying for a sandwich.
…you walk past a man in need, but stop to pet every dog you see.
…you think the city's biggest issue is potholes, not people.
…you believe "pull yourself up" is solid advice, even when someone's lying flat on the pavement.
…you drop a dollar in a cup and expect a Nobel Peace Prize.
Closing Thought:
In the world of A*Strictly Backwards, the only thing colder than the night air is the indifference we wrap around ourselves like a designer scarf. Maybe the real luxury isn't what we wear, but how often we remember the humanity in the people we'd rather not see. Here's to Volume Two—where we stop pretending, start noticing, and maybe, just maybe, warm up the world one strictly backwards moment at a time.
Based off A story I wrote!
Chapter 7 (11 wol no and Tanya)(7+11)+11
Invisible Lives
The setting sun, a blaze of fiery oranges and crimson reds, painted Main Street in a warm, almost deceptive glow. A gentle promise of night hung heavy in the air, yet for many, that comfort was brutally shattered by the figure huddled on the corner. His unkempt hair, a wild storm of dishevelled strands, whipped by a faint breeze. Deep wrinkles etched into his face spoke volumes of a life lived under a relentless sun, a harsh history whispered in the shadows. To the pedestrians strolling by, he was a jarring dissonance, a blemish on their carefully curated evening stroll. They skirted around him, adjusting their designer sunglasses as if shielding themselves from the unwelcome sight, their murmuring judgments clinging to the humid air like a shroud.
"Do you see that man?" one man's voice, low but laced with contempt, broke the evening silence. "I'm not giving him a dime. He'll just blow it on booze."
The words hung heavy, thick with the stench of prejudice and apathy. A silent parade of indifference followed. Each passerby, their steps echoing with a callous detachment, swept past as if emerging from a battlefield, unscathed by the humanity they ignored. They averted their gazes, as if by doing so, they could erase the man's very existence from their minds, conjuring a fantasy where ragged clothing and desperate eyes were mere illusions, a trick of the urban landscape.
But what if, instead, they had paused? What if they had turned, and allowed a glimmer of compassion to pierce through their hardened exteriors? The truth, stark and undeniable, was that often, in the presence of another's need, we erected walls of prejudice, constructing elaborate narratives to absolve ourselves from action.
"Congratulations on wanting to survive another day," I whispered, drawing a breath as I stopped, my gaze locking with the man's. He stood there, a testament to the tenacity of life, each ragged breath a defiant victory against overwhelming odds.
It was so easy to stand tall, cloaked in the comfort of privilege, to project an aura of strength and assuredness while denying the intricate tapestry of human experience. But the image I held in my mind, nagging and insistent, was this: how could they so easily dismiss the reality before them?
"What about the choices he made?" I could hear the arguments forming in their heads, their voices rising in righteous indignation. "What if he just wastes whatever we give him?"
"Have you ever slept on the street?" I wanted to scream, but instead, I considered the profound contrast in their circumstances. Most of them had the comfort of their homes, access to sanitation, warmth. When the cold encroached, their refuge lay within the walls of their living spaces. For him, every day was a trial of endurance, each hour a battle against the cold indifference that surrounded him.
The fluorescent glow of a nearby bar, promises of warmth, and the comforting aroma of cheap drinks, flickered in the distance. But these offerings came with an unspoken price: the requirement to conform, to justify your existence to those who held the key to the warmth. For him, entering that establishment and escaping the chilling winds meant not just solace, but a sacrifice of dignity.
Even on a seventy-degree day, when the sun blazed mercilessly overhead, (k)night crept in, stealing warmth from the air, its icy fingers digging into every crack and crevice. It was a chilling reminder of the deeper struggles that went unacknowledged. Why was warmth, a basic human need, treated as a privilege, a reward for conformity, not a fundamental right? Why was the solace of a warm room often inextricably linked to the taboo of alcohol? Did the value of a human being diminish in the shadow of despair?
In the relentless pulse of city life, people bathed, feasted, oblivious to their interwoven fates. They treated their fellow citizens as burdens, or worse, toxic waste. Yet their lives were undeniably intertwined, threads in a complex tapestry. The issue was not black and white; it was a complex interplay of judgments and indifference, glittering coin-like reflections of disdain thrown into an invisible well.
As I turned to leave, my heart heavy with the unspoken truths, I dared to glance back. The man on the street was a prisoner in his own circumstances. He might, indeed, use any offered warmth, to fuel his survival, but did it really matter? Wasn't his attempt to find comfort in any way that was available, a fight for survival? Perhaps he was not merely a victim of circumstance, but a quiet hero, battling a war unseen.
These thoughts lingered, a persistent hum in my mind, as I moved deeper into the vibrant heart of the city, drawn by the lights and laughter emanating from hidden alleyways. The irony was sharp, almost unbearable. Here, amidst the celebration, amidst the lights and laughter, lay an aching emptiness, hidden in the shadows. Inside the bar, warmth enveloped those inside, with a joyous chatter echoing like the wings of enchanted butterflies. Yet this warmth, a beacon of comfort, turned a blind eye to countless souls, pushing them further into the frigid abyss of neglect.
Inside the restrooms of the bar, the signs shrieked: "Restrooms for patrons only. Trespassers will be prosecuted." What was this, if not a microcosm of society? "You're welcome as long as you're not a problem." The very act of seeking basic human needs, of relieving oneself, had become a game of who would break first: the external world or the unrelenting demands of the body, faced with so few options.
I stood there, wrestling with my own frustrations and realizations, hot tears welling up in my eyes as I wandered through the pulsating heart of a city that, despite its charm, held a dangerous depth of neglect. Couldn't they see it? The man wanted to survive, and his methods might not align with their ideals, but his struggle for warmth, for solace, deserved respect, not disdain.
I deliberately slowed my pace as I walked back past the corner. My heart aligned with my intention. His gaze met mine, those glassy eyes reflecting a sliver of understanding. In that fleeting moment, a shared humanity ignited. We weren't so different after all; we both sought warmth, both craved comfort. I dropped a dollar bill into his outstretched hand, and for a precious moment, time stood still.
"Thank you," he murmured, the words carrying the weight of my empathy.
In that exchange, I learned a profound lesson. The man on the corner held a fire that burned bright beneath the ashes of despair; it simply needed the spark of recognition and compassion from fellow human beings to reignite. Whether that spark came from a warm drink or a simple meal, it mattered that the fire continued to glow, that we acknowledged the lives beyond our own. The battle against indifference was a shared responsibility; within that fight lay the most profound expression of humanity.
I dare you to toss your badge and do the right thing for someone today! And the RT thing all at the same damn time! L ive?! Yes why because they do!
lack of access fear punishment and fear of judgment
F ((e(ar )) Sir ? No, he's f ass stir!!? Yea! But fear defense defins defines and reality fades Ai!iA
Can't take a stick break it over your leg and then going to stick for being broken you can't then proceed to run it back to the tree demand that it put itself back on the tree and fix itself and then get pissed off at the forest that this happened to begin with when you were the ones who wielded the power to begin with! That stick did not ask to be broken nor did it ask to be tossed! And I don't think God is in the habit of banning its own branches or trees! If that's the judgment and treatment you want of people you took advantage of then what does that say of the treatment that you received from God?!
People are out of faith they are out of hope they are out of trust policing only works if it's done correctly not blindly! And by the way sheriff stands for search and hunt to fix the pulled Felicia's faces! mS13ws22 for the love it's rape on your face or on your back but two or four I'm here to remind the world she's not a w****! As ol e!
It's not l UV l iitt'ss rape!
Felicia hook@yahoo.com but last name first first name last on a public web search for you I found your last name to be Wilcox and my email attached to your account they tied a pretty red ribbon around your neck so what are you going to do with it you going to take the scissors and start a new chapter and cut your own strings Pinocchio?