Veni, Vidi, Vented

Dear Readers,

It is I, Julius Caesar, who must “vent” to you all today.

Yes, I am aware that “venting” is not a proper Roman verb. But times change, and so do men — especially men who have been ghosted, unfollowed, and publicly humiliated on what the youths call “Instagram.” Consider this my Commentarii de Bello Amore: a commentary on the wars of love.

It has come to my attention that Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt, mother of my son, and my former ally in both politics and passion, has decided to “post” her every breath online. At first, I assumed “Instagram” was some kind of population census or some registry of faces for taxation. Alas, no — it is a magical contraption crafted to lure strong men like me into the depths of feminine vanity and cruelty.

I discovered her “account” accidentally — or so I told myself. I was merely scrolling through my “For You Page,” when there she was: a photo of my “ex-huzz,” Cleopatra, swathed in linen, basking in gold light, captioned “Still reigning, still radiant✨❤️‍🔥 #hatersfinnahate.” My heart fluttered at an emoji.

Her profile boasts 1.2 million followers. I commanded legions, yes — but never legions who commented “queen energy 😍,” or “lethal face card.” Each post is a campaign of seduction: the milk bath, gold face masks, the seductive smirk that once conquered my cold composure. She captions one reclining photo “just manifesting peace.” I recall when she manifested turmoil in me.

Then came the reel. “Morning Routine: How I Prepare to Rule Empires 💅.” It begins with rosewater, and ends with eyeliner sharp enough to pierce a heart.

I scrolled on. I should not have scrolled on. There was Marc Antony — “commenting” flame emojis. Flame emojis! A man who couldn’t even conquer Parthia now conquers the “comment section.” He writes “🔥🔥🔥 goddess.” She replies “lol stoppp.” Lol stoppp. Are we being “deadass?” That phrase blares louder than the shouts of my assassins.

I attempted diplomacy. I left a dignified comment: “Veni, vidi, vici ❤️.” She replied with a laughing face. A laughing face! What, pray tell, is humorous about my “comment?”

Later that evening, she posted a carousel titled “Soft Launch.” The third slide revealed Marc Antony’s elbow. His elbow! I zoomed in thrice, as any man would. The incriminating evidence was undeniable. The betrayal — it was civil war in pixel form.

In a moment of weakness, I opened the “Story” function. There she was, lounging on a velvet tapestry with the caption “New era. #HiStalkers.” I almost jumped; I didn’t know she could see me through the screen. I felt an unfamiliar ache. Was it heartbreak — or indigestion from the figs?

I confess, I made my own account: @user192830424131214 (Excuse me, I’m still unsure how to change my “username”). My first post was a marble bust selfie captioned “Still undefeated, politically and emotionally.” It received six likes — all from senators’ burner accounts. The “algorithm,” like the Senate, conspired against me.

This morning, I discovered I could no longer view her Stories. At first, I blamed poor Roman Wi-Fi. Then I realized the truth — Cleopatra had blocked me. Blocked. Brutus stabbed me twenty-three times, but this wound cut deeper.

And so I come to you, my fellow citizens of the digital empire, to issue a decree: I, Gaius Julius Caesar, conqueror of Gaul, pontifex maximus, and now verified user (pending approval), have been vanquished not by armies, but by the algorithm.

Let history record that I did not fall to an assasination on the Ides of March, but on account of a woman who captions her selfies “divine feminine rising.”

So there.

I came. I saw. I vented.