The Toothpick Sabotage: How My Ex Tried to Break Into My Life — and How I Turned It Into a Viral Victory
After one of the most grueling hospital shifts of my life, I thought the worst was behind me. Fourteen hours filled with chaos, caffeine, and enough strange injuries to fill a medical textbook — from a kid who “accidentally”
sat on the remote (don’t ask) to a man who insisted his dog was “allergic to gravity.” Honestly, all I wanted was a hot shower, a soft couch, and maybe a frozen pizza — slightly burnt, just how I like it.
Instead, I was greeted by a mystery waiting right at my front door.
I jiggled my keys, frustrated. The lock wouldn’t turn. I tried again — nothing. It was like my door had decided to go on strike. That’s when I noticed it: something small, thin, and out of place lodged inside the keyhole.
A toothpick.
I pulled out my phone, switched on the flashlight, and peered in. Yep — a toothpick jammed deep inside the lock. I blinked, unsure if exhaustion was messing with my vision. Was this some bizarre prank? Some weird coincidence?
I tried everything to get it out — a bobby pin, my car key, even the tip of a pen. But the toothpick was stubbornly wedged in tight, refusing to budge.
Cold fingers and growing frustration later, I finally admitted defeat and called my brother Danny.
Danny is the kind of guy who’d rather be gaming than playing handyman, but he showed up in record time, wearing a T-shirt that proudly announced, “I Paused My Game to Be Here.” Armed with a tiny toolkit and a look that said “seriously?” he went straight to work.
Within minutes, he fished out the toothpick and looked at me like this was no accident.
“Someone did this on purpose,” he said flatly.
I nodded, silently vowing it wouldn’t happen again.
Spoiler: it did.
The very next day, same scenario. Same toothpick, same jammed lock.
By this point, Danny had had enough. “Alright,” he said, “I’m bringing the camera.”
That evening, he installed a motion sensor camera on the big tree outside my porch and synced it to my phone.
“I’ve caught raccoons on this thing before,” he said. “We’ll catch your saboteur.”
I parked a few blocks away, phone in hand, heart pounding. At exactly 7:14 p.m., my phone buzzed with an alert: motion detected.
I tapped the screen and nearly dropped my phone.
There he was — Josh. My ex.
Crouching by my front door like some amateur locksmith, toothpick in hand, intent on mischief.
For context: Josh was the guy I dumped six months ago after catching him s*xting his “work friend” Amber — all while pretending to be “in therapy.” His charm had worn thin, and frankly, this toothpick nonsense was just the cherry on top.
I could’ve called the police right then and there. But instead, I called Connor.
Connor — the kind of guy you call when you want trouble to feel poetic. Muscular, tattooed, with a smirk that says he’s seen it all but is always up for the next mess.
He picked up on the first ring.
“You want me to talk to him?” he asked.
“By talk, you mean…?”
“Peacefully, of course,” he said, deadpan. “Mostly.”
We made a plan.
The next evening, I staged a little performance. I loudly pretended to be on the phone, telling a fake friend I was heading out for dinner, then slipped away through my neighbor’s yard and back inside through the back door.
Connor was already there, waiting — in a hot pink bathrobe.
“Seriously?” I whispered.
“It makes me look approachable,” he replied with a grin.
“Maybe wear pants next time.”
“No promises.”
At exactly 7:11 p.m., the alert buzzed again.
Josh appeared, creeping up the path, toothpick in hand, oblivious to what awaited.
Just as he reached for the lock, Connor yanked the door open, wrench in hand, bathrobe flapping like a superhero cape.
“Well, if it isn’t the Toothpick Fairy!” Connor boomed.
Josh froze — and then, somehow, started explaining himself.
He admitted that he’d been sabotaging my lock so I’d have to call him for help. His “grand plan”? To swoop in, play the hero, and win me back.
“So your idea of romance was… breaking my lock?” I asked, incredulous.
“It sounds worse when you say it out loud,” he muttered.
“It is worse,” Connor added, deadpan.
Josh stammered, embarrassed, and finally bolted into the night.
I thought that was the end of it.
But then, I uploaded the footage to TikTok.
I captioned it: “My ex keeps jamming my lock with toothpicks, so I introduced him to my new man. #ToothpickGate.”
The internet went wild.
Two million views in two days. Memes. Comments. Applause.
Josh sent me a long, dramatic email about “privacy violations.” I didn’t respond — but I did forward the video to his boss.
Amber’s father.
By the weekend, Josh was “pursuing new opportunities.”
Danny and I installed a new lock — mostly for symbolism — and he smirked as he said, “You know, you could’ve just called the cops.”
“And miss this story?” I laughed. “Never.”
That night, Connor came over with pizza and Coke. We toasted to our absurd victory.
“To small wins,” he said.
“To idiots with toothpicks,” I replied.
Conclusion
Sometimes revenge doesn’t need to be dramatic or cruel — just smart enough to sting.
I didn’t need police reports or broken locks to get closure. Just one viral video, a pink bathrobe, and a bit of poetic justice.
Because sometimes, the sweetest revenge isn’t about anger — it’s about reminding someone they messed with the wrong woman… and the whole internet knows it.