I Kept Coming Home to a Toothpick in the Lock, Instead of Calling the Police, I Took Revenge on My Own Terms

After another brutal 14-hour hospital shift filled with bedpans, vomit, and a man claiming his “friend” sat on a remote, I just wanted a shower, frozen pizza, and silence. Instead, I got locked out of my house—again. This time, thanks to a toothpick jammed into my front door lock. It wasn’t the first time, and as I stood in the cold jabbing it with tweezers like a deranged locksmith, I decided: no police. I’d get revenge on my own terms.

I called my brother Danny, who showed up in sweatpants and a T-shirt that read “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE,” toolkit in hand. He confirmed it: someone had deliberately stuck the toothpick in there. We chalked it up to a weird prank. But then it happened again. So Danny brought over his old security camera—one that had survived a raccoon war—and mounted it in the tree outside.

The next evening, while obsessively watching my phone for motion alerts, I got the footage: my ex, Josh. The same Josh who’d been cheating while I worked double shifts. There he was, in his puffy jacket, delicately inserting a toothpick like he was performing surgery. I was stunned. We’d broken up six months ago—quietly, I thought. Clearly, he had other plans.

I called Connor. Tall, tattooed, and a former almost-boyfriend turned best friend, he showed up ready for chaos. When I told him about the footage, he didn’t blink. “Want me to talk to him?” he offered. “No violence,” I warned. “This time,” he smirked.

The plan was simple. I pretended to leave for the evening, parked around the corner, and snuck in through the back. Connor waited inside, wearing nothing but my pink bathrobe and holding a wrench. At 7:11 p.m., like clockwork, Josh appeared. As he bent toward the lock, Connor flung the door open and stepped onto the porch like a shirtless avenger.

“You must be the toothpick fairy,” he said, towering over Josh. I watched from the window as Josh’s face turned to terror. He bolted. I chased after him and yelled, “Why? Why mess with my lock?” Josh stammered that he hoped I’d need help, that maybe we’d talk, reconnect. “So you sabotaged my door to play hero?” I asked. “It sounded better in my head,” he muttered. Connor told him to disappear, and Josh did, fast.

The next day, I uploaded the footage to TikTok with the caption: “My ex keeps jamming my door lock with toothpicks. So I introduced him to my new man. 🤣😈” It exploded—millions of views. Josh emailed me, furious about his privacy. I didn’t reply. I forwarded the video to his boss. Turns out, Amber—his “work friend”—was the boss’s daughter. And she had no idea I existed. Josh was soon “pursuing other opportunities.”

Danny changed my locks two weeks later—not because I needed to, but because it felt like the right ending. He asked, “Why not just call the cops?” I looked around at the ridiculous, hilarious, oddly satisfying chaos and said, “And miss all this?”

That afternoon, Connor brought over pizza and Coke. “To small victories,” he toasted. “And to morons who think lock sabotage is romantic,” I added. “Still waiting on my share of TikTok fame,” he teased. “How about I don’t tell anyone about the bathrobe?” I shot back. “Deal,” he grinned.

Just then, my phone buzzed again. Three million views. Turns out, sometimes revenge doesn’t need a grand plan. Just a bathrobe, a camera, and one very determined ex.