Snook - Unnerving Anonymous Confessions

Episode Date: May 21, 2025

follow and rate 5 stars! Thank you! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys. Welcome back to another anonymous confessions video. And today we're going to be getting into some unnerving anonymous confessions. You guys have been, you know, loving these videos a lot. And if you'd like to see your confession in a future video, please send to the email on screen now. And yeah, please comment down below. If you'd like to see more videos like this in the future, please like the video. It helps so much. And subscribe to the channel. Also helps more than you'd ever know. So yeah, like and subscribe. And comment down below, if you agree or disagree with my opinions on these people confessions or what you think about their confessions. A lot of these people really appreciate the feedback. And yeah, without further ado, let's get into some unnerving anonymous confessions.

I am not okay. Dear Snook, I would first like to say that your videos are entertaining. They help pass time as I listen to your stories while I do chores around my house. Good to see your channel's doing great. One thing to note is that this may be a long confession, so feel free to shorten it to your Now, as for the confession, it's something I've been holding in for a long time. It's something people may understand, but not agree. I don't know if I should get help because I think it's something that can help me in the future. There are thoughts I have about harming people. It's something I think about at least once a day. It's not impulsive or anything, just thoughts. I think of scenarios where I kidnap an individual and subject them to torture and kill them.

I only think of this to people who deserve it. Like Mr. Swirl, a notorious child, Mward, or the guy in Australia who killed a litter of puppies and their mom while committing acts of zoo love. I know people like them deserve to be punished not only by law, but by my hand as well. I know killing in general is bad and shouldn't be a solution, but... To me, people like them deserve to be tortured and killed. It's only fair to people or other living beings that they've hurt. And not only them, but people who hurt the innocent. I even think about these scenarios when I work and even before going to sleep because it helps me sleep.

I like it. I used to not be like this at all. I was once very religious and had a strong belief in Christianity, but certain events in my life caused me to lose my faith in religion and certain people in my life. When I started having dark thoughts, I condemned myself because I know they weren't right. But at the same time, I like the idea of causing pain to those people. So I let myself have these thoughts. I thought I couldn't be saved at the time, but that time was the best time to have tried saving myself. Now, I firmly believe that I must do something about these people that live in this world.

I used to be outgoing while still being a little introverted. I had friends and a social life, at work, college, hangouts. Now I've closed myself to everyone, and it's by choice. I want to be alone, and I see it as a good thing. I don't have to deal with anything but myself. I do think of starting family when I'm older, like in my 30s, but I don't know how I'm going to do it. But what I do know that I must do are two things.

One, use the pain and suffering I've experienced to motivate me do better. I think of going to college to study politics so that I can help and serve the people of my city. I want to change the world for better. I want to be able to help my city flourish in every way possible. I also plan on going to the military to get experience and discipline needed to be a police officer, which then I will become familiar with the law and the people of the community. Second one is exactly as the first one, but with crime. I will be an experienced person when it has comes to the things I will do. It's going to be terrible. but I will do it for the right reasons.

And I know this won't be a factor of redemption, as I would be committing crimes like theft and murder. I wouldn't expect people to agree with my actions, but I will evidently do these things for the greater good. As of now, I'm debating on going to college or the military. I have a comfortable life as I work as a mechanic and make good money, but I want more. I have always been poor,

and I know what it's like to not have things you desperately need, which is why I want to move up in life. Not just for me. but to those who need it. And thank you so much for sending this in. And I just want to say hurting people or killing these people won't solve anything, but ruin your life. That's just not how the world works.

You can't go out there, kill people, and people will just forgive you, and the law will just forgive you. I think your best case scenario, if you want justice, get into politics, like you said. Get into being a police officer, an ethical police officer. do something along those lines and you might be able to feel kind of that justice be served to these people. Although going out to killing and torture them is not the way to do it. I really hope you don't do that. I really hope you can get more of what you want.

Go to college. I'd recommend that. Go to the military if you decide to go to that route. Both of those are very productive things. I think you can get a very great life out of both of those careers or educations. and I'm sure you can do better, but I don't think, you know, thieving your way or murdering your way to justice is the way to do it. I really hope you think about this more and read some comments on this video.

I recommend everyone viewing to leave some feedback on this guy's story and tell them what you think he should do. So please, if you're listening to this, please read the comments, listen to my advice. I know it might not be right, but You know, it's a little bit more down the middle of the road, a little bit more sane, so to say. I'm not calling you insane, but killing and torturing is not the way to go. I really hope you can think about this.

Thank you so much for sending this in, and I hope the feedback helps. On to the next one. I was forced into choking out my cleaning lady. Hey, Snook, I really love what you do, and after watching you for some time, I feel like I can finally share this with someone. This took place about five months ago. For a short summary, I'm 18. I live with my mom and we have a nanny who I call N.

When we first hired N, I had no complaints. She did her job well and usually kept to herself. Around a month of her being around, she started getting really comfortable, too comfortable. For example, she would start asking for me to give her my personal electronics. Of course, I would say no. She would eat the food I ordered and loads of other inconveniences. I'm usually very hard to annoy, so I would just ignore the things she would do and move on with my day. Then a day came where she told my mom she wanted to quit.

My mom understood and said she would send her last paycheck at the end of the month. I don't remember why, but this started a loud argument between her and N. I tried not to think much about it because it was getting late and I had school in the morning. Shortly after I went to bed, I woke up to this bloody scream for help. I was half asleep and delirious, but I ran out of my room as fast as I could. When my eyes focused, I saw my mom pressed up against the wall with a knife pressed against her. End demanded she'd get her paycheck at that very moment. I screamed to end to let my mom go. This caused enough of a distraction to allow my mom to slip away and run behind me for safety. I grabbed my own

knife for protection as I kept trying to de-escalate the situation. Eventually, after an hour of negotiating, I got her to put the knife away. The moment she closed the drawer, I lunged at her and put her in a chokehold. I remember squeezing for dear life because I knew if I didn't follow through with my plan, I would end up on the news a dead man. After about a minute and a half, she went limp. My mom was too shocked to speak the entire time. I knew I had to act fast, so without even a second to rest, I grabbed Dan's body and dragged her out of the apartment. The moment I shut the door, leaving her outside, I heard her wake up. She was screaming, scratching, and banging the door. Eventually, she stopped and ran away. We never heard from her since. Turns out she was living here

illegally, so it was basically impossible to find her. I don't know if this really counts. as a confession, but either way, it feels good to finally speak about it. Ever since it happened, I've been paranoid. I can never sleep with my door unlocked, and thank you, Snook. Somehow you are able to make traumatic stories feel like they might help someone else. Thank you so much for sending this in, and that's a scary situation. But at least everyone survived it. It seems like your mom's okay.

You're okay. And the maid okay as well. But that's a horrifying situation. And yeah, I'm sure you're, you know, scared to. sleep, probably have some sort of PTSD. I'm not a therapist. I can't diagnose, but, you know, that scary stuff like that will definitely make you scared for a long time after. But I would recommend talking to somebody, get a therapist, talk to them, and maybe it can alleviate some of the fear you're carrying around because that's a scary situation. I hope you're doing

better now. But yeah, just talk to someone. I'm sure I help a lot. And thank you so much for sending this in onto the next one. Hey, Snook. I've been listening to your videos for quite a bit, and I appreciate the work you put into your channel. Below is a long-witted confession of sorts that I wrote in the format of a short story. All of it is true. The only person who has read it is my partner, but I thought I could send it your way in case you might be interested in reading it for a video. Thanks for reading if you do, Benny. I made my first drug deal for my dad when I was 12. A patient was in need, and my dad was ready to supply. But as my father was out and about, he placed that burden on his youngest. I always wondered if he used that label to justify his actions, as if there's

any way to justify the lifelong trauma in recurring peril he inflicted upon his children. But still, patient. Would that make him the illustrious Dr. Johnson, not the real last name, the medicine man with an MBA and arrest under his belt, the self-appointed prescriber who would rather blame the world around him than acknowledge his hardships as merely consequential to his hand-picked ignorance and ill-advised decision-making, the strained supplier, selling weed to those in need while racking up

his 15th consecutive father-of-the-year award. My dad and his, quote, patience, a match too perfect for any afterlife to take credit. However, I must admit, it would be unfair to lump all his life choices into a lone-tattered box.

To give my father some kudos, aside from his patience who made up half of the local college football team, he did provide relief for some of the individuals with debilitating chronic pain. He managed to accomplish some level of good, it just so happened to be at the cost of his own family. I was home alone on a sunny Saturday afternoon

when the landline sounded. I took a peek at the caller ID and picked up on the fourth ring. I need you to do a favor for me, my dad said. His version of a favor, however, might not qualify for most. Soon enough, my dad was talking me through weighing out a strain of weed named in my honor. I was in sixth grade, rather than sitting glued in front of the TV with the remnants of chips sprinkled on my fingertips

or feeling the wind hit my face as I coast down the small asphalt incline that my siblings and I called a hill, I was zeroing out a scale in my dad's dimly lit master bedroom. I scanned over the dozens of mason jars until I spotted it, on a clean, cut, black, and white laminated rectangle with curled yellow ends read the words, Ben's shot. As I unscrewed the jar, an all too familiar scent hit my nostrils. I peered into the 32-ounce glass hole, staring back at me with a furry green mound of bud. Was this what my dad saw me as?

A means to an end? A green clump that he could exchange for another? My momentary existential crisis was interrupted by the hum of his voice over the landlide speaker. This was not the time to philosophize and ponder my father's true intentions. I had a job to do. I needed to pull my weight for the family. After all, I'm in middle school now. This is what maturity entails.

I never had the chance to read over the terms and conditions, but my dad signed them for me. I would like to say this was a one-time event, an unfortunate anomaly in my complex childhood, an atomic trauma bomb headliner for future therapy sessions. But hindsight is 2020, and my dad clouded my prescriptions with drug dealing duties and a splash of guilt trip-filled ambitions. I was now responsible for the occasional sharply marked baggy mailbox drop numerous times a month up until my senior year of high school. It's a strange feeling. To be cognizant of the illegal acts you're committing while your father, the man you have no choice but to trust, manipulates

and coaches you into his perfect little accomplice, praying on your innocence and naivety. As the feeding strangers came and went, I snagged 10 and $20 bills from the hollow aluminum container once each car sputtered out of earshot. A handful of times I was told to hand the bags directly to them. There was no metallic barrier for these transactions, not a single care for my safety, no hoodie big enough to cover my clammy hands, and no breath deep enough to conceal my shaky voice. Not once did the patient's question the teenager providing them with their fix, and not once did my father consider the endangerment he bestowed upon his own. I was the middleman, the baby of the family, an unknowing a better who didn't know any better.

I never contemplated the morality of my situation because it was all I had never known. At school, I was taught the danger of substances in the potential harmful existence that comes with that risk. At home, I was taught that my dad was helping people through the skunky green flowers housed in the room where luminous green lights shown through the cracks of my ominous pale wooden door, a contrast that I never fully understood the weight of. The jungle of smells flooded the house, attacking every nose in sight and blanketing my clothes with its stench. The in-home grow provided an inescapable prison of complicity to one of my most important senses. In eighth grade, I showed up to school with an ugly sweater on for a choir field trip to the local elementary schools.

From the moment I sat down goofing around on the piano, before we boarded the bus, a friend commented on a skunky smell coming from my direction. I became the center of attention, bombarded with questions and stares about my personal. prominent Melodore. After being accused of my grandma's sweater smelling like weed, I deflected stating that I had purchased it from a thrift store on my way to school. The lies seemed to silence the interrogation for the moment, but I was forever marked with the memory of the foul scent from that point on. I began smuggling for breads from my mom's house to mask my odor with the chemically refreshing aroma from the blue spray bottle, dousing myself in a potent mist before my dad drove me to school became part of my daily routine. I dreaded anyone finding out about my dad's

business for fear of getting him in trouble and being the reason for his downfall. He heaved his biggest secret onto his three children, orchestrating his offspring amongst his felonious endeavors, forcefiends lies while making clear the ensuing horrors that would result from a slip-up. I never knew what to say when adults asked what my dad did for a living, besides the overwhelming negative possibilities surrounding the illegal nature of his career, I was downright embarrassed. Why should I receive those worried looks and judgmental stares for a choice my father made? Why should I be the forced to embrace the colossal loads of mistakes that he has continued to amass? Why did he not see the errors in his ways?

Why has he remained oblivious to his unacceptable decisions and destructive forms of manipulation? Why do I have to be the adult when I am his child? These questions echo around my subconscious as I am left with no answers, but at least I have a strain of weed named after me, right? I assume my father saw this as a sentimental and caring act, involving his son in an industry he longed to succeed in. The name, Ben's shot, was inspired by my passion for basketball. From a young age, I excelled in the sport and played through high school. He was heavily involved as my supporter, often too much at times, throughout my years of playing. Ben's shot, therefore, marked an unconventional appreciation for our combined interests.

I had once embraced this gift from my dad, bragging to my fellow high schoolers about a strain of weed named after me. They would pat my coping ego on the back through a sea of dapp-ups amongst a collective nod of approval. From the outside looking in, no one could see the multitude of trauma and humiliation I continued to accumulate by seeking validation for a gift I'd not asked for. I reassured myself that I should be great for. for this present. I should take control of the narrative and be proud rather than ashamed,

but in doing so, I hid behind a facade. Hi, Snook. I just wanted to say thank you so much for creating such an inviting and understanding space. I love your videos and the community you've created. I have a confession to make. This happened a long time ago when I was just a little kid, but it still makes me sick to this day. At the start, let me explain a few things about my childhood. I want to make it clear that none of this is to a means to excuse my behavior, but maybe the explanation will make my story make more sense. I grew up an abusive household. My biological father, he doesn't deserve the title, Father, but for the sake of clarity,

I'll call him that. He used to beat my mom and I, as well as abuse her financially and both of us verbally. Once the cops were even called, I remember being thrown down the hallway, into a glass door, luckily it didn't break, and him even breaking the thick wooden paddle he used to spank. me with on my behind because he hit me so hard. And that's just the start. He'd also tell me I was stupid, ugly, fat, and that no boy would ever love me. Unfortunately, at 26, I've still yet to prove him wrong on that last point. I still struggle with anxiety because I grew up around always

having to be super vigilant of my surroundings and try not to set him off or I'd just get hit. My sister is several years younger than me, and when my mom was pregnant with her, we went to a visit a friend's house at the beach for a few days. I can't even remember if my father came with or not. That's how unimportant he has always been to me. I was about seven at the time. I can't remember exactly what happened, but between what I know now was an extreme level of his anxiety and something my mom did to annoy me. I suddenly got very angry. I was old enough to know full well that there was a baby in my mom's stomach, but I got so mad I punched her straight in the stomach. I don't think my intention was to hurt my sister. I had nothing against her. I think I was just struggling. I was

struggling to cope with everything and last out. I was still a little kid, so my punch wasn't that hard, but when my sister was born, her collarbone was broken. I still feel sick thinking about this, and I'm about to cry. My mom has always said that the doctor mishandled my sister when she was born and that he was the one who did it. But deep down, I think it was my fault. I feel sick thinking about how much worse it could have been. Now that I'm older, I try to be understanding with myself knowing how much I was dealing with at the time. But the other part of me feels like I'm a monster because my intention was genuinely to hurt my mom.

I've told my sister the story and apologized. She laughed it off and told me not to worry about it, but I still feel horribly guilty. Not to make the story go for too long, but there is one other incident that I still feel guilty about. When I was about 10 and my sister five or so, we were in the backyard talking to her neighbor. He was cooking out on the grill and invited my mom's sister and I

to join him for dinner. I remember being really stressed at the time. I was probably having a panic attack but didn't know what a panic attack was. All I felt was really warm and a sudden sense of urgency to pass the information along to my mom, who was inside. I told my sister to run inside and tell mom about dinner, but my anxiety made it come across as super urgent. We had a cement porch and our one rule was to not run on the porch because there was a cement stare at the door to step up and go inside. I'm sure you can see where this is going. As my sister turned to run inside, I kept talking to the neighbor when suddenly I heard a blood-curdling scream.

I turned around and saw my mom carrying my sister all bloodied up. I quickly ran inside and saw from the blood on the step in my sister's forehead that she had tripped and fallen straight into the concrete. We rushed her to the hospital, but it wasn't very bad. I still don't know how she didn't crack her skull open right there on the spot. She ended up not even needed stitches. I've always felt like it was my fault for letting my anxiety and stress influence how I spoke to her. I've gotten much better at handling my anxiety since then, especially now that I know what it is, and I've moved out of that hellhole of a traumatic home.

However, I still get sick when I think about how I could have seriously hurt my little sister twice. I feel like a monster. She knows both stories, and regardless of whether she thinks either were my fault, she told me not to worry about it. I hate to think about how much my anxiety as a kid not only hurt myself, but the people I cared most about. Hello, Snook. First of all, obviously, I got to say that I love your videos.

I'm a dog groomer, and you make my job even more enjoyable than what it already is. Here is my confession. When I was about 15 to 16 years old, me and my friend went to PetSmart to pick up some stuff for my dog. I went to the bathroom in the store and in one of the stalls I found a wallet. It had about $1,000 in it with a piece of paper describing all the bills that the person had. Till this day, it pains me to say that I took the money. Every time something bad happens to me, I think of that situation and just remind myself

that it's probably karma for what I did. I don't even remember what I did with the money, but obviously I spent it. Growing up, we lived paycheck to paycheck, and I remember the way my mom would struggle to make ends meet, so I can't imagine how this person felt losing $1,000. And I was 20, I am 25 now. I donated $1,000 to the SPCA in my city for my birthday. In my mind, this was sort of a way to pay back for what I did. But still, I don't think I'll ever feel better about this situation.

I've never told anything like this again, and, man, I feel terrible even just talking about it. That poor person. I hope they're doing good, and I hope they don't remember that that even happened to them. I'm so sorry, and if I knew who they were, I'd do anything I can for them to forgive me. Anyways, thanks for reading. Snook, thank you for the videos you create. They're amazing to listen to at work, and it makes time pass, and I just love hearing stories of other people's lives. Here's my story.

My name is Blaine. I am 20 years old and I am from a small town of Michigan, USA. Growing up, I never really had a father figure. My mother met my stepdad when I was probably 9 or 10, and he's seen care of me, and it's not the same, I guess. Even though I do see him as my dad, my bio-dad has never been in my life. I've never met him.

I wanted to find out who he really was when I was 13. The reason my biological dad has never been in my life is because when my mom was pregnant with me, my dad was doing methamphetamine. He used to sell it, possibly even made it himself. My dad murdered my brother while he was smoking meth. My brother was four years old. This happened in a small town in Indiana. It haunts me every day. Not knowing why he did it. Not knowing who my brother is. Not knowing anything. For the longest time, my mom never told me about that side of my family.

I never spoke to them until I was 15 and I found out about them on my own. I met my two older brothers from my dad's side on Instagram. My mom also had four kids, including me. I met them in person when I was 17, along with my grandparents and others in the family. They're amazing people as well. They're all super hard workers and very successful people. I'm going to Florida with my brothers next month, which is amazing because we've grown super close together.

But back to my dad. He was charged with a lot. He will face time in prison until possibly 2038. I don't know what I'll do when or if he gets out. I've talked to him before, only through text. He has a tablet in prison that allows him to talk to family whenever he wants to, but I'm not sure how to feel when or if he gets out. Part of me wants to punch him in the face.

Part of me wants to give him a handshake because I've never actually known him. We do have a lot in common as well. When I first talked to him, I was very angry for what he had taken from me. But as I grew older, I've learned to forgive. Not because I feel sorry for him, but because everyone deserves a second chance no matter how bad they've done. It's absolutely a nightmare knowing what he did, but do you think maybe it was the drugs?

Do you think he actually wanted to kill my brother? I'm not too sure. I do know that sometimes it's hard to open up to him because of it, but I try to treat him like any other human being because everyone makes mistakes. That's all I have to share as of now. Thank you for reading. I hope this will reach out to others

and allow them to maybe forgive someone in their life who has messed up horribly. Thank you for giving me someone to over it. up to. Thank you for reading. Goodbye. Dear Snook, I enjoy watching your videos a lot, and it's the only thing that helps me go to bed. Okay, now to my confession. I was about six, and my grandparents were visiting my family. They stayed with the center house, and we had one spare bedroom. I would share the room with my grandma, and my grandpa would use the spare room during the visits. I would usually wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble going back to sleep. I got spooked easily as a kid, so I

couldn't walk around in the dark. I would usually need to turn on the big light. On their third night, I think during visiting, we went to bed and it was a normal night so far. I then woke up and couldn't go back to sleep as always. I then hear a sort of muffled yell and groan. It sounded like my grandpa. Me being the scared little kid I was, threw the blanket over my head and tried to hide. I was too scared to check up on what happened. I thought he probably just stubbed his toe. I then wake up and start getting ready for school during 6.40-ish. I walk into the living room and see my grandma lying on the floor. The bed and the spare room was uncomfortable, so he would usually watch TV and sleep on the

couch with the blanket over his head. My grandma, who woke up a little bit before me, was sitting on the couch not bothering him because she thought he was tired and didn't get a good night's sleep. We then hear my grandpa grunt, not speak, just grunt loudly. We uncovered the blanket off of his head and he has a black eye and a black eye and and I wet himself. We called the ambulance and he went to the hospital. It turns out when I heard him yell and groan, he had a stroke. The stroke has caused him not to be able to speak ever again and be paralyzed on his left side. I feel so guilty and bad after. I couldn't sleep for a few

nights just to think that if I possibly wasn't scared and just got up to check on him, I'd be able to speak to him again. Snook, I hope you're able to read this confession that still haunts me to this day, and it's just a reminder to that I could have easily prevented all of this. Hi, Snook, I apologize if my text is choppy or written wrong because I am a teen and English is not my first language. I have lots of history with drinking, smoking, shoplifting, and depression. I started having depressing thoughts after I'd seen two corpses slash other teens who aged themselves on a tree near my house. Those happened to me when I was about seven and nine. I had to call the police when I was about nine because my parents weren't able to.

I had started thinking of how hanging worked and I had Googled the hanging knot and tried to hang my plug. After a few months, those went away with talking to professionals, but they came back after my dog had to be put down of old age when I was about 9 and 10 to 11, but after that, they were aggressively hard to ignore. So I started self-aging at the ripe age of 11. It was really hard after I had turned 12, and in January, I decided to stop. For over a year, I could stop cutting, but one day it had gotten hard and it took the blade again. I felt shame and freedom at the same time.

I had an active addiction while in school. Sometimes the withdrawals got too bad, so I took a blade out my school back and excused myself to the bathroom and had a five-ish-minute session every day. Sometimes it got so bad that I started to scratch myself pretty hard. I've got it under control for a week or few now, so I've been sick for over a week with a fever and myctoplasma, and it's been frustrating and hard for me. In myctoplasa equals a lung infection slash virus that makes it hard to breathe and gives me weird rashes.

I've been having a day-long depressive episodes, and I've wanted to kay myself overtaking medicine, and I haven't been able to see anyone else than my mom, mom, dad, and brother's girlfriend. One night after midnight, I took all my medicine, wishing I would die, and my mom had to watch, so I wouldn't overdose slash harm myself. And after I took some, I went to bed while listening to your videos. In bed, I didn't fall asleep because it was so cold, and your video was scaring me, so I stayed away watching TikToks on my burner phone. I don't have WhatsApp on it, but I do have Insta, Facebook, Reddit, Twitter, Snapchat, TikTok, and lots of games.

And at around 1230, I started coughing up lungs, and I passed out because I didn't get in any air or exhaustion. Later I woke up and I had gas for air and I rose from my bed and I checked myself in the mirror around 1 a.m. And I was blue and purple. I didn't wake my guardians of the fear that they would not give a fuck. I went back to bed and cried that I wouldn't wake up. Obviously I woke up, but I wished I earlier to die. but now I was wishing I didn't. I hope someone else has realized that

life is worth living. T.K. P.S. Your videos are amazing, and I always listen to them in class or before going to bed. Hello. I am an artist. There's just about one thing I want to make clear in my artwork.

However, distorted it might be, and that is the blood. I want to make it correct. I want to render all the viscera and gore correctly. I want to evoke as much of a visceral reaction for myself as possible when I'm looking back at my drawings. This in of itself is not a problem,

just another 15-minute freak, if that. I share it to my friends if they ask, they understood and do not. I don't blame them, but I fear hosting an account for many reasons, including the below. My issue lies more in that I have oftentimes gotten so frustrated

with my lack of ability to do it properly from the mind that I search out for reference. Real people getting really wrecked, run the gauntlet, shock sights, screamers, I've seen them all, and some of them I've saved in order to use as reference for my artwork. Some of them.

The description made it sound worse than it was. Some of them are perfect material. At times I might digitally cut out a piece of the wreck and interpolate it with my drawings. If I find myself even more frustrated that I, for some reason or another, still can't do it. Gifts and videos are usually the best because they give a large range of motion, and most still images have. To me, an uninteresting or sufficient quality. That is my confession. I've considered beginning to take from kill films because I want to replicate reality as much as possible.

Expectantly, it's difficult, but it is my end goal. Optional. No, I don't recommend this process to anyone else. What I have seen is, quite frankly, things no one should ever see in their lifetime. Do not do it to be desensitized. Do not do it in order to brag. Do not do it because you think you can handle it. The human brain is traumatized by violence, simulated fake.

or real. If you really look at it, it won't get out of your head. Don't be like me. Hey Snook, I would like to remain anonymous for my confession. This will be a long one, but I promise that I have an important message to share at the end. This confession is heavy on the topic of animal death, so for those highly sensitive to this topic, there's no shame in skipping this confession. I've taken care of six budjugator parakeets in my lifetime, and none of them have died a peaceful, natural death. started when I was 14 years old. My close friend, who I had known since elementary school, had gotten a very cute male parakeet named Malibu. He was yellow and bright green,

very chatty even sitting on your shoulders. I was so charmed by him. I wanted to care for parakeets of my own. My mom was charmed by him as well. I did what I believed at the time was thorough research on how to properly care for budgies. Then my mom and I went to the chain pet store where we bought the cage, purchase, food, and other items we believed we needed for budgie care. We had also bought the budgies. The first was a large yellow and green male with a beautiful long blue tail who appeared to have a tame and handle able temperament. We had seen him earlier in the week and were originally going to bring him home only. But he was interacting with a skinnier blue and white male and we didn't want to separate the two.

We named the yellow one fruity and the blue one pebbles after the cereal brand. My father was not happy, as he never agreed to having any pets or animals in the house. All was well in the beginning. Frutie and Pebbles were very cute together. They would play with the bells and other toys would get for them, and they would sing a lot. However, my father would handle them in ways I didn't approve of. We have a pool with a Lanai. A lanai is a metal frame screen enclosure over a swimming pool in the entirety of its deck.

And my father would often put their cage outside and leave it open so that they could fly around the screened area outside. freely while I was at school and couldn't do anything about it. Oftentimes when I'd get back from school, my parents would tell me about how they have done this and my birds would fall into the pool and they would have to fish them out. They had talked about it as if it were some funny, lighthearted event, and I always told them not to do this, that it endangers my birds and that they are to be inside only. However, every morning when we would uncover the cage, pebbles would screech in a monotonous and consistent manner, had to get up for school very earlier. Wake up at at 5 a.m., leave by 6.15 a.m. to make it to school by 7 a.m. as it was my next

town over. But my parents would sleep in for longer, meaning that if I wouldn't uncover their cage when I got up, they would be left uncovered for longer than they should be. This would mean that when I would uncover their cage, pebbles would begin his daily morning screech. One morning, my dad was so irritated by pebble screeching, he moved their open cage outside to the pool deck and went back inside to sleep. When my parents got up and went to check on them, they found fruity floating dead in the pool and pebbles floating half dead. My mom had tried to gently blow dry him with a hair dryer, hoping he would recover, but it was too late, and he had two passed away. When I was walking back from the bus stop, my dad actually intercepted me before I got

home, which was unusual. He asked me if I was having a good day, and I told him what it was. He then told me that they had once again ignored me when I told them to keep my birds inside, and they had drowned because of it. This had occurred on Easter, and my parents kept their corpses and only buried them until three days later because they thought that they would resurrect much like Jesus. My parents are not very rational people,

and their personal beliefs disturb me, but that is rabbit hole for another time. I was extremely upset with them, and we had gotten two other budgies, this time a skinny, framed, yellow, and green female, with gray-tipped wings from the same pet store chain as the first two, and a greenish blue and silver female

from a different pet store chain. We had gotten her from a different pet store because we had wanted one yellow one and one blue one, but there were only yellow ones at the first chain. I named the yellow one peanut, as I always found it to be an adorable name for an animal, and the blue one was named Sprinkle by my mom. I'm guessing because her colors reminded me

of a sprinkle of rain. We had a habit of going to the pet store and looking at the animals. There are not many exciting things to do in the area, and soon we are charmed by two more budgies, and brought them home. We brought home a large yellow and dark green male with dark eyes named banana and a white and true blue female with dark eyes named pepper.

Every budgie that is bought from a pet store chain has clipped wings so they initially can't fly until the feathers grow back, but they are supposed to at least be able to glide down. Banana's wings were clipped so poorly instead of gliding down, at some point he must have fallen to the ground like a rock and the impact of his breastbone hitting the ground must have broken his skin. He had a wound on his chest and belly area that would scab over and bleed over and over again because banana would keep picking at it.

When a small animal bleeds, it's dire, and not something I would have ever anticipated to happen when I took a small animal under my care. My mom and I would take him to the vet where they would make a cone of sorts out of a pool noodle to place around his neck to prevent him from picking at a scab, but it made him slump forwards, heavily restricted his mobility, and changed his personality when he was wearing it. He was normally a tame and cheerful boy, but while wearing this uncomfortable a pool noodle, he would bite extremely hard, which was something he never did. They couldn't do surgery on him or apply sutures because he was too small. So the pool noodle was the extent of the

vet's help. There were only general veterinarians in their area, and the nearest avian vet was over 80 miles away. When we decided this wasn't going to work out, my mom used her craftiness to make her own cone for banana that resembled a dog cone. We would leave it on him and only take it off so we could eat, drink, and preen his fellers, while closely monitored him to make sure he wouldn't bite off his scab. My mom once even carefully and extremely slowly whittled away a large portion of the scap so that part of it was intact but to prevent the odds of a sudden movement damaging it all and to reduce the itchiness of it for banana. Miraciously, he made a full recovery, but the whole incident was traumatic and should have never happened. I truly considered a miracle that he had survived

and recovered. Some months later, Sprinkle started exhibiting signs of illness. She was often puffed up, had feces stuck to her vent and often made an unusually high-pitched squeaking sound whenever she would eat that I've never heard before. We took her to the vet, and the vet prescribed her an antibiotic, which we could give to her. We also had to keep her in a separate cage. We would also give her budgies a bowl of shallow room-temperature water with some leafy greens to bathe in, but when we would give a sprinkle one of her own, she would never bat and we'd have to try and clean her by hand. One day, her ear started to bleed. We took her to the general vet who had no idea what to make of it and couldn't really do anything to help. Days would pass and the inevitable

happened. I was at school and my mom noticed Sprinkle showing signs of dying, flailing, flapping, contorting. My mom rushed to the vet, but Sprinkle died in her hand right as she was about to open the door to the vet's office. We later discovered that this effort would have been futile anyway because the vet was out for lunch. We were devastated. It was especially hard on my mom because she had witnessed Sprinkled dying her arms. That left us with peanut, banana, and pepper. This will be a bit of a tangent, but I promise it ties back to my budgies. Years have gone by, and I am now 22 years old. Admittedly, I haven't been taken care of myself.

The only reason I'm alive is because I've listened to other people describe their near-death experiences, and the conclusion I've come to is that no matter how much you think you've accepted death and thought you be at peace with it when it comes to you, when you actually start dying, it's an unimaginable pain and fear beyond human comprehension. I don't want to experience it myself for as long as possible, but I have no greater plans or aspirations. I have bad eating habits, and I'm underweight, not because of any body image issues, but from a low appetite, and an unwillingness to put in effort to prepare food. I don't even order takeout because

the privacy of delivery is more than I'm willing to pay, and I know it adds up. I still live at my parents' house, but nobody really cooks. My mom works two jobs just like I do, and my dad just eats cheap, nearly expired, reduced-priced food from Walmart that nobody else wants. My hygiene isn't great, as I usually brush my teeth only once a day in the morning and only bathe once a week. Before then, I just wipe myself down with wipes, supply deodorant, spray some perfume in the prey, or I wash my hair only in the bathtub every other day. Or just when my hair looks greasy. I tend to wear the same hoodie and pants for a week straight. I think you get the idea. I'm gross, unmotivated, and I barely take care of myself. My mom,

isn't much different. I work so much because I feel like it's just what I'm supposed to do or expected to do, and it's the bare minimum of being alive. Unfortunately, the neglect didn't end with me. When I started to barely take care of myself, I wasn't doing everything I was supposed to do for my budgies either. I'd only clean their cage once every two weeks or once every month instead of once a week like I was supposed to. I rationalized this or dismissed it because they would spend most of their time outside their cage in their own little area. They would only really spend time in their cage when they would sleep, and it was away from the ground where they would do the most poop and waste. That didn't matter. It was a health hazard, and I should have been

cleaning it once a week. My mom would rarely help despite her helping more in the past and being on board with getting the parakeets when I was a minor. I wouldn't have been able to get them without adult supervision at the pet store, and that is hardly relevant now that I'm an adult. My dad would never do anything either, but he never wanted them nor did he agree to having them in the house. He often made threats of releasing them outside. They were ultimately my responsibility, and I was not doing what I was supposed to do, doing to ensure their care. The most I would do every day has changed their water and give them new food, along with putting them back in the cage at night and covering it with a bed sheet. Occasionally, I would give them hard-boiled eggs,

papariga seeds, and a shallow bowl of water with a lettuce leaf for them to bathe in. I had been considering surrendering them to a bird organization, but it looked complicated, and I kept putting it off. I was also worried that the request wouldn't be taken seriously as budgies are small, often sold cheaply, and bred irresponsibly, and I thought the rescue would prioritize larger birds. At the end of the day, all of these thoughts were poor excuses for not reaching out, and I'm angry that I had not even tried before it was too late. All three of my remaining budgies would start to not look so great. Pepper would often vomit on occasion and puff up her feathers.

We had sent her feces to be tested, and they came back negative for any viruses, bacteria that would cause sickness or parasites. We thought it was because we would try to get our parakeets to eat small color for pellets instead of seeds that are high in fat. The problem would appear to stop when we went back to giving them seeds but would return at random. Peanut started losing feathers on her legs, under her wings, and at the part of her body where her wings connected to her torso. We never saw her pluck her feathers or get them plucked by the other budgies, and banana,

despite being the healthiest looking one, always had his wings tremble in a little, which was not something we had seen him from him in his earlier years. Ever since I started taking care of the budgies, I've had recurring nightmares over the years that I suddenly have many pets that I didn't know I had, and they're all sick, dying or starving. As in, they've been there the whole time. I just had no awareness until it was too late.

There were all kinds of animals such as cats, dogs, birds, and even tarantulas. Sometimes the birds would accidentally get out or I'd squish the tarantulas by accident killing them. Those nightmares were bad, but they don't hold a candle to the horrible reality, I would witness in the waking world. As of the time I am typing this, the morning of yesterday, all three of my parakeets were alive.

Pepper looked sort of sick and puffed up, and her vent had feces. She was on a wooden corner platform in the cage under a small covering. This is where she sits when she isn't feeling well, or wants to be alone. The other two seemed like they were usual selves. I prepared a shallow bowl of room temperature water with a lettuce leaf for them to splash around in. Immediately, banana and peanuts started shredding the lettuce and splashing around around the water, plain and cleaning themselves. They looked happy and vigorous. I was hoping this

would entice pepper to come out and clean herself as well. She did not. 30 minutes later, I'll look at banana and peanut as they're sitting on some window perches. Both are breathing abnormally heavy, and I've never seen it before. I tried to coax peanut on my finger, but her grip was extremely weak. Her toes started curling inwards, like the legs on her dying spiders. Her balance was non-existent, and she couldn't stay upright. At this point, I'm holding her in my hand, and she starts falling and flailing and throwing her head back, moving abnormally. I started to panic as nobody else was home, and I called my mom. With every second, Peanuts condition was rapidly deteriorating. She was flailing so much. I sat on the ground and tried to hold her near my lap,

close to my torso in a way that wouldn't hurt her, but would prevent her from moving so much and tumbling from my lap. I started to cry, and I knew she was done. She threw back her head, let out a quiet and feeble squawk that have never heard before, laid down, and stopped breathing. But then I had flown down from the perch and was nearby. I could see that he, too, was breathing extremely heavily. He tried to walk but had no balance and kept flailing forward. He was showing that exact same symptoms as my now deceased peanut who was laying in my hand.

And I knew that he too was about to die. I held my hand near him and he climbed up with what little strength he had. I held him in the same manner I held peanut. He didn't flail as much, nor did he make it quite squawk. However, he too died just seconds before my mom got home. My two parakeets, who were vigorous and looked happy only 30 minutes before, had both died, one after the other, exhibiting the same symptoms. I knew that they had been poisoned or they had ingested something that was contaminated.

My mom cried together with me, but couldn't stay as her job was time-sensitive and couldn't be rescheduled, so I was left alone again. Pepper was still alive and sitting in the same spot. My current theory was that the lettuce that was in the bowl was contaminated with E. coli as Romaine lettuce frequently is, and that the recall had not been announced. I had an ounce of hope that because Pepper didn't interact with the lettuce, she wasn't poisoned or infected.

I held my finger to her to test her grip. It was poor. She crawled back to her spot and I decided to leave her alone. I'd check on her every 10 minutes. After 30 minutes, I heard movement and came over to her cage. She had probably moved herself to the floor, and that's when I knew it was probably happening. I didn't want her to die on the cage floor where there are feces and discarded seed shells, so I got a box.

Put a towel in it and placed for there. There are moments where I thought she'd be okay. After all, as she tried to walk around and seemed to alert, but I was wrong. It was longer than what I had witnessed with peanut and banana, but after 30 minutes, pepper two started to flail, threw her head back, let out the same. same noise that Peanut did and stopped breathing. I've been theorizing about what had poisoned or contaminated my budgies, but thinking about what has been different recently. My dad bought and gave them millet from the brand extreme natural millet spray at Walmart. They had not been given

millet for a long time until the day before their deaths. I was worried about its high fat contact. Millet is considered a treat for parakeets. They didn't eat the millet until the day after it was placed. The same day they had died. Pepper had eaten some. I'm unsure. of the other two. However, it wasn't expired and there doesn't seem to be any bad reviews mentioning sudden death. It isn't unheard for a parakeet to choke on the millet, so it's seriously unlikely that all three would have choked on it at once. It is possible that there could be mold that is not visible with me, but it overall seems unlikely that the millet was the cause of the death over my parakeets. The next thing I'd considered was that the romaine lettuce was contaminated. I hadn't watched it

thoroughly before placing into the box. However, pepper did not eat it or even touch it. Perhaps the water would splash on her while pepper and banana were plain in it, and if the lettuce were contaminated, this would be enough to poison her. Or perhaps the contamination spread through the air and just being close enough to the lettuce would be enough. This would also explain why she didn't die as rapidly. However, this too seems unlikely to me. While considering all of this, I had come to a horrific realization. This is where the confession portion of this really occurs. While I'm not 100% sure if this is what caused my budgie's death, it seems to be the most logical and plausible explanation. I would say that I am 80% certain.

We have a water pitcher in the kitchen that we all pour from. The water comes from one of the machines at the grocery store where you insert coins and you can get gallons of filtered water. The water from the three-gallon jug is poured into the pitcher. At night before I sleep, I sometimes get thirsty and all the cups are usually dirty. If a cup is available, I'll pour it into the cup. There, however, have been instances where I've drank directly from the pitcher, and the bacteria and human saliva is highly toxic to birds, and I can't remember if I drank from the pitcher the night before.

But it doesn't matter. It's possible that the water I have poured was contaminated with enough bacteria from my saliva that they ingested it, and it killed them. There's also the possibility that I ate or drank something toxic to parakeets drank directly from the pitcher, and there were enough molecules present in the water from the toxic food that killed them. My only doubt that doesn't make this 100% uncertain is that I have done this before, and these symptoms haven't shown up.

But it could also mean that this time there were more bacteria present, not to mention the toxic food aspect. I also struggled to find specific information on how it looks when a small bird is dying of being contaminated with the bacteria present in human saliva. I don't have information on how quickly it could kill in every symptom that appears. I've been told that through a Google search that it isn't typical for such contamination to kill rapidly and that a respiratory infection develops with the presence of coughing and ceasing, but there was no information that takes the size of the bird into the account.

My parents believe the millet was the most likely offender, but I can't look them in their faces and tell them that I've been occasionally drinking directly from the water pitcher, and that I believe it is most likely the cause of their deaths. Not knowing with absolute certainty, the exact cause of my poor animals got poisoned is haunting me. Seeing my two budges go from energetic and seemingly happy to watching their strength leaving them and basic motor functions destroyed within the span of 30 minutes hurt so much. I really had hope for Pepper that she would make it, even if she didn't look like she was feeling well initially. I can tell that they had suffered when they died and all I could do was watch helplessly as one after the others. stop moving forever.

To all those who are listening, I don't want, nor do I deserve your pity, but I do want you to consider how you think of animal caretaking. Parakeets, along with other small animals, are often unethically bred and sold on a mass scale. These animals have poor husbandry and are likely to suffer more health complications

than ones that are carefully and thoughtfully bred. They are subjected to poor conditions at pet store chains, and even the care pamphlets available in said chains, have inadequate information on how to properly care for these animals. They are easily accessible as they are sold for very cheap, nowadays about 30 bucks, so people don't think twice about whether or not they should really go through the commitment of caring for one like they would with a larger, more expensive bird, such as a conjure. To the ill-informed person, parakeets have a reputation for being easy to care for

or being so-called beginner's pets, but they are not. They are frail, sensitive birds, and once of all mistake, cost them of their life. When looking up how long they're supposed to live in captivity, the information is inconsistent, but banana, peanut, and pepper lived for at least seven years and could have lived much longer. Parakeets are not like hamsters who live three years at maximum. They can be over a decade-long commitment. Even before this final incident, Sprinkle and Banana has suffered due to events out of my control, and it has caused a lot of heartache. These animals were being sold in an area where there were no veterinarians that specialized in

birds specifically, and every time we took a parakeet to the vet, they were of practically no help. It was always clear that they only knew how to help dogs and cats. Parakeets are often kept in small, ill-equipped cages with hardly any room to fly and rarely ever let out. The combination of them being sold for cheap, being readily available, and PR on them being beginner's pets, often leads to them having miserable lives. If you are convinced that you want to take care for one, please don't buy from pet stores. If you are a person who works a lot, and you may not even have time to properly care for yourself, please strongly reconsider if you really think you can care for an animal and give

it the life it deserves. If you were in a better situation in the past like I was and got worse over time, you owe it to your animal to surrender them to a rescue or an organization that can properly care for them. Their first priority isn't to judge you, but to care for the animal and make sure it is safe. Don't be like me and at least try to reach out. Thank you for listening and I'm sorry that this was so long and disjointed. I struggle with riding a lot and don't write long walls of text frequently. I won't be able to look at parakeets along with other small vulnerable creatures the same way ever again, and this will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I buried my poor parakeets today in the same spot as the ones that have passed before them, too fruity, pebbles, peanut, sprinkle, banana, and pepper. I'm so sorry that I had failed you all. You all deserved a long and happy life. It was my responsibility to care for you. you. I let you all down. May you rest in peace. And rest and peace to all of those animals and hopefully you can forgive yourself. I really appreciate you sending that in. And that wraps up today's video of some unnerving, anonymous confessions. I hope you guys enjoyed this video. I enjoyed recording

it for you. I enjoyed, you know, letting you guys vent and air out some confessions you guys have. I really appreciate you watching at the end of the video. Comment down below what you thought about this video, like and subscribe, it helps a lot, and this was Snook, and I'll see you next time. Bye.