THE ‘I’M NOT THAT KIND OF BITCH’ POLICY

Privacy Policy

(Updated May 10, 2025)

Let’s get one thing straight from the jump: your privacy actually matters here. Wild, right? In a world where every app, cookie, and creepy digital lurker is trying to strip-mine your soul for ad dollars, I’m not playing that game.

If you’re on this site, you’re trusting me with some of your personal info—email address, your name, probably whatever you typed at 2 AM while crying into your keyboard. And guess what? I take that shit seriously. I’m not here to sell it, leak it, trade it for coffee, or hand it off to some shady third party in exchange for “exposure.” That’s not my style. I’ve got enough chaos in my life without adding lawsuits to the mix.

This Privacy Policy right here? It spells out exactly how I collect, use, and actually protect your info when you’re cruising my site: https://c728.substack.com

Whether you’re reading, shopping, signing up for the newsletter, or just lurking like a digital wallflower, this policy applies. By sticking around, you’re agreeing to the rules—so don’t pretend you didn’t know if you try to act shocked later. You wanna hang with me and the brutally honest grief squad? Cool. Just know this: I don’t do shady, I don’t do sneaky, and I sure as hell don’t do surveillance capitalism.

Now read the damn policy. Or don’t. But if you stay, you’re riding by these terms—leather, raw grief, brutal truth, and all.

THE BASICS: WHAT I COLLECT & WHY YOU SHOULDN’T PANIC

Let’s clear the air, shall we? Yes, when you visit this glorious digital corner of mine, some of your info gets collected. Shocking, I know. But before you spiral into full-blown conspiracy theory mode and start fashioning a tinfoil hat, let’s set the record straight: I only collect the stuff I actually need—not because I get off on watching your browser history, but because I want this site to work properly and not explode every time you click a button.

The only reason I collect anything at all is to make sure the site works, you get what you came for, and nobody ends up screaming at a blank screen wondering where the hell their order went.

Here’s the rundown of what I collect and why you shouldn’t lose your mind over it:

→ COOKIES – THE INTERNET KIND, NOT THE OREO KIND (SORRY) Yeah, I use cookies. Not the chewy, chocolatey, waistline-destroying kind, but the boring digital ones that help this site run like it has a damn clue. These sneaky little tech biscuits help me figure out how you’re using the site so I can actually improve your experience instead of blindly throwing content into the void. Don’t want ‘em? Cool, turn them off in your browser settings. Just know the site might start acting like it’s drunk and confused if you do. Totally your call.
→ PERSONAL INFO (ONLY WHAT YOU GIVE ME) – If you’re brave enough to sign up for my newsletter or buy my books and merch (solid life choices, honestly), I’m gonna need some basic info: name, email, payment stuff. No, I don’t want your social security number, your blood type, or your mother’s maiden name. Just the essentials to get you the goods. I don’t sell it. I don’t rent it. I don’t trade it for snacks. Your information stays right here unless you tell me otherwise or the FBI shows up with a warrant (and even then, they better come correct). I’m not in the business of betraying the people who keep my work alive. You gave me your trust—I’m not gonna use it to screw you over.
→ ANALYTICS (AKA NOT ME LURKING IN THE SHADOWS) – I use tools like Google Analytics to see what’s working and what’s dead weight. That’s it. I’m not watching your every click like a surveillance-addicted maniac—I’m just trying to figure out if people are actually reading the damn content and finding the good stuff instead of wandering around aimlessly like a raccoon in a Walmart. This data is about improving the site, not spying on your soul. Chill.
→ THIRD-PARTY SERVICES (A FEW TRUSTED HENCHMEN) – I work with a few third-party tools—like Mailchimp (to send you updates without manually lighting a signal fire), Google (because they basically run the Internet), Stripe, and maybe one or two others that help me keep this show running. These services might collect data like your IP address or what kind of browser you’re using—so they can do their jobs. I don’t let randos behind the curtain. If they’re on my team, it’s because I’ve already made damn sure they won’t sell your info to a digital dumpster fire. No shady backroom deals. No BS.

TL;DR?
I collect the bare minimum to keep things running, get you what you need, and make this place suck a little less with every visit. I don’t have the time, interest, or ethical flexibility to sell your info, and if that ever changes—trust me, I’ll let you know with the same brutal honesty I bring to everything else.

HOW I USE YOUR INFORMATION

Real talk—you gave me your info because you wanted something. Whether it was updates, newsletters, exclusive content, or just to keep tabs on what kind of chaos I’m stirring up next, you hit that sign-up button all by yourself. So don’t act shocked when I actually use your email to gasp email you. I’m not sliding into your DMs with pyramid schemes—I’m sending the stuff you asked for. You clicked it.

Now, if you decide to throw down some cash for a book, some badass merch, or anything else I’ve decided is worth selling, I’ve gotta use your info to actually get it to you. That means payment details, shipping info, confirmation emails—the whole shebang. I’m not a wizard. The universe doesn’t just magically know you want a copy of my book sent to the middle of nowhere. I have to process the damn thing.

I also use some fancy behind-the-scenes tools to make sure this site isn’t a total dumpster fire. I track how people use it—what you click, what you ignore, what makes you scroll like your life depends on it—so I can make it better. Not because I’m stalking you, but because I’d rather not spend time writing for an empty room. If everyone hates a page, I want to know so I can fix it—or burn it to the ground. Either way, no extras, no bullshit—just results.

WHO I SHARE YOUR INFORMATION WITH (NOT SOME CREEPY TROLL FARM IN NIGERIA)

Here’s the deal: I don’t sell your info. Not for a dollar. Not for a discount. Not even for a bottle of top-shelf bourbon. Your data is yours, and I treat it like it’s sacred—like the last French fry in a shared order. Protective. Territorial. Maybe even a little obsessive.

That said, if you buy something, I do have to pass your info to the big payment processors like PayPal, Stripe, or whoever else is making the money machine go cha-ching. That’s how online shopping works. If this somehow surprises you, I’d love to know what year you think it is.

I also rely on third-party services for the boring but essential stuff—site hosting, analytics, spam filters, security. These aren’t shady back-alley operations. These are tools to make sure the site doesn’t crash and burn every time someone refreshes a page. And no, they’re not collecting your DNA. They’re just here so the damn wheels don’t fall off.

Now, if Big Brother comes knocking with a subpoena in hand, I’m not gonna chain myself to a server rack in protest. I’ll comply—reluctantly, and only if it actually looks legit. I’m not handing your info over just because some asshole wants to snoop around.

But that’s it. No sketchy data-selling schemes, no email list swaps with some influencer you’ve never heard of, and definitely no “oops, we leaked it all” moments. I guard your data like it’s my last shred of patience—tightly and with a healthy amount of side-eye.

DATA SECURITY (WHAT I’M DOING, WHAT I’M NOT, AND WHY YOU SHOULDN’T BE AN IDIOT ABOUT IT)

I take your privacy seriously. Like, not just “serious face emoji” serious—I mean real, grown-ass adult, locks-on-every-door kind of serious. I use industry-standard encryption, secure servers, firewalls, anti-spam shields, and all the other cyber voodoo that makes hackers cry into their Mountain Dew. Your data isn’t just floating around out there like an open bar tab in Vegas. I keep it locked down tighter than a biker’s grip on the last bottle of Jack at a funeral.

But—and this is a big but, like, “should-have-its-own-zip-code” big—there is no such thing as 100% security. Not on this planet. Not on the internet. Not in life. That’s just the truth, no matter how many rainbows and fairy tales you’ve read on tech blogs. If some determined cyber-douche wants in bad enough and has the time, resources, and a personal vendetta, there’s always a sliver of a chance they’ll find a crack. That’s not me being lazy—that’s just how the Internet works.

Now, if someone does manage to break into my system, I won’t be sitting on my ass whistling Dixie. I’ll do everything I possibly can to fix it, patch it, and raise digital hell to keep it from happening again. That said, don’t expect me to be your personal digital bodyguard. This isn’t Fort Knox. This isn’t the CIA. This is a one-woman show powered by caffeine, spite, and a deeply rooted hatred of bullshit. I’ll protect your info like it’s my own—but you’ve got a role to play too. Use a strong password. Don’t click on shady links. Don’t email me asking why your login doesn’t work when you typed “griefislife420” in a public library on an open network. Meet me halfway, okay?

Keep your expectations realistic, your passwords strong, and your wits about you. That’s the deal. Trust that I’m doing my part. And if all else fails, know this: if your data ever gets touched, I’ll go full scorched-earth on whoever’s responsible. Because messing with my readers is a hell I wouldn’t wish on even the boldest of dumbasses.

YOUR RIGHTS (YEP, YOU’VE GOT ‘EM—EVEN HERE IN MY DIGITAL HELLSCAPE)

Look at you, all entitled to rights and shit. Listen, I may run this circus, but that doesn’t mean you’re shackled to the tent poles. And yes, even in this blunt, no-bullshit corner of the internet, you’ve got a few basic freedoms. I’m not some data-hoarding overlord looking to sell your info to shady third parties or stalk you with creepy personalized ads about grief candles and emotional support socks. That’s not the vibe here.

I want you to have control over your own damn info, and since we’re doing this legit, here’s what you’re entitled to while hangin’ out in my little digital biker bar of grief and glorious truth:

— UPDATE YOUR INFO: Changed your name? Switched emails? Realized you spelled your own damn address wrong? Cool. Go into your account settings and fix it. Or shoot me a message if you’re feeling extra helpless and tech stuff makes your eyes glaze over.

— OPT THE HELL OUT: Not vibing with my emails anymore? Sick of hearing from me? That unsubscribe button is right there at the bottom of every message. Hit it and ride off into the sunset. I’m not going to chase you down or send a dramatic “was it something I said?” email. No guilt trips, no clingy BS. I’ll survive. You’ll survive. We’ll all move on with our lives.

— DELETE YOUR DAMN DATA: You want me to wipe you from my system like you never existed? Done. Just ask. But—and here’s the catch—don’t come crying to me later when you realize you lost access to your past purchases or can’t recover that one article that hit you in the soul. This is a nuclear option. If you pull the plug, you’re pulling it for real. No backsies.

Bottom line? You’re in control of your data here, and I’ll respect the hell out of those rights.

THIRD-PARTY LINKS (CLICK IF YOU MUST)

Alright, let’s have a tiny honest moment, shall we? This site may contain links to other websites—third-party ones, external ones, possibly shiny ones that promise answers to life’s mysteries or offer you a 20% discount if you just surrender your soul via email sign up.

And hey, I know how it goes. One second you’re here reading some delightfully unfiltered truth, and the next you’re ten tabs deep in someone else’s digital circus, having wandered off this site to explore some shiny thing someone else is offering. Maybe it’s a product, maybe it’s a resource, maybe it’s a dumpster fire wrapped in a pop-up ad—but either way, the second you leave my digital doorstep? You’re officially out of my jurisdiction.

The moment you click on a third-party link, you’re no longer under my roof. That means my Privacy Policy, my rules, my blunt warnings about internet dumbassery? They go poof. Gone. You’re officially in someone else’s domain now, and whatever shady data-hoarding or ad-stalking voodoo they’re into? That’s on them—and you.

Those third-party sites might be decent, or they might be the online equivalent of a back alley full of rabid raccoons with knives. I don’t vet them, I don’t babysit them, and I sure as hell don’t control how they collect, store, sell, or sprinkle fairy dust on your personal information. I didn’t build their site, I don’t run it, and I sure as hell don’t endorse every pixel of whatever fresh hell might live there. So if you end up subscribed to 47 email lists selling beard oil, crypto scams, penis pills or adult friendship clubs in your neighborhood, don’t @ me.

If you end up in a sketchy part of the internet because you couldn’t resist clicking a link, here’s your friendly reminder: You left the safe zone. You climbed over the metaphorical fence and walked right into someone else’s backyard. And if their dog bites you, that’s not my problem. I warned you.

Click with caution. Be smart, read their fineprint, watch for red flags, and don’t email me asking why some rando in Uzbekistan suddenly has your phone number.

CHANGES TO THIS POLICY (AKA YES, I CAN AND WILL SWITCH THINGS UP ON YOU)

This Privacy Policy? It’s not carved in stone. It’s not tattooed on anyone’s ass. It’s a living, breathing, ever-evolving beast, and I reserve the right to change the hell out of it whenever I see fit—whether it’s because of new laws, updated tech, or just because I felt like getting a little spicy with the legalese that day.

Now, if I make a big change—like, privacy-shaking, data-rocking, “holy shit, this is new” kind of stuff—I’ll give you a heads-up. I’m not completely heartless. But if it’s something minor—like fixing a typo, rewording a sentence so it doesn’t sound like it was written by a drunk squirrel, or tweaking the legal jargon to avoid lawsuits? I’ll post a notice where you can see it, maybe even put it in a bold font if I’m feeling generous—but don’t expect fireworks or a personal telegram. I’m not chasing you down to tell you I added a damn comma.

So what should you do? Glad you asked. You should check this page every now and then like the responsible adult you are. Stay informed. Stay aware. Stay sharp. This is your reminder that policies, like people, can change—and you’d better be ready for it. Because if you miss an update and end up surprised by something you didn’t bother to read, that’s not my problem—that’s on you and your casual relationship with responsibility.

In short? Stay vigilant, stay informed, and don’t act shocked when I exercise my right to tweak this thing to fit whatever fresh hell the Internet throws at us next.

CONTACT ME (AKA THE PART WHERE YOU AIR YOUR GRIEVANCES OR ASK NICELY)

Got questions? Concerns? Existential dread triggered by a paragraph in my Privacy Policy? Or maybe you’re confused, curious, or just straight-up pissed off about something in it? Whatever it is—don’t sit there stewing in silence like a passive-aggressive ghost. Speak up. Reach out. Say something. Call me out if you must. I’ve got thick skin and an inbox ready for your rants, questions, or praise.

Email me at:
c728@cassandracrossno.com

Seriously. That’s my actual email. Not a robot. Not a black hole. Just me, a very real human being trying to keep things honest and transparent.

If you think I’ve screwed something up, mishandled something, or somehow violated the sacred temple of your digital trust—tell me. I’m not perfect, but I’m not out here trying to pull a fast one either. Transparency is the name of the game, and I’m not interested in hiding behind legalese or pretending this stuff doesn’t matter. Your privacy does matter to me. Not just because it’s legally required (although, yeah, that too), but because you deserve to not have your personal info treated like a cheap damn party favor.

So if something looks sketchy, feels off, or makes you go “WTF is this?”, don’t just close the tab and grumble about it—shoot me a damn message. I’m all ears—well, inbox—but you get the point. Let’s hash it out like adults—preferably the kind that use full sentences and not just angry emojis.

I respect your time, your data, and your right to call me out if I screw up. So if something’s bugging you, or even if you just need clarification on what the hell I meant in a section, my inbox is open.

FINAL WORD: I KEEP IT STRAIGHT WITH YOU—NO GAMES, NO GIMMICKS, NO BULLSHIT

Let’s cut through the noise, shall we? I’m not here to spy on you, sell your soul to the highest bidder, or secretly build some creepy digital profile about your midnight browsing habits. I collect what I need—just enough to keep this site running smoothly, get you the stuff you actually asked for, and maybe shoot you a newsletter if you were bold enough to sign up. That’s it. No shady business. No sneaky tracking.

I believe in radical transparency—which means if I’m collecting something, it’s because I actually need it to serve you. Not because I want to sit around twirling my metaphorical mustache while I sell your email address to some sketchy ad network in Botswana. Respecting your privacy isn’t just a checkbox to me—it’s how I operate, because anything less is a betrayal of the very trust this space was built on.

You’re not in a digital swamp. You’re not gonna get hit with spam about erectile dysfunction or psychic readings from the underworld (unless that’s your thing, in which case… click those third-party links at your own peril).

So yeah, take a deep breath, unclench your jaw, and know this: you’re in good hands. Not perfect hands, not AI-powered surveillance drone hands—just honest, human hands that give a damn about doing things right. And if anything ever changes with how your info’s handled, you’ll hear it from me straight, not buried in some microscopic footnote.

That’s the promise. No fine print required.

Now let’s get back to the real reason you’re here: surviving grief, reclaiming your fire, and flipping the bird to everything that is trying to break you.