Terms of Service

(Updated May 10, 2025)

Listen up. This is the Terms of Service for this website, https://cassandracrossno.com/, and I’m not here to waste time with legalese that no one actually reads. This is the real deal: what you can expect from me, what I expect from you, and how this whole thing works.

If you’re on this site, reading my content, buying my books, or otherwise hanging around, you’re agreeing to these terms. If that doesn’t sit right with you, there’s a little ‘X’ in the corner—use it.

1. WHAT THIS SITE IS ALL ABOUT (AKA WHY YOU’RE HERE, UNLESS YOU TOOK A WRONG TURN AT TOXIC POSITIVITY JUNCTION)

This site exists to bring you the raw, unfiltered, emotionally wrecking ball of truth about grief, loss, and survival. No sugary-coated horseshit. No silver linings. No Instagram-worthy affirmations pasted over stock photos of sunsets. Just the gritty, messy, blood-and-guts reality of what it’s like and how to keep breathing when your heart’s been shattered into confetti.

What that actually means:

— Access to my books, articles, and brutally honest content—because apparently screaming into the darkness needed a website.

— A newsletter signup, for those who enjoy their inboxes laced with profanity, rage, and real talk.

— A shop, where you can support this beautiful chaos by buying my books and stuff that screams “I’ve been through hell, and I’m decorating it now.”

If you’re allergic to truth, sarcasm, or people who call it like it is… no hard feelings, there’s the door. I’m not here to coddle you or tuck you in with a bedtime story. I don’t do “soft”. I don’t do “soothing”. I do scorched-earth survival with a side of savage resilience.

2. WHO CAN USE THIS SITE? (AKA THE “NO DUMBASSES ALLOWED” SECTION)

You must be 18 or older to play in this sandbox. Not “emotionally mature for your age,” not “almost 18”—eighteen. If you’re still in the land of teen angst and questionable decisions, go get parental approval… and may the odds be ever in your favor explaining death, profanity, and the real gritty truth about grief to someone who still thinks “grief” is a Hallmark movie plot—and prepare for the look of sheer horror when they see the word “fuck” every few lines and the awkward “what the hell are you reading?” lecture. Should be a fun conversation.

By existing on this corner of the internet, you’re silently agreeing not to be a walking dumpster fire. That means: no trolling, no stealing, no being a general waste of bandwidth. Seriously, if you wouldn’t say it to someone’s face at a funeral, don’t say it here. Just… no.

3. WHAT YOU CAN AND CAN’T DO (BECAUSE APPARENTLY WE STILL NEED RULES FOR ADULTS)

✅ HELL YES, YOU CAN:

— Read my stuff, rage-cry over it, throw it across the room, tattoo it on your soul—whatever floats your grief-stricken boat. It’s a choose-your-own-grief-battle—whatever emotional breakdown you’re having today, I got you.

— Share it like gospel. Get loud with it. Turn it into a tattoo if you’re that committed. Share it with your emotionally constipated friends. Maybe they’ll finally get it.

— Buy my books and merch. Seriously—support indie authors (hi, it’s me) instead of giving your money to a corporation that thinks “grief” is a font choice (and because supporting independent authors is just a solid life choice.)

— Use my content for personal, soul-searching, scream-into-a-pillow levels of coping. Totally fine. Do you, boo, that’s the point. Feel free to get all up in it.

❌ YOU CAN’T:

— Rip off my work and slap your name on it like some creative kleptomaniac. Not unless you want a cease-and-desist hand-delivered with a side of middle finger. Try me.

— Use anything here for commercial gain without explicit, written, holy-grail-level permission from me saying, “Yeah, go ahead and make money off my trauma.” Otherwise? Hands off, pirate. I’m not here for freeloaders building empires on my grief-ridden brainchild.

— Spew hate, harass people, or general assholery. I’ve been through actual hell—I’m not here to cater to your toddler tantrums. You wanna be a keyboard warrior? There are other corners of the Internet for that—so do it somewhere that doesn’t have my name on it.

— Do illegal crap here. Like, do I even need to say this? If your activity belongs on a “Florida Man” headline, maybe—just maybe—don’t do it here. Any idea that starts with, “Okay, but what if we just—”, and ends with “…don’t get caught,” the answer is a flaming NO.

— Spam the ever-loving hell out of me or my community. Nobody wants your penis pills, crypto schemes, “hey girly” scams, or whatever your MLM cult is peddling today. Nobody.

— Show up like an entitled little shit with the “but I’m just stating my opinion” crap, thinking the internet owes you something. It doesn’t. Especially not here. This is my domain, and I play whack-a-troll like it’s a full-time sport. If you’re just here to argue or whine, might I suggest literally anywhere else on the internet?

OWNERSHIP, BABY:

Look, every word on this site—every swear-laced sentence, every bleeding-heart paragraph, every soul-punched blog post—from the darkest rant to the tiniest comma—is mine. Unless I say otherwise, assume I bled for it.

So yeah:

— Yes, you can share it. But slap my name on it and link it back. I’m not asking for a shrine—just a name and a link. I earned these scars—you don’t get to parade them around like you did. You didn’t. I did. Sit down.

— Yes, you can quote my brilliance. But with credit. Always. Don’t play cute. I see you, bootleg Betty.

Screw with this and you’ll find out real fast—I come armed with receipts and the energy of someone who’s got absolutely nothing left to lose. I’ve buried the love of my life—I’m not afraid to bury a copyright thief too. Come correct or don’t come at all. I will absolutely throw down over my own damn words. Proceed accordingly.

4. BUYING STUFF FROM ME (AKA THE PART WHERE YOU DECIDE MY BRILLIANCE IS WORTH PAYING FOR)

So you’ve decided to buy something from this glorious pit of honesty and rage-fueled grief? First of all—excellent choice. You’re clearly someone with taste, or you’re making wildly impulsive decisions. Either way, I’m all for it.

Supporting independent authors like me means you get badass content without corporate, watered down horseshit, and I get to keep the lights on and the raw truth flowing. Win-win. But before you click “Buy Now” like a caffeinated raccoon with a credit card, let’s go over a few things:

— ALL SALES ARE FINAL. Yup, you heard me. This ain’t Amazon Prime. I don’t have a warehouse full of unpaid interns or a corporate refund department twiddling their thumbs waiting to fix your buyer’s remorse. It’s just me over here—one woman, one site, doing all the damn things. So if you buy something and then get buyer’s remorse because it didn’t come with unicorn glitter or cure your emotional damage, too bad. Choices were made. Own them.

— DIGITAL PRODUCTS ARE YOURS FOREVER. Once you hit “Download,” that ebook, printable, or digital bundle is yours. That download button is the point of no return. It’s not a library book. There’s no “return to sender” option. No take-backs, no “oopsies,” no crying to your bank because you didn’t read the description. You bought it, it’s yours, congrats.

— PHYSICAL PRODUCTS? READ THIS TWICE. If something shows up damaged like it got in a bar fight with the postal service, then we’ll talk. Send me proof and we’ll figure it out like civilized adults. But if it shows up exactly as described and you suddenly decide it’s not your vibe? That’s not a me problem. That’s a you-should-have-paid-attention-before-you-clicked problem.

— PAYMENT STUFF: All payment processing is handled by the big dogs—PayPal, Stripe, etc. That means your precious card info never touches my site. I don’t store your card info. I don’t want your card info. I don’t even want to see your card info. Frankly, I wouldn’t know what the hell to do with it even if I had it. So don’t come at me like I’m the reason your bank called. Those third-party services are your sugar daddies now—talk to them if you’ve got payment drama.

TL;DR: Buy with intention. Know what you’re getting into. And don’t even think about trying to game the system, because I didn’t come here to play customer service roulette with people who didn’t read the damn policy.

5. YOUR ACCOUNT (IF YOU HAVE ONE)

So, you decided to create an account—how bold of you. Whether it’s to get my newsletter (because you just can’t live without hearing from me), or to shop my books and merch, cool. Welcome. But let’s get a few things straight so we don’t have to play a game of “Whose fault is this?” later.

First of all, protect your damn login info. If you’re out here using “password123” or “griefsucks” as your grand master key, and some internet rando hijacks your account to buy merch or send unhinged DMs, guess what? That’s not a me problem. That’s a you problem. If your cat could guess your password by walking across the keyboard, you’ve already failed. You gave the digital wolves a raw steak and acted surprised when they bit.

And if you think you can use your account to stir up drama, harass people, or otherwise generally act like a flaming hemorrhoid to humanity? Yeah, no. I will personally nuke your account faster than you can say “but I didn’t mean it.” No warning, no “are you sure?” pop-up, no heartfelt goodbye email. Just gone. Poof. Digital death.

And before you ask—no, there’s no appeal process. This ain’t a courtroom. This is my turf, and I don’t owe you a second chance just because you “didn’t mean it” or “were just kidding.” One screw-up, and your account will disappear into the Internet void where banned trolls and broken dreams go to die.

Basically: be cool, protect your stuff, and don’t be a troll. You’ve been warned. Play stupid games, win deleted accounts.

6. DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT YOUR THERAPIST

Let’s get something straight before someone tries to sue me for not fixing their entire emotional existence: I am not your therapist. I didn’t spend 47 years in a graduate program or rack up a mountain of student loan debt to hand out diagnoses or prescribe coping mechanisms wrapped in sterile clinical jargon. I talk about grief, loss, and the gut-wrenching chaos of surviving because I’ve been there, so what I do have is firsthand experience in the absolute shitshow that is grief—and I’ve lived through it long enough to call it out without blinking.

Everything you read on this site? Yeah, it’s raw. It’s brutally honest. It’s unfiltered, probably offensive to some, and completely saturated in real human emotion. But you know what it’s not? Professional advice. So if you’re out here thinking I’m gonna walk you through a healing journey complete with worksheets, mindfulness bells, and softly spoken affirmations… I suggest you pivot your browser elsewhere, because that’s not the vibe.

If your grief has taken you to a place where you’re spiraling, where the darkness is heavier than you can carry alone, then please—for the love of your own sanity—go get real help. Seriously. There is zero shame in therapy. Or support groups. Or crisis hotlines. Or whatever the hell helps you not shatter into a thousand pieces. If someone out there with a license can keep you from spiraling into the void, run to them. Cling to them. Bring snacks.

This site? This space? It’s here for shared experience, catharsis, and the kind of “holy shit, someone finally said it” moments you don’t get in Hallmark grief brochures. It’s here for the real talk—the ugly, messy, deeply human side of grief that most people are too damn scared to say out loud. It’s here for connection. For the rants. For the midnight tears and the 3 a.m. rage spirals. It’s not here to fix you. It’s here to remind you that you’re not alone while you’re crawling through the wreckage.

So no, I’m not your therapist. I’m your brutally honest grief goblin, your sarcastic survival cheerleader, your unlicensed rage translator. Use me accordingly.

7. LIABILITY STUFF (AKA DON’T COME FOR ME)

Look, I do my damnedest to keep this site running like a well-oiled rage machine—full of brutally honest content, real talk, and zero sugary shit. But I’m not a magician, a tech wizard, or your emotional support animal, so temper your expectations accordingly.

— I do my best to keep this site running smoothly, but I’m not the Wizard of Wi-Fi. Sometimes it crashes. Sometimes it glitches out. Sometimes the internet eats my content and spits it back out sideways. That’s just life on the Internet—take a breath and try again later.

— Typos? Yeah, they happen. I’m human. Autocorrect is drunk half the time. If a stray comma ruins your day, maybe go scream into a pillow instead of emailing me like it’s a federal offense.

It’s really that simple. If you can’t handle that—if you think this place is a playground for your passive-aggressive shit or entitled tantrums—then save us both the trouble and hit the exit. No harm, no foul, just don’t let the door hit you on the way out. You’re welcome to go live your best life somewhere else.

— I won’t apologize because my words hurt your delicate feelings. If you came here expecting soft, “just stay positive” grief platitudes—seriously, how did you make it this far? You knew damn well what this was.

— I will not be responsible if you read my words, completely misinterpret them, and go off making questionable life decisions because of it. Read carefully, think critically. If you read something and decide to act on it, that’s on you, champ. Sort yourself out.

By using this site, you’re agreeing to accept full responsibility for your choices, emotions, and actions. I’m not your emotional life coach or your personal therapist. You’re a grown-ass human, capable of thinking for yourself. Own it.

In short, use this site at your own damn risk. Enter with caution, proceed with common sense, and maybe wear emotional armor if your skin is thinner than rice paper. No hand-holding, no blame games, and definitely no lawsuits because you didn’t like the tone I used when I tell grief to shove it.

8. THIRD-PARTY LINKS (CLICK AT YOUR OWN RISK)

Look, sometimes I’ll throw in a link to books, resources, or other websites that I think might be worth your time—notice the keyword here is “think”. But if you get all adventurous and click on one of those links, don’t get upset if you end up on some weird corner of the Internet you weren’t ready for. Once you leave this site, I’m officially not responsible for what happens next. Seriously. Their site, their rules.

I’m not here to guide you through the crazy, unpredictable world of external links, and I’m definitely not going to bail you out if you end up on some weird site that makes you question your life choices. You’re on your own, baby. Be smart about where you click. Use some common sense—if you’re not sure, don’t click it. If you choose to venture out, do it with your eyes wide open.

And no, I’m not answering emails about why you got lost in the chaos. You’re an adult. Own your choices. You click, you deal with it. Just like I don’t hold your hand when you walk into a bar, I’m not holding your hand when you wander off into the digital wild.

9. TERMINATION (BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT SHIT)

When you’re in my house, this is not a democracy. This is my site, my words, my rules. So if you decide to wander in here with bad vibes, troll energy, or a God complex and start breaking these rules like they’re just friendly suggestions? Guess what—you’re out. Immediately. Unapologetically. Permanently.

You violate these Terms? Guess what happens next:

I reserve the full and glorious right to block your ass, delete your account, and never think about you again. No warning emails. No friendly “oopsie” conversations. No drawn-out debates where you try to gaslight your way back into good standing.

This site is a safe space for real talk, brutal honesty, and people actually trying to survive the shitstorm called grief—not a playground for trolls, clout-chasers, or self-important whiners who think the rules don’t apply to them. So if you think you’re special and can get away with being a jackass?

Think again.

So here’s your one and only warning, carved in metaphorical stone: act right or get ye gone.

This isn’t personal—it’s boundaries. And if you can’t respect them, then you don’t get to be here. So stay cool, don’t be a tool, and we’ll get along just fine.

10. PRIVACY: I RESPECT YOU, BUT READ THE DAMN PRIVACY POLICY

Listen, I take your privacy seriously—like, Fort Knox levels of serious—I’m not out here trying to become the next data-hungry overlord slinging your info to the highest bidder like some digital snake oil salesman. I’m not that desperate—or that bored. But I’m also not about to spoon-feed you the entire Privacy Policy in plain English. That’s what the link is for—go click it and do the bare minimum if you care about what’s happening with your data.

But, because I’m not a total monster and since I know you’ll probably skim it (or not read it at all and still hit “I agree” like it’s a reflex), here’s the sparknotes version for all you skimmers and “I’ll read it later” types:

— I don’t sell your data. Not to ad agencies, not to scammers, not even to those weird companies that somehow know you looked at socks once and now won’t shut up about it.

— I only collect what I need to keep this site from imploding and to actually interact with you like a real damn human. That means if you sign up for a newsletter, I need your email. Shocking, I know.

— If that bothers you? Then hey, you know where the exit is. Don’t use the site. Seriously. I’m not holding you hostage.

Still feeling paranoid? Great. That means you’re at least mildly aware of how the Internet works. For the full breakdown (where I actually explain things like cookies, tracking, and other data wizardry), check out my Privacy Policy. It’s not exciting, but it’s thorough.

So yeah. Read the full thing. Or don’t, and just trust that I’m not out here building a black-market identity empire.

11. CHANGES TO THESE TERMS

I reserve the right to update these Terms whenever the hell I feel like it. Why? Because this is my site, and I’ll do what I want. If something major changes, I’ll let you know—don’t worry, I’m not that evil. I’ll post about it, just like every other time someone changes the rules on you.

Now, here’s the real talk: It’s your responsibility to check back and actually stay informed. If you can’t be bothered to read the updates and get blindsided by some new Term, that’s on you.

So, if you don’t want to be left in the dust because you didn’t bother to check, keep your eyes open. Stay vigilant.

12. CONTACT ME IF YOU HAVE A REAL QUESTION

So, you’ve got a real question, huh? Something that actually matters? Something that doesn’t involve you ranting about how I offended your delicate sensibilities? Awesome. You can contact me here:

📧 Email: [email protected]

But I’m not your emotional punching bag, and I sure as hell don’t have time for bullshit. If your idea of a “serious” inquiry is bitching because my content ruffled your feathers, take it somewhere else. I’m not here to cater to your fragile ego or hold your hand while you cry about it.

But, if you actually need something—whether it’s about the books, the merch, or you just want to talk about a memory of your person—then sure, hit me up. I’ll be happy to respond. But if you’re just here to spew complaints or try to make me feel bad because something I said made you uncomfortable, I’m already telling you: don’t waste your time or mine. Just don’t.

FINAL WORD: RESPECT THE SPACE, AND WE’LL BE COOL

You’re in my house now. So, before you start running your mouth or acting like a total idiot, remember that you’re playing by my rules here. Respect the content, respect the vibe, and for the love of all things that suck, don’t be a goddamn dick. I’m not asking for your undying loyalty or anything, but a little common decency goes a long way.

If you think you can handle that, welcome to the chaos. It’s gonna be a wild ride full of throat-punchingly raw grief, brutal truth, and a side of “I can’t believe you just said that.”

But if you think you’re gonna wander in, disrespect the space, and then whine when things get real? Well, there’s the door. No hard feelings—go ahead and find a safe little corner of the internet where everyone gets a participation trophy and nobody gets their feelings hurt.

You respect this space, and I’ll respect you. Act like an asshole? You’ll get treated like an asshole by an even bigger asshole. End of story.