take me seriously, not literally

for the mortals with bite.

Sometimes, self-awareness gets mistaken for self-deprecation. Sometimes, a joke is also a truth that’s just wearing better shoes. And sometimes, the most put-together people are just highly skilled narrators.

I write with a certain kind of slant. Wry. Dramatic. A little theatrical in the pauses. A little operatic in the metaphors.

I like things that are layered — stories, people, outfits. I like laughing at the absurdity of existing while quietly trying to make sense of it all.

But just because I say something with a smirk, it doesn’t mean I’m not sincere. Just because I know how to romanticize a breakdown, it doesn’t mean I’m broken. It just means I know how to turn a moment into a monologue. A feeling into a through line. A crack into a character study.

There’s power in being able to describe your own spiral with precision. There’s clarity in naming the descent before it names you. And honestly? There’s a bit of peace in knowing that if the ship goes down, I’ll at least get a good sentence or two out of it.

This isn’t self-loathing. It’s self-portraiture.
In motion. In flux. In full color.

It’s not embarrassing to say I feel too much. It’s not weak to say I dissociate in grocery stores and cry in cars and sometimes stare into the fridge like it owes me answers. It’s human. It’s funny, if you frame it right. It’s mine.

Humor, for me, isn’t a mask.
It’s a lens.
A coping strategy.
A love language.
A breadcrumb trail I leave behind so people like me know they’re not walking alone.

When I say I’m overwhelmed, it doesn’t mean I’m unraveling. It means I’m aware, awake, in the thick of it. When I say I’ve lit a candle and done nothing, that’s not lazy — that’s reverence. That’s me choosing softness over shame.

I’m not interested in being polished beyond recognition. I don’t want to be the girl with no visible signs of emotional complexity. I want to be vivid. Velvety. Slightly unhinged, in a delicate way.

I want to wear perfume that smells like mystery and molasses. I want to weep over movie trailers.

I want to be made of contradictions.

I don’t write these things because I feel bad about myself. I write them because I’ve worked hard to know myself.

To hold both the grit and the grace.
To show up with open hands and a side of self-mythology.

I’m not making fun of myself.
I’m making space for myself.

I am not putting myself down. I’m putting myself in context.

Because when you exist in a world that constantly demands simplicity and self-optimization, choosing to narrate your own chaos with humor is its own form of resistance. It’s not self-hate, it’s self-definition.

So, if you read what I write and think, “She needs to love herself more,” I appreciate the concern. Truly. But I love myself plenty. I just also think I’m a little bit ridiculous. And that’s part of the love.

It’s me acknowledging that I don’t want to be a fortress.

I want to be a cathedral.
Echoing. Beautiful. A little haunted.

So take me seriously — the way you would a poem, or a warning, or a woman who’s taken off her earrings.

But not literally — like, please don’t worry if I say I’ve spiraled three times before breakfast. That’s just my way of saying I had feelings and lived to tell the tale.

Because here’s the thing—

This is satire with soul.
This is honesty with edges.
This is performance and it’s real. It’s both. It’s everything.

If you think I’m crumbling, you’re not paying attention.
I’m not breaking, I’m building.
I’m not lost, I’m layering.
I’m not unwell, I’m just deeply online and emotionally literate.

This is my voice.
This is my art.
This is how I’ve learned to survive.

If I make you laugh, good.
If I make you feel seen, better.
If I give you permission to tell the truth and still look cute doing it, we’ve already won.

Hot girls know it’s satire.
Cool girls know it’s real.
Elite girls know it’s both.

If you made it this far, click that itty-bitty digital organ! ❤️