Meet: my book.

Listen. It’s a long story but… my higher self is a bird.

A toucan. Named Touks.

And apparently she wanted me to write this memoir / essay collection / creativity exorcism documenting my quest to reclaim my voice — and my absolute love nay NEED nope MOLTEN-HOT-LAVA ACHE to catch my flighty, perfectionist, word-obsessed inner world onto the page before I implode under the weight of capitalism.

So here it is. Raw, rambly, real. Funny in a dark-millennial sorta way. Devastatingly deadpan-beautful.
Full of Blockbuster metaphors, theater flashbacks, and the occasional spiritual tantrum. You’re welcome?

Coming soon-ish*…

*Could be sooner if one prophetic literary agent / editor / publisher decides to throw caution to the wind and bet on a rising star who absolutely, unequivocally, undeniably could not have written this thing with AI.

Also no it’s not a bestseller because it’s not finished or published or under any sort of book deal YET and also it hasn’t won any awards but y’all I’m in my manifesting era just let a girl be delulu with Canva, okay!?

The comment section.