I should probably explain why this website exists, considering I built it with roughly the same coding skills as a concussed pigeon.

Let's start with the obvious: I like words. Not in a "oh how lyrical" way, but in the way some people need nicotine. Poems, stories, the weird little diaries I've kept since I could hold a pen—they've always been less about art and more about survival. There's something about reading that feels like stealing, in the best way. Like you're getting away with something decadent every time you turn a page. And of course, eventually, I wanted to be the one leaving crumbs for others to follow.

Naturally, I started writing too. Not the Iliad, obviously—unless you count my a03 and amino phase (we don't talk about that). But over time, scribbling in margins and Notes app drafts became something like breathing. Writing was mine, but letting anyone actually read it felt like walking into school naked.

(Cue the world's smallest violin playing a sad song about artistic vulnerability.)

Then last year I got it into my head that I could be a "professional writer". Me! With my complete lack of credentials and questionable work ethic! A friend suggested making a website—"for your portfolio" they said, like that wasn't the most questionable suggestion imaginable.

Somehow, between panicking about CSS and ripping my hairs out, this stopped being a resume and started being... whatever this is. This stopped being about professionalism and started being about digging a hole in the internet to bury my bones in. A place where I can post my writing without having to look people in the eye while they read it.

Turns out building a website when you don't know what you're doing is a lot like writing: you throw things at the wall until something sticks, and pretend the stains are intentional.