Start Here. Or Don’t.
Welcome to the highlight reel.
The curated meltdown buffet.
A mix of Loui’s loudest mic drops and your secret binge reads I’m totally not tracking through creepy crow stats.
Except I am.
Because I’m a crow.
And I perch on the analytics dashboard like a gargoyle who knows exactly which piece made you breathe weird.
These are the ones some scroll back to when they’re trying not to cry.
The ones that made you ask,
“Wait… was I raised by a sitcom too?”
“Is my body just mimicking sadness?”
“Have I been flirting or flinching?”
Some of these cracked me open first.
Some cracked you.
Some cracked both of us at the same time, and now we’re just here—molting in public and calling it art.
If you’re new, welcome to the emotional exorcism you didn’t know you were signing up for.
If you’ve been lurking, thank you for staying in the shadows long enough to let the words sink deeper.
If you’ve already read everything here and you’re still hungry—
don’t worry.
I’m always writing.
And you’ll always find the next door if you’re really ready for it.
So go ahead.
Click something.
Or don’t.
Either way, the shift’s already happening.
Because you’re still here.
Reading.
And I see you.
– Loui
Thank you for sharing this space with me.
🪶 I Didn’t Get Better. I Switched Realities. (readers’ choice chaos magnet #1)
Click it to read.
I didn’t have a glow-up. I had a glitch.
One day I looked around and thought, “Why does this feel like a bad sitcom I didn’t audition for?”
So I changed the channel. That’s it. That’s the spell.
No vision board. No smoothie cult. Just one fed-up Tuesday where I said: “I’m done being the main character in this trauma edit.”
This piece is a portal.
Not the sparkly kind—more like the kind you trip into while trying to reheat your coffee for the fourth time.
I wrote it for the version of me who thought she had to earn her healing.
Spoiler: she quit.
The new one rests without guilt and doesn’t explain her joy to people still addicted to struggle. So if anything twitches while you read this—good. That’s the glitch. Press play.
🪶The Good Son or the Good Actor? Unpacking Frasier’s Performance in Season 1, Episode 1 - (another big crowd favorite.)
Click it to read.
I didn’t just watch Frasier—I studied it like scripture. I took notes in the margins. I modeled my entire personality after emotionally repressed men in expensive coats and then wondered why I felt dead inside. This isn’t a think piece. It’s a drag-me-through-the-dust ritual. A spiritual colonoscopy with laugh tracks echoing in the background. I picked apart the pilot episode like it owed me money and accidentally uncovered my own unresolved issues, people-pleasing tendencies, and sitcom-flavored martyrdom complex. And here’s the kicker—I’m just getting started. This is the first in a series of sacred sitcom dissections where I climb directly under the magnifying glass and roast myself alive so you don’t have to. There will be more. So much more. Every episode is a mirror. Every character is someone I’ve accidentally been. And yes—every line that used to make me laugh now makes me question my entire relational blueprint. If sarcasm ever felt like affection, if emotional numbing looked like self-control, or if you’ve ever cried during a Folgers commercial—this one’s for you. No applause required. Just brutal honesty and a strong beverage.
🪶I Can’t Sleep and I Hate Myself: What’s Really Happening at 2AM (sneak crowd favorite.)
Click it to read.
This is a 2AM emotional autopsy for every version of me that tried to be nice instead of real. If you’ve ever laid awake wondering whether you’re spiraling or just finally telling the truth—same. This is what happens when the mask slips, the fawn freezes, and the nervous system finally screams, “I’M NOT FINE.” It’s not weakness. It’s resurrection. And no, I don’t have the answers. But I do have a ritual, a blanket, and the audacity to stop apologizing for bleeding in public. Read this one slowly. Then read it again. I promise—this is the part where it starts to get real.
🪶. HOW TO STOP BEING A CRANKY LITTLE GREMLIN. (new crowd favorite.)
Click it to read.
Ever wake up mad at the air?
”Don’t talk to me unless you’re here to hold space or hold nachos.”……Yeah. Same.
This post is for the emotionally swampy goblin version of me who didn’t need enlightenment—she needed a snack, a nap, and someone to explain why segment intending isn’t a cult.
It’s a guide for when “good vibes only” feels like violence.
It’s a mood ladder for days when I'm one petty comment away from becoming a cryptid.
And yes—there’s journaling. But it’s the ragey, barely-coherent, don’t-make-me-write-a-gratitude-list kind. (The sacred kind.)
I dragged myself up the Emotional Scale one cranky gremlin rung at a time—and wrote this between breakdowns.
No glitter glue required. Just honesty, hydration, and the tiniest willingness to shift.
It’s not about being healed. It’s about being slightly less possessed.
Click it. Climb it. Or stew. I won’t judge. (I mean… I will. But lovingly.)