I learned early that people show their sharpest edges when they think no one is paying attention. I pay attention. Too much. I collect the small ticks, the hungry glances, the way someone grips a fork harder than they should when power slips from their hands.
That’s the problem with knowing me. Every crack shows up somewhere. Every habit you thought went unnoticed ends up stitched into the skin of a character. You thought you were safe because it was just dinner, just an email, just a little performance in front of the family. I was watching.
The world tells me ADHD means distraction. Wrong. It means hyper-focus. It means I will replay one second of your behavior until I understand the violence hiding inside it. That’s why my worlds bleed so real. Because they were born in kitchens, office corridors, backyards, and boardrooms.
Characters Don’t Appear. They Arrive.
People ask how I build them. I don’t. They walk in already carrying your shadows. The supervisor who circles too close becomes the regime officer who can’t stop sniffing. The family member who thought normal kitchen items make good weapons becomes the enforcer who carries those same tools into family rooms.
I don’t need to invent monsters. I’ve eaten at the same tables as them.
When Inventory whispers “Death by male desire, life by female order,” it isn’t abstract. It’s the echo of watching men guard their reputations harder than their families. When Bunny claws and obsesses, it isn’t fantasy. It’s the truth of people who confuse control with affection.
You Think You’re Forgettable. You’re Not.
That coworker who thought the email was harmless? I kept the exact phrasing. That uncle who thought his temper only cracked once? I remember the crack more vividly than he does.
People live believing their private games vanish in the noise. They don’t. They stack in my head, file after file, until they leak out as regime memos, propaganda posters, or obsessive diary fragments.
You think you’re safe because I never said anything. But you’re already ink on a page.
The Bunny Doesn’t Chase. It Watches.
Bunny isn’t fiction. It’s obsession sharpened until it cuts. It’s the feeling of being hunted by attention you never asked for. It’s running but knowing you’ll never be fast enough.
People call it dark. They should. Darkness is where the watching happens.
When I write Chasing Bunny, I’m not inventing obsession. I’m weaponizing the way I’ve seen people linger too long, smile too wide, circle too often. I know what it feels like when interest becomes a trap.
That’s what makes readers stay. They recognize it. They’ve lived it too.
Inventory Isn’t a Story. It’s a File Cabinet.
Remember… The Republic sees you. The Republic saves you.
Inventory drips with control because I’ve seen how control works in real life. Rules written to protect are the same rules used to cage. Order doesn’t erase violence. It organizes it.
Every intake form, every redacted memo, every clipped phrase comes from watching people build little regimes in their families and workplaces. I just strip away the excuses.
When I write an incident report, I’m really writing down the fight you thought no one saw. When I release a propaganda poster, I’m holding up the mask you wore until it slipped.
I don’t invent regimes. I record them. That’s why it’s so uncomfortable. Because it’s control dressed a thousand differet ways. That we all live with daily.
Why I Can’t Stop? ADHD makes me restless. I can’t let a moment go. If you fumbled, if you snapped, if you thought the frying pan was just a joke, it wasn’t. It’s already embedded.
I can’t switch it off. That’s the empire. My distraction is my archive. My spirals are my vault. Every slip becomes a scene. Every quiet cruelty becomes a character.
People ask if I ever write about myself. Of course. But I write about you more. Because you hand me the best material when you think I’m not looking.
Why You Should Worry…
Because you gave me everything I needed. Because every argument, every obsession, every sharp corner you showed became material. Because once you’re in, you can’t claw your way out.
People say writing is therapy. They’re wrong. Writing is surveillance. Writing is inventory. Writing is what happens when you realize the world is handing you characters faster than you can keep up.
You should worry because you’ll recognize yourself before anyone else does.
Better to See It Raw.
That’s the name. That’s the dare. It’s not polished. It’s not polite. It’s not forgiving.
and…
If you think I’m writing about you? I am.