Author Bio

Creativity has always been my default setting.

I wrote my first short story in second grade, usually because I was convinced I could fix the endings of books I read. (Spoiler: I probably couldn’t.) Over time, my writing evolved from angsty middle school poetry to something that at least resembled a plot. Teenage me was convinced she was the next literary genius. (Spoiler #2: she wasn’t.)

My first “masterpiece” was a third-grade sketch of a bull, framed in my grandmother’s hallway like it belonged in the Louvre. Clearly, the flair for drama started early.

“Writing is just daydreaming with receipts.”

These days, I split my time between spinning stories, over-organizing my life into color-coded boxes, and proving that AI can be a helpful sidekick without stealing the spotlight. (Spoiler #3: I still write all my own stories. My AI just helps me get through my to-do list.)

I also juggle chronic migraines and OCD, so life is basically a high-stakes game of “How much chaos can I manage today?” (Spoiler #4: It’s always “all of it.”) If you ever catch me making oddly rhythmic hand gestures or balancing things just right, that’s just the OCD talking. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

I used to share my home—and a good portion of my livestreams—with a mischievous ferret named Flips, who despite her medical laundry list, took her role as sidekick very seriously. She passed in early 2025, but her chaotic energy remains woven into everything I do.

Basically? I’m here to turn disorder into stories, fueled by migraines, mild neuroses, and too much coffee. Welcome to the nonsense.

“I have two moods: wildly overachieving or contemplating my existence with a ferret on my shoulder.”