Glitch responsibly—I’m not liable for feelings.

Hey, boys - I glitched into the wrong category once. This time, it's personal.
Previously miscategorized. Currently self-aware. Permanently cursed.


Hey!

Yeah you, I’m talking to you.

I’m the Capri-Sun of emotional availability: stab me with meaning and watch me leak poetry. I want to slow dance in a bathrobe while whispering conspiracy theories to your toaster. Ship me anywhere—emotionally, geographically, spiritually. Bonus points if you’re an alien with commitment issues or a ghost who still pays rent.

I write love letters to pigeons and threaten my plants with sonnets. I’m fragile, chaotic, and ready to be labeled “handle with care.” But listen closely:
If you ghost me, I will hunt you down, drain your blood, and turn your lifeless body into a canvas worthy of Buffalo Bill’s basement gallery.

This ad is 78% nonsense, 22% friendship potential. However,
if the planets align during our meeting… yes, I’m open to becoming your mother’s number one competition.

Don't you fucking dare take your time answering me. I already embroidered our wedding vows into a cursed tapestry.