I’m Having Fun. I Hope You Won’t.
This Rabbit Hole is way too deep. Sometimes it even scares me.
I mean, I have this play, Raccoon in the Rabbit Hole — AuDHD, generational trauma, masking, mental breakdown, burning a life down, divorce — wrapped in the total mindfuck of tarot cards, the Moon smiling and bringing vodka orange, Steve Irwin and Crocodile Dundee… And the butter knife.
And now I am writing the story of an escape room game — What Remains in the Sun? Childhood abuse, parental abuse, sexual abuse, generational trauma, suicide — wrapped in an absurd game with a rotting corpse in an apartment in a concrete apartment block.
I also have a story idea about a little girl who is kidnapped by the monster under her bed. And her teddy bears are going to save her. Except everybody forgets about her — so, a little more generational trauma, abandonment, abuse, etc.
And I am not even talking about The Nightingale Sings in the Fog, which is another level of absurd.
My mind is a hard pill to swallow, and so is my art.
But honestly, I don’t mind it at all — finally, it makes me feel alive.
And ngl, knowing how much I will piss some people off makes me feel better.
I don’t know why, but there is probably a side of me that loves attention.
I genuinely enjoy pissing people off with hard topics they would rather just look away from.
Now I am playing with different platforms in a way that makes it hard for people to look away — because they are drawn in long before they know what they have gotten themselves into.
Tbh, I am having fun.
And I hope my audience won’t.