classagitator

About me:

Raised on pop-ups, existential dread, and sacred silence. Grieving, glitching, and growing in a world that never made space for me. I collect fragments of beauty and burn them into stories. I’m here to remember, to haunt, and maybe to find someone else staring into the same void. Survivor of late-stage MySpace syndrome. ADHD-coded demigod. Writing from the edge of the rez and the internet. Currently resurrecting my soul through playlists, pixel art, and anti-colonial spite. Will fight you if you diss my favorite moth.

I didn’t grow up with roots. I grew up with antennas. Scanning for truth, safety, memory. Mostly finding static. I write for the haunted, the exiled, the ones who never belonged but never surrendered.

💀 sacred rage is still sacred 📡 if you feel this, reply from the void 🕸️ my story isn't over, it's buffering

Who I'd like to meet:

The ghosts of who I was, who I could have been, and who still might show up. Anyone who sees through the performance and wants to build something weird and real. Fringe thinkers, dreamers who didn't assimilate. Someone who could be a mirror without turning into a monster. A crow who could type. Whoever’s been leaving mysterious poetry in public bathrooms (we should collaborate). Karl Marx.