I don't write stories, I autopsy the human condition with a whiskey-stained pen and a switchblade's precision. My words aren't meant to comfort you; they're meant to drag you kicking and screaming into the raw, unfiltered truth of what it means to be alive in these hollowed-out times. I've carved my paragraphs in the backrooms of forgotten bars, on the napkins of all-night diners, and in the margins of library books they'll never reshelve. My ink is mixed with blood, bourbon, and the bitter coffee of too many 3AM revelations. I write for those who are sick of the lies. For those who still remember what real pain and real joy taste like. For those rare souls who'd rather bleed truth than ooze plastic platitudes. My words will either save you or ruin you. Either way, you'll never be the same after reading them. Warning: I don't do happy endings. I do honest ones.