I wrote this book hoping it would discourage readers from succumbing to their darkest desires. I wanted to use myself as an example of what not to be, to share my struggles and empathize with those who have endured the same. It is meant to be a hedonistic elaboration of what it's like to navigate your emotions, combatting psychological setbacks and continue your craft simultaneously. It allows the reader to peek into my brain as much as I will allow, being honest with myself while struggling to actually have a sense of self. It is self-doubt, self-loathing, and self-sabotaging. As much self-pity as people may perceive, it spews more spitfire. It's meant to show the reality of recovery, how it is always in flux, how everyone's looks different, and we can get there together. It is written with raging intent to create some kind of literary riot and establish a platform for people who have been silenced. Only in my writing do I feel truly free. Free to share frustrations, industrial flaws, injustice and inequality. Liberated from my expectations, free to tell my truth, and indulge myself in the release of writing.