Mynx Writes

 For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet, corrosive shame around one persistent fear: That I’m lazy. Not just forgetful. Not just inconsistent. But  fundamentally defective  in some moral way—because I didn’t seem to have whatever mysterious quality other people had that let them wake up, power through a to-do list, and function like real adults. You know the type. They make bullet journals. They fold their laundry. They  file their taxes on time  without having a minor existential breakdown first. Meanwhile, I’m over here debating if brushing my teeth and making coffee are  both  going to happen today or if that’s just a little too ambitious. I used to internalize all of that. Until I realized something earth-shattering: I’m not lazy. I’m traumatized and tired. What I’ve been calling “procrastination” is often executive dysfunction. What I’ve labeled “laziness” is actually burnout with a backstory. What looks like avoidance is often a nervous system...

 Let’s get one thing out of the way up front: I don’t have a niche. I have an  ecosystem . A rotating constellation of obsessions that orbit me like cursed planets with glitter trails and abandonment issues. I used to think this was a problem. Still do, on my worst days. The world is wired for people who pick a lane, stay in it, and monetize it by Q2. But me? I want to write. Then I want to design a tarot deck. Then I want to research medieval poisons. Then I want to open a craft shop. Then I want to go feral in the woods with a crochet hook and a bone crown. And maybe later, I want to do  none  of those things. Or  all  of them again in a different order. There’s a word for people like us— scanners . Barbara Sher coined it. It’s not a diagnosis. It’s a description. Scanners are the multi-passionate, the endlessly curious, the chronically pivoting creative goblins who don’t just think outside the box—we forget the box exists halfway through building a shrin...

  What reality did I wake up in? I feel like I went to sleep sometime around 2006 and just now clawed my way out of a coma wearing cargo pants and eyeliner smudged from a party I don’t remember attending. I’m Rip Van Winkle, if Rip Van Winkle was born Gen X and woke up to discover the entire world had gone through a midlife crisis, joined a cult, and elected the worst possible timeline. What year is this? WHO the fuck did you just say is President?? What the ACTUAL fuck?! It’s been a long, nail-breaking climb out of a depression so deep it had its own zip code. And now that I’m finally— finally —on something resembling level ground, I’m staring down a reality that feels like a bad subplot in  The Twilight Zone . Or, for the nerdier among you,  Sliders . Seriously, what the hell, Universe? Our current timeline is so damn surreal. Up is down. The sky isn’t blue. And the right? So far wrong that Ronald Reagan is probably rolling over in his grave. Which is saying something, ...