🤡/ 404 /🃏

And my beloved professor —who apparently sensed the collective panic radiating off me and five other people— looked at us and went:

“Okay, okay. I’ll give you until 11:59 PM to finish writing.”

And suddenly everyone was happy again. Miracles were real.

So I finished the chapter barely in time, submitted it with exactly two minutes to spare, and spent the rest of the night feeling deeply victorious. Like I had cheated death itself.

And then this afternoon the correction email arrived.

Which immediately made me suspicious, because my beloved professor never grades things that fast. Ever.

So naturally I opened the email with fear in my heart.

And the fear became real when she destroyed the entire chapter with a single question at the very beginning.

Because suddenly I realized I had made a mistake. Not just a small mistake either, but the kind of mistake you accidentally drag through an entire chapter, leaving behind a horrific trail of inconsistencies and narrative noise.

And then logic itself hit me in the face with the force of divine judgment and made me realize there had actually been a much better plot hidden underneath all the chaos I had written.

Which means I now have to rewrite the entire chapter.

Again.

Because after all the corrections and changes my beloved professor (also known as my beta reader, also known as the architect of my downfall) had made to the previous chapters… this one just didn’t fit anymore.

And suddenly I found myself thinking about those moments when you start a story with a clear idea in your head, a plan, a direction— and then somewhere along the way the story just… decided it had free will. It grew teeth. It walked off. It became something else entirely.

Sometimes because your beta caught things you didn’t even see.

And sometimes because you were the kind of chaotic genius (derogatory) who lost an entire chapter somewhere in the abyss of your phone files… and instead of rewriting that chapter like a normal person, your brain went: no ❤️

It rewrote everything from that point to the end.

And suddenly you weren’t even fixing a story anymore— you were being told a new one.

By your own brain.

Which was honestly a little concerning.

Yeah. It finally happened. Not for taxes, not for a job. Not even for something normal.

I used functions… to defend a fanfic in a creative writing workshop.

Specifically: I had to explain why my protagonist was standing there like a decorative houseplant while everything around him was on fire.

So i went:

“imagine the x-axis. negatives = desire to kill. positives = desire to protect. he’s at 0.”

every time something makes him care → +

every time he remembers he hates the person he’s protecting → −

Result: He stays at 0. Completely still. Emotionally constipated, but the world keeps adding +

So he has to keep adding − harder. and harder. and harder. Until staying at 0 stops being passive and becomes an active, borderline violent effort. Until he just… can’t anymore.

Anyway i won the argument.

So today I made the fatal error of telling a friend: “I need to research how unwanted children are treated in chaebol families.”

Now. Important context: This friend is a K-drama addict. I’m talking subscriptions to platforms I didn’t even know existed. A walking, breathing streaming service.

She went completely still. Then slowly turned to look at me like she had just been personally summoned by fate.

“I can help!”

I should have run.

Instead, I spent the entire day in pajamas watching dramas back to back like I was being held hostage by narrative tropes.

At some point I realized something: We were watching the same drama. Just with different actors.

And the worst part? Every time a drama ended, she turned to me, eyes shining, like: “So? What did you think?”

And I had to sit there and decide whether I valued honesty or my life. So I said: “I think we just watched the same drama four times.”

She took it personally.

So, I’m in this creative writing workshop at uni. My professor accepts fanfiction as a final project. Sounds like a dream, right? WRONG. It’s a trap.

The rules: You have to follow the canon rules, keep everyone in character, and—the cherry on top—you must pick something the character would never do "even under threat of death" in Chapter 1... and make them do it by the end.

Enter: No Coincidence But Fate. I really went and made Mira destroy the Honmoon. Voluntarily. Why? Because apparently, I wake up and choose suffering as a hobby. (it actually got approved as my final project, so… I guess the suffering paid off)

Anyway, I had three drafts rotting in my folders:

1. The Forbidden Spice: Locked in a digital vault. If my professor reads this, I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again, and I need those credits to survive.

2. The Safety Net: A cozy comedy. My "stay in your lane" plan.

3. The Recursive Nightmare: An AU of my own AU where everything is exponentially worse. Basically, the "No Coincidence But Fate" universe but if it tripped and fell into a meat grinder.

ACT OF TREASON: My provisional beta reader—who is a villain in disguise—sent Draft #3 to my professor. WITHOUT ASKING. He didn't just snitch; he handed her the keys to my mental asylum. And of course, she loved it. She approved the darkest, most difficult project possible. I’m currently oscillating between fighting him in a parking lot and crying on the floor.

His Excuse? "You made my life hell when you wrote 'We Fucked Up,' so now the professor can deal with you." He also claims my Little Inner Clown actually listens to her feedback but treats him like a final boss in a Soulslike game. Which... shuts eyes... is unfortunately the most accurate thing anyone has ever said about me.

The Punchline: She just failed my Chapter 1. 💀

And the absolute worst, most disgusting part? HE TOLD ME TO FIX THOSE EXACT ISSUES WEEKS AGO. He was right. My clown was just being a stubborn brat and ignored him, and now I have to rewrite it while swallowing my pride (it tastes like copper and regret).

I hate it.

…and unfortunately, this is still the project I’m most obsessed with. Which feels like a personal attack.

My provisional beta, five minutes ago:

“you’re putting more effort into this fic than the other one.”

My therapist said journaling would "regulate" me... 🤡

Me: Proceeds to manifest a sentient, glitchy clown entity that now shares my desk space and possibly my social security number.

Here’s the thing: writing about my "feelings" doesn’t regulate me. Turning those feelings into unhinged AO3 stories? That’s the dopamine hit I live for.

Perks of being an AO3 writer with "mental spice" currently under investigation and a side of selective amnesia: my brain is a literal circus, but I forgot where I parked the caravan.

Someone once gave me this advice: "Give your brain a name so you can control it, instead of it controlling you."

Mission failed successfully. My brain looked at me, named itself Little Clown, and now we’re in a constant power struggle over who actually owns this body. It’s like living with a roommate who refuses to pay rent and sometimes hides your keys.

Sometimes he’s just a sweet little guy who wants to make everyone laugh. Other times? He’s the type of clown you meet at 2 AM holding a chainsaw while looking disturbingly adorable.

I’m never quite sure which one is helping me write every chapter, but this image is exactly how we (they?) look in the mirror (?