Grounded? Sweetie, the only thing grounded in my life is the Adderall dust on my nightstand. You want "grounded," go find yourself a tradwife who bakes sourdough and talks about enneagrams. Me? I chase girls who'll deconstruct your toxic masculinity over vegan sushi while their OnlyFans hits 10K from a pegging video titled "Foucault's Fist." You think you're ready for a girl who'll argue phenomenology mid-makeup wipe after giving you the best blowjob of your life? Then come get your existential crisis served with a side of discourse. I'm not here to hold your hand—I'm here to hold your demons and maybe your ankles while a tgirl with a Baudrillard tattoo calls me a NPC for having feelings. DMs are open, but fair warning: my last three situationships ended in Substack essays, a podcast roasting, and one particularly messy Telegram eulogy. Welcome to the void, baby.