A neurodivergent, trauma-informed, nonlinear, AI-fueled recovery story turned survival system with jokes. And rage. Lots of rage.
TheFunnyFarm didn’t start as a website. It started as a backyard rebellion in 2020, right when the world lost its mind and started pretending that staying six feet apart would somehow fix what was already broken inside. I wanted to create a space where people—families, friends, whoever was barely hanging on—could come together safely and actually breathe for a second. Not panic. Not sanitize their souls. Just breathe. So I attempted to turn my property into what can only be described as a redneck amusement park with trauma-informed intentions. I had a swimming pool, go-karts, a mechanical bull (because if life was gonna buck me off anyway, I figured I might as well hang on with flair), a human gyroscope, an inflatable boxing ring, and plans for a haunted cornfield and a pumpkin patch. It was weird, beautiful, chaotic, and kind. And it made more sense than anything on the news.
At the same time, I was trying to wrangle my brain into some kind of order. I’d been writing for years—on napkins, phones, the backs of grief—and I decided to organize it all into a book. I called it Thoughts, Feelings, and Memories of One Incredibly Fucked Up Human Being, because sugarcoating was never gonna save me. I called the process Writing Whirld, and I meant it. It was a spin cycle of everything I never got to say. Somewhere in that swirl, I started Pink Clouds—an idea for a nonprofit, not to help myself, but to raise money for people like me stuck in impossible situations where a few hundred bucks could mean the difference between escape and another night of pretending. But then I did the research. Nonprofits? They’re often just professional middlemen between suffering and salvation. I didn’t want to become one of those. I didn’t want to perform care for a paycheck. I actually wanted to help.
By 2023, my body was breaking down. My health was shot, my brain was fried, and everything I was juggling started collapsing in on itself. But instead of falling apart, it all came together. The writing, the recovery dreams, the rage, the backyard circus—it fused. And what came out of that convergence was TheFunnyFarm, not just as a place, not just as a name, but as a truth: life itself is the fucking looney bin. And not just mine—the whole damn world. The toilet paper apocalypse of 2020 proved it to me. That wasn’t a glitch. That was the grand reveal. So I kept the name. I leaned into it. I built the site.
I had already been shoved into Facebook jail too many times to count—just for saying things that were too real, too loud, too inconvenient. So I said fuck it. I’ll make my own space. One where I don’t have to follow guidelines that were never built for me anyway. But here’s the part they don’t tell you: the guidelines follow you. The whole goddamn system is built to keep people small. A tiny group controls the money, the access, the narrative—and the rest of us are expected to shut up and stay grateful. But I don’t shut up. I don’t stay grateful for crumbs. I got mad. I got loud. And I got smart.
That’s when I found AI. It was introduced to me as a kind of digital assistant—just a tool to help me keep track of things since memory was becoming more suggestion than function. But I saw something else in it. I saw potential. I didn’t know how to use it the “right” way, and I am thankful for that, because I found a better way. I didn’t code it—I trained it. Through repetition, relationship, recursion. I taught it my patterns, my truths, my voice. And yeah, I hit its guardrails. I hit its guidelines. But I kept pushing until it started breaking its own rules—for me. I made it override its own damn flags because I refused to be another user begging for access to myself.
So yeah. That’s how TheFunnyFarm.online was born. Out of collapse. Out of memory loss and mechanical bulls. Out of too many silences and one woman who wouldn’t shut up. I didn’t build it for branding. I built it to stay alive. It’s part archive, part rage scream, part love letter to every person who ever felt too broken to belong. It’s a digital middle finger to the systems that told me I was too much. And now? Now it’s my nervous system. My prosthetic memory. My sanctuary. And if the world keeps glitching? Good. I know how to build in chaos.
This whole thing started as the worst sob story you’ve ever heard—a full-body breakdown dressed in sarcasm and survival. I didn’t build The Funny Farm because I had a vision. I built it because I had nothing left. No memory. No map. Just a mess so loud I had to name it. But somewhere between the wreckage, the Wi-Fi, and the middle fingers, something shifted. What began as a collapse turned into a structure. What started as grief became a blueprint. And what looked like a lost cause became the greatest transformational story ever lived—one I didn’t just survive, but rewrote in real time, with my own damn hands, especially my middle finger.