Becuming
I think I have a dream. Not the wholesome, world-peace kind — more the wildly inappropriate, animated-comedy-on-a-streaming-platform kind.
Imagine if BoJack Horseman moved in with Carol & The End of the World, and they adopted a traumatised but oddly charming cult escapee with a questionable grip on reality.
No, I’m not the Jane next door. I’m the Jane who slipped out of a death-hugging cult and belly-flopped into the real world, where taxes exist and no one’s preparing for the Four Horsemen and Heaven’s strict 144,000 person guest list. Spoiler: I didn’t make the cut, but I did make it out.
Yes, I’m an ex-cult girl, turned reality glitch.
And this absurd little tale? It’s called Becuming. A gloriously unholy memoir where I spill the sacrilegious truth about sex, shame, freedom, and the delicious carnage in between. Think diary meets defiance, with a generous sprinkle of chaos.
It’s part confessional, part love letter to the girl I was never allowed to become. The one who asked the wrong questions, laughed at the wrong moments, and wanted more than salvation in a bunker.
Becuming is the not-so-quiet, not-so-safe-for-work, not-so-sanitised journey of becoming the truest, weirdest, most wonderfully heretical version of me.