I’ve lived with bipolar disorder since I was eighteen. In those fevered highs, the world takes on a grainy, oversaturated glow—too bright, too loud, moving too fast. Mania hums like a bad transmission, skipping like a scratched CD, flickering like a motel sign on the verge of burning out. I chase the night, chasing something bigger, something electric, but it always slips through my fingers. And then, just as suddenly, it’s gone. The crash hits. The silence is deafening. Morning light feels like an interrogation lamp, and I’m left sifting through the wreckage, trying to remember who I was before the film cut to black. Motel Girl™ is my way of stepping outside of it, of shaping the story instead of just being swallowed whole. A love letter to motel rooms, gas station lights, and the neon-lit ghosts of who I used to be.