When I was a little boy, I wanted to create a website one can break.
So here it is. It's easy. And promise, you can't put it back together.
Not just crash-the-browser break, but gravity-is-drunk break, where buttons run away from your cursor, images slide off the edge like lazy penguins on a buttered iceberg, and every click whispers “are you sure you meant that?”
In my head, there was a control room full of pixel goblins with tiny clipboards, arguing about layout choices while sipping lukewarm CSS soup. One goblin pushed the “wiggle” lever, another toggled “unexpected confetti mode,” and the senior goblin in charge of serious business kept yelling, “Stop turning the navigation into a philosophical question mark!”
Sliders would sometimes decide they were accordions, tooltips would show unsolicited life advice, and a single rogue checkbox called “maybe” would appear in forms between “yes” and “no,” just to see who among us secretly enjoyed chaos-flavoured user journeys on a Wednesday afternoon.
And somewhere in that breakable website, there was a quiet corner where a lonely 404 page hosted a tea party with three loading spinners, a retired hamburger menu, and an input field that only accepted answers in haiku form. That’s still my favourite version of the internet: slightly unhinged, delightfully glitchy, and weirdly honest about how made-up everything really is.