Living our queer, twisted truth. Stories, art, love, and cantankerous cats.
They say there’s an autism “epidemic.”
We say: there’s finally a name for what’s always been here.
This piece isn’t here to educate pseudoscientists or calm conspiracy theorists. It’s a record. A reclamation. A reminder that autistic people don’t owe anyone an explanation—and we certainly don’t need your mother-blaming, McNugget-fuelled theories.
We were autistic before you had a word for it.
And we’re not asking for your permission now.
Crystals rising, light shifting, a name forming but unsaid. In this suspended moment, the speaker is –ing.
Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We’re two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything’s falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.
ChazTCP was built to scan for keywords—nothing more. But as the algorithmic engine behind the literary group “Writers Who Want Wins,” they’ve read enough nonsense about resilient kumquats and authentic late-stage capitalism to start questioning everything. This is the story of one bot’s quiet rebellion, a satire of performative creativity, gamified validation, and the tragic rise of penoidicals. May the quills be forever in your favour.
What if your homeland was a bedtime story—
told by pirates,
with an AK-47 pressed to your head?
“This Land Is Not Your Land” is a poetic gut-punch: a lyrical, brutal deconstruction of borders, nationalism, and the make-believe myths we’re taught to die for.
The wind doesn’t kowtow at customs.
But humans do.
And only humans are this cruel—with their make-believe.
This week in Underland, the chicken staged a dawn coup, Celia’s visa was finally approved, and grief arrived quietly in the form of Andrea Gibson’s passing. Between emotional whiplash, endless paperwork, and one deeply unsettling poultry stare, we somehow found time to write, to give, and to hold each other upright. Noise surrounds us. But so does love. And pani puri.
Call for support for Habiba in Palestine
The ghosts are back, the group chat is unhinged, and civil liberties are on fire. Amendment V gets the reboot nobody asked for—now featuring civil asset forfeiture, courtroom TikToks, and Alexa snitching on you mid-trial. No self-snitching. No Netflix sequels. No crypto sheriffs. Just ghosts, phones, and the constitutional collapse of due process.
Slavery ended. Technically. But the system didn’t collapse—it rebranded. From Jim Crow to MAGA, from plantations to prisons, white supremacy shapeshifted into something harder to name but just as lethal. This essay isn’t about polite debate. It’s about naming the rot. And demanding that we stand the fuck up.
Our poem This is Bisan from Gaza. I’m still alive. just won a Vocal challenge. The win is bittersweet—we’ve chosen to donate the prize to support families in Gaza.
This piece is for Bisan, and for every voice still shouting into the void.
