Visa submitted. Cats unsettled. Love steady.
As the move to Thailand hurtles closer, the boxes remain unpacked and the emotions unfiltered. Celia writes from the edge of exhaustion and hope—where hormones meet housing stress, political fear sparks dark humour, and the cats spiral into poetic rebellion. One pit in the stomach, three feline prophets, and zero backup plans.
Tag Archives: life
Poe ‘Vices.
This week, Donny throws himself a one-man military parade—and no one shows up. Except Poe. To mock him. With feathers. And facts.
From inflatable crowds to Kid Rock torture loops, it’s another chaotic dispatch from the tangerine twilight zone. Poe offers tactical chicken wisdom, emotional support hashbrowns, and a dazzling robe of ridicule.
March with us, or at least laugh from the sidelines.
Dispatches from the Void. X.IV.
Salt hit #1. Celia hit her limit. Mowgli lost his voice, Akela sued the air (again), and Poe is now spiritually bonded with the rice cooker. Meanwhile, we’re dodging hate comments, packing for Thailand (badly), and writing political satire fuelled by rage, resilience, and the occasional pear. Welcome to Underland. It’s a mess. It’s ours.
Poe ‘Vices.
This week, Donny throws himself a one-man military parade—and no one shows up. Except Poe. To mock him. With feathers. And facts.
From inflatable crowds to Kid Rock torture loops, it’s another chaotic dispatch from the tangerine twilight zone. Poe offers tactical chicken wisdom, emotional support hashbrowns, and a dazzling robe of ridicule.
March with us, or at least laugh from the sidelines.
Dispatches from the Void. X.III
Salt launched early (because patience is for capitalists). River won a challenge on a site run by bots and tech bros. The cats staged an emotional protest. We made pesto. Also, Celia did an interview and accidentally sounded wise. Chaos, poetry, and spite—just another week in Underland.
Volume XII: THE SALT IN MY WOUND.
Akela returns with righteous rage and ear drops. While the humans celebrate Salt in the Wound, she reminds us who the real wounded party is. Featuring vet betrayal, unsolicited ear juice, and Mowgli’s tragic (and possibly theatrical) loss of voice. The pillow has fallen. The diva has risen.
Art Under Siege
I made paintings. Tech advanced I let the algorithm chew on them. fAce-lIft™ is what happened when I asked AI to distort, not dictate — to echo, not replace. The result? Something almost beautiful, slightly haunted, and very much still mine. If that makes you uncomfortable… good. Come look anyway.
Let Them Eat Eggs.
When Chuck woke up craving eggs, he didn’t expect to lose his savings, his freedom, or his species classification by lunchtime. In a world run by poultry monopolies and algorithmic demagogues, he learns the hard way: it was never about the ducks.
Art Under Siege
I made paintings. Tech advanced I let the algorithm chew on them. fAce-lIft™ is what happened when I asked AI to distort, not dictate — to echo, not replace. The result? Something almost beautiful, slightly haunted, and very much still mine. If that makes you uncomfortable… good. Come look anyway.
Poe ‘Vices
Trump’s still NOT A TACO, Poe’s still screaming “EAT CHICKENS,” and the National Guard is not coming to LA—because the courts said no (rude). This week’s Poe’vice unpacks orange meltdowns, drag queen panic, and why cilantro is destiny. Includes a bonus merch drop for the emotionally unguarded.
