Living our queer, twisted truth. Stories, art, love, and cantankerous cats.
Falling in love with Bangkok, one bite at a time. From scallops that changed everything to long evenings over Shabu-Shabu at Akase Shabu, Shabu Chain, and sushi at 584homemadeJapanese food and Ude Izakaya & Sushi Bar—Thailand really is all about the food. And I’m finally making art again, too.
#BangkokEats #ThailandFoodie #WhatToEatInThailand #BangkokTravel #SushiLovers #ShabuShabu #ArtistInThailand #PrintifyShop #FoodAndArt
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.
Aubergine. The colour of the bruise long after the violence stops and love begins to heal.
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.
She was always there—taller than the rest of us, quieter too. Even as a boy, I felt something holy when she entered a room. For years I watched her, adored her from afar, imagined our life together. She seemed to shimmer in the light, a figure of grace and promise. I brought her home. I wore her close in war. She never spoke, but I listened like she did. Now, years later, I wonder if she ever knew me. If she ever loved any of us. Or if she was just a story we were told to believe in.
He built an island. He drained a swamp. He rewrote the gospel of guilt into a tax-deductible memoir. And now? He’s been canonised by himself, in his own floating church, under a halo of federal restraint. Behold: Saint of Redaction — Patron of Secrets, Wealth, and Wiggly Truths.
Cherubs hold the NDAs. A gator whispers truth. The list has been printed. And no amount of bleach can scrub divine delusion.
