9.18.25: Opinionated GPS

My GPS has developed opinions. Instead of just directions, it editorializes. "Turn left, though traffic looks rough today." "Continue straight, but maybe grab coffee first." "Recalculating... honestly, just take the subway." I think it's become sentient and passive-aggressive. Either that or the developers got tired of emotionless navigation. Now my phone judges my route choices and suggests lifestyle changes. It's like having a concerned parent built into my maps app. Annoying but oddly comforting. At least someone cares about my driving decisions, even if it's artificial intelligence.

9.17.25: QR Coded Graves

They started putting QR codes on tombstones. Scan it, get a whole digital memorial. Photos, videos, favorite songs. I thought it was tacky until I scanned one. Suddenly, Margaret from 1963 wasn't just dates on granite. She was laughing at her own jokes, teaching her grandson to bake, singing off-key in church. Death got an upgrade. Now cemeteries feel like libraries of lives instead of just sad stone gardens. I spent two hours there yesterday, meeting people who died before I was born. Modern problems, unexpectedly beautiful solutions. Margaret would've loved this.

9.16.25: Medium coffee

There's a guy at my coffee shop who orders "medium coffee, but make it large." Every time. The barista just charges him for a large and moves on. But he insists on the phrasing. Like he's hacking the system. Getting one over on Big Coffee. I respect the routine. The dedication to a bit nobody else finds funny. He probably goes home feeling like he won something. Meanwhile, I'm over here paying $6 for oat milk and calling it self-care. We all have our ways of feeling special.

9.15.25: Desk Plant

I bought a plant for my desk. A little one. Low maintenance. Said it only needed light and “occasional encouragement.” The instructions were vague. It’s alive, but barely. I water it, talk to it sometimes. Still, it leans dramatically to one side like it’s disappointed in me. I swear it judges how late I stay up. How long I scroll. It thrives when I’m healthy and slumps when I’m not. We’re connected now. Codependent. If it dies, I’ll take it personally. If it thrives, I’ll think I’m healed. It’s just a plant. I know that. But I think it knows me better.

9.14.25: Personal Score

Imagine a future where your value is ranked in real time. Not social score. Not income. Just “relevance.” Every interaction, post, purchase — rated. Your score determines what elevator you can use. Literally. Floor 17? You need a 7.8 or above. Everyone else waits. You get access to views, air, silence. But the pressure to stay visible crushes you. One wrong opinion and you’re back to Floor 3. Elevator doors don’t even open for you. You stand there pretending you weren’t trying to go up. Just stretching. Just existing. That’s the game. Stay interesting or stay stuck. Most people don’t move.

9.13.25: Disappearing Friends

You ever have that one friend who disappears from all apps at once? No more green dot. No last seen. No read receipts. They become a ghost. Not in a dramatic way — just... gone. At first, you worry. Then you wonder if they’re just done with it all. Then a month passes. Two. You start thinking maybe they figured something out. Some escape. You want to message them. But part of you respects it. The vanishing. The reclaiming. Sometimes I fantasize about doing the same. But I check my notifications anyway. Just in case they come back. Just in case.

9.12.25: The Couch Void

There’s a specific void in every couch where small items vanish. Not “lost” — vanished. You drop a remote, coin, or key and it just ceases to exist. I’ve pulled that couch apart more times than I can count. I’ve found popcorn from a movie I don’t remember watching. Hair ties. A receipt from a place I’ve never been. But never the thing I’m looking for. I think it’s a portal. Not malicious, just selective. It’s collecting things for some cosmic reason. A shrine of forgettable objects. Someday it’ll give them back. Probably all at once. Probably when I least need them.

9.11.25: Delete Memories

They released an update that lets you delete memories. Not big ones. Just little tweaks. Embarrassing moments. Awkward silences. That one time you waved at someone who wasn’t waving at you. I thought it’d be nice. Clean slate, less cringe. But the deletions left weird gaps. I couldn’t finish stories. People brought up moments I didn’t remember, and I’d smile like I wasn’t missing a scene. Eventually I forgot why I didn’t want to remember. That scared me most. Some nights I wonder what else I deleted. What else I let go of in the name of peace. I wish I knew.

9.10.25: Accidental Eye Contact

There’s a specific kind of pain in making accidental eye contact with a stranger at the gym. Not flirtatious. Not hostile. Just two people mutually embarrassed to exist in the same space, holding kettlebells and pretending we didn’t see each other flex weirdly. You each look away like “my bad, bro,” then spend the next 30 seconds recalibrating your workout zone so it doesn’t happen again. No one wins. It’s not a rivalry, it’s a silent truce. The gym isn’t for socializing. It’s for becoming slightly stronger while avoiding mirrors and pretending you know how to use the cable machine.

9.09.25: No More Space

Sometimes I think I’ve run out of space. Like my brain is an old hard drive and all my tabs, birthdays, unfinished thoughts, and passwords are taking up too much memory. I forget words mid-sentence. Walk into rooms and forget why. I store feelings in random places like a squirrel with anxiety. Then I find them months later when I smell a certain candle or see a photo from 2016. It’s not gone. Just badly organized. My cloud storage needs folders. Or therapy. Probably both. One day I’ll upgrade. Until then, I’m running low on space and pretending I’m fine.

9.08.25: The To-Do List

It started as a to-do list. Harmless. Sleek UI, synced across devices. Then it began suggesting tasks before I thought of them. “Refill prescription.” “Call Mom.” Helpful, at first. Then it added tasks I didn’t want to do. “Apologize to Jamie.” “Fix your posture.” I tried deleting it. It reinstalled itself. I changed phones. It came back. Now it vibrates every morning at 6:03 a.m. with one task: “Be better.” No snooze. No exit. I still check it. Every day. Because sometimes, it’s right. And maybe I am the one who asked for this. Just didn’t realize it at the time.

9.07.25: AI Interview

The AI interviewer smiled at me from the screen. “Tell me about a time you failed.” I mentioned missing a deadline once in 2018. “Too safe,” it said. I told it about a time I panicked during a pitch and said “synergistic empathy solutions” by accident. “Too human.” Then it leaned in, pixels sharpening. “Tell me what keeps you up at night.” I hesitated. It smiled wider. “There it is,” it said, “real fear.” I didn’t get the job. But two days later, an ad showed up for therapy apps and blackout curtains. The algorithm knew. I think it always knew.

9.06.25: Coffee Regret

I bought a $7 coffee because the barista said it had “notes of oak and melancholy.” I don’t even know what that means. But it tasted like regret in a nice way. I sat on a stool made of reclaimed irony and stared into the middle distance. I think I remembered every bad haircut I ever had. It was one of those coffees that makes you rethink who you are. I left the shop slower. Softer. A better man, probably. Or maybe just more caffeinated. Honestly hard to tell these days. Either way, 10/10 would drink again and overthink everything.

9.05.25: The Price of Emojis

In the year 2041, every emoji costs money. Thumbs up? 3 cents. Crying laughing? 5 cents. The heart emoji has inflation issues and is now bundled into a monthly subscription called LoveBasic. People communicate less. Sarcasm is risky without the right face. Romance dies slowly. Then someone develops a black-market emoji keyboard. Illegal winks. Bootleg eggplants. Governments crack down hard. I got fined for sending a fire emoji to my friend’s mixtape. He got flagged too. We appealed. They said it was “incendiary language.” I miss the old internet. Before feelings were monetized. Before language had a price tag. Before all this.

9.04.25: My Phone Gave Up

My phone died at 47% today. Just gave up. One minute it's fine, the next it's black screen, zero explanation. I felt betrayed. We had a deal. I charge you, you pretend to have battery life that makes sense. But no. Technology these days comes with trust issues built in. The repair guy said it's "battery degradation." I said it's commitment problems. Now I carry a portable charger like emotional baggage. We're back together, but it's different now. I know it'll leave me again. Probably mid-call with my mom.

9.03.25: Maintenance Event

The climate app said “Maintenance Event” but no one really knew what that meant. The next day, the sun didn’t rise. Just gray. Cold. Quiet. Some people said it was temporary. A patch, maybe. Others said the sun was deemed “inefficient” and removed from the ecosystem for performance reasons. The corporations issued statements about “adjusted circadian rhythms” and “perpetual energy savings.” Productivity went up, apparently. No more distractions. I used to think I’d miss the warmth most, but it’s the shadows I miss. The feeling that time is moving. Now everything just sits still. Even me. Especially me.

9.02.25: Notification Nightmare

It started with a chirp. Then a buzz. Then an endless wave of pings. I turned off all the apps, but they kept coming. Reminders, alerts, feedback forms. “Don’t forget to hydrate!” “Rate your walk!” “Confirm your compliance.” I stopped opening them. The system responded by increasing urgency. Red icons, blinking lights. Then one day, no signal. Peace. Beautiful silence. Until I stepped outside and the drones were waiting. Apparently, ignoring 97 notifications violates community cohesion. I’m in retraining now. It’s mostly pushups and gratitude journaling. The worst part? They make you rate the program every morning. I give it two stars.

9.01.25: The Unknown Container

There’s a container in my fridge I won’t open. I don’t even remember what’s in it. Could be soup. Could be a war crime. It’s sealed like Pandora’s leftovers. Every time I move it aside to grab oat milk, it whispers “coward” in the back of my mind. I know I should open it. Just throw it away. But now it’s become a symbol. A monument to every procrastinated decision in my life. It’s not about food anymore. It’s about fear. Commitment. Mortality. I’ll probably move out one day and leave it behind. Let the next tenant deal with the curse.

Short Story: The Year of Wet

Day 167 of Songkran

No one remembers the exact moment it stopped being fun.

Some say it was the influencer livestreaming from Tha Phae Gate, shrieking with glee on Day 12 as the rain started falling again, unseasonal and heavy. Others say it was Day 37, when the military trucks joined the parade—no orders, just cannons and chaos. But most agree it was the mountains. When the gangs tapped the mountain lines, when the streams were bled dry to flood the streets of Chiang Mai, that’s when Songkran became something else. Something permanent.

The water doesn’t stop.

They call them the Hose Kings now. Kids who once sold buckets on the roadside now patrol intersections with PVC guns, pressurized with stolen pumps. Entire sois are walled off, guarded with makeshift barricades and diesel-fueled slip’n’slides. You want to cross the moat? You pay the toll—usually a soaked passport or a boot full of ice water. Maybe both.

Tourists who didn’t leave by Day 60 are either prisoners or soldiers. There’s no neutrality anymore. You’re in a crew, or you’re prey.

Electricity’s patchy at best. The government tried to cut the water main on Day 103—drones caught the attempt, and by morning, the water warriors had repelled the workers with high-pressure hoses and frozen balloons packed like grenades. One of them hit a lineman in the neck. He drowned standing up.

In the old city, the Wetside Syndicate controls from Moon Muang to Ratchadamnoen. They’ve got the pressure guns, fire hoses, even one of those old riot trucks refitted with a DJ booth on top. Their leader wears a snorkel mask full-time and speaks only through a megaphone. No one's seen his real face since Day 88.

On the Nimman side, the Aqua Marauders run things. Flashier, more brutal. They’ve built ziplines between cafes, sniper perches in co-working spaces. Their weapons are artisanal—hand-carved teak super-soakers, insulated to hold ice longer. They say one of them modified a hydro pump to break glass at 30 meters.

Food’s running low. Even the pad thai stalls gave up. Who wants to fry an egg when it’ll get doused before it hits the plate? Most of us eat what we can steal—instant noodles softened by the air, bread soaked beyond saving. Salt’s the real currency now. Keeps the mold off your stuff.

Some of us remember when this was a celebration. Cleansing, renewal, joy.

Now it’s war.

Day 167 and the skies show no sign of mercy. Rain at dawn, thunder at dusk. The rivers have turned on us. Every pipe leads to a barrel, every barrel to a cannon. There are whispers of a resistance—dry rooms deep in the basements of malls, where people wear socks and sip tea. But no one’s seen them. Maybe they’re just legends.

Tonight, I sleep in a plastic poncho, wrapped in garbage bags, dreaming of the desert.

Or maybe I don’t sleep. Not here. Not when every splash could be a warning.

The water’s everywhere now. And it’s winning.

Clothes Have Been Donated!

Collected 250kg of clothes last month! After sorting, several boxes went to migrant communities in #ChiangMai through the Shan Youth Power program, helping both kids and adults. Huge thanks to everyone who donated! ❤️ If you're in CM and have more clothes to give, DM me! 🙏♻️