7.18.25: The IKEA Test

If you want to test a relationship, try assembling IKEA furniture together. Bonus points if there’s only one Allen key. There’s something about flat-pack chaos that reveals the real dynamics: who reads instructions, who guesses, who blames, who laughs. I’ve built desks with exes and bookshelves with best friends. And every time, it’s like a little personality test disguised as home improvement. You learn how people handle frustration. How they share control. Whether they care more about being right or being done. And yes, it’s just furniture. But sometimes, the way we build the little things says everything.

7.17.25: Perfect Silence

There’s a type of silence that only exists at 5:30 in the morning. Not the hungover kind. The intentional kind. When the world hasn’t woken up yet. When the air still feels like possibility. I don’t do it often, but when I do, I always wonder why I don’t do it more. It’s like borrowing time from a parallel universe. You can think. You can breathe. No pings. No noise. Just... stillness. In those moments, I remember that peace doesn’t have to be earned through productivity. It can be found in the quiet. Sometimes doing nothing is everything.

7.16.25: The Patch

They told us the patch would fix the glitches—sleepwalking, static in dreams, phantom voices. But after Update 14.2, things got worse. Entire memories overwritten. Pets renamed. One guy swore his wife blinked and became someone else. I checked the changelog. Buried in legalese: “Subjective continuity enhancements may result in altered timelines.” Too late. I don’t remember my sister’s face anymore. Only her absence. I tried uninstalling. The system laughed. “Rollback not supported.” Now I leave sticky notes everywhere. To remember who I am. Or maybe... who I was.

7.15.25: How to Grieve

You can’t tell people how to grieve. Some go quiet. Others throw themselves into work. Some joke through the pain, making everyone uncomfortable. And some just disappear for a while. Grief is weird like that. It doesn’t respect timetables or etiquette. I think the kindest thing you can do is hold space. No expectations. Just presence. Say “I’m here” and mean it. Let them be messy, or numb, or loud. Let them be real. It’s not about fixing anything. It’s about not walking away. Because the one thing worse than loss is feeling like you have to hide it.

7.14.25: Average People

There should be a word for when you realize someone you admired is just... average. Not evil. Not malicious. Just regular. Maybe a little lazy. Maybe just lucky. It’s a weird disappointment. You want there to be more. A secret. A method. But often, they just showed up. Or knew someone. Or got lucky twice. I used to pedestal people. Now I just study them. See what I can learn. But I don’t idolize anymore. That’s the trick to not feeling let down. Everyone’s human. And the minute you realize that, you stop looking up and start looking around.

7.13.25: Getting Older

Getting older means realizing how fast 10 years goes by. I remember being 25 and thinking 35 was ancient. Now I am 35 and I feel like I blinked. The wild part? I still feel like I’m just getting started. Like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I want to build, who I want to be, or where I want to go. It’s terrifying and freeing at the same time. You stop comparing timelines. You stop chasing arbitrary milestones. You start listening to your gut. Turns out, it’s never too late. It’s just later than you expected.

7.12.25: The Death Watch

Sam’s watch stopped the moment his wife died. For years, he wore it anyway. On a whim, he visited an old repair shop he’d never noticed before. Dusty windows. Smelled like metal and memories. The man behind the counter inspected the watch and nodded. “I can fix it, but time will cost you.” Sam agreed. The man turned a gear, muttered something in a language Sam didn’t know. The watch ticked. So did everything else. Sam left and found her waiting at home, alive. Smiling. Laughing. The next day, the watch stopped again. And so did everything else.

7.11.25: People Are Oceans

Some people are oceans. You can dive deep and still feel like there’s more beneath you. Conversations don’t end, they evolve. They make you question things. Expand. Other people are pools. Shiny. Comfortable. Safe. But after twenty minutes, you’ve done all there is to do. I used to mistake pools for oceans. Thought charm was depth. Now I’m more patient. I listen longer. I notice the current. The drift. Oceans can be harder to navigate, sure. But once you’ve felt that kind of connection, chlorinated small talk doesn’t quite hit the same. I’m done swimming in circles.

7.10.25: Fakers

One of the worst lies we tell kids is that adults have it all figured out. I’m 35 and still make cereal-for-dinner decisions. You think there’s some magic age when people become qualified to lead countries, raise kids, run companies. There isn’t. We’re all faking it—just some of us are better at pretending. The truth is, growing up doesn’t mean clarity. It means learning to function amid chaos. To keep going even when the map makes no sense. And maybe, if you're lucky, to laugh about it. Being an adult is basically saying “we’ll figure it out” on repeat.

7.09.25: WhisperBox™

WhisperBox™ lets you record one sentence to send 20 years into the future. Everyone gets one. No edits. No previews. Some said, “I love you.” Others gave warnings: “Sell everything on May 12.” Governments feared it would destabilize markets. It didn’t. It destabilized people. Obsession grew. Forums decoded messages. Religions formed around famous Whispers. I got mine yesterday. Static. Then my voice: “Run.” That’s it. No context. No hint. And now I can’t stop watching doors, clocks, skies, people. I don’t know what’s coming. But I know I believed myself enough to warn me. And that’s what scares me most.

7.08.25: The Hungry Island

They shipwrecked on day three. Four friends. One raft. No food. By day six, tensions rose. Then the island appeared. Small, green, improbable. Freshwater. Fruit. Shelter. They thought it was a miracle. Then Amy vanished. Then Raj. Each morning, one less. No blood. No noise. Just... gone. Emily and Connor stopped sleeping. Stayed back-to-back by the fire. On day thirteen, only Emily remained. She carved a message into the tree: “This island feeds itself.” Then walked into the sea. A year later, a new group washed ashore. One looked up and whispered, “Thank god.” The island was ready again.

7.07.25: CM Floods

Chiang Mai floods are the kind of natural disaster that creep up quietly. One day the moat’s full. The next, your neighborhood’s a canal. There’s something surreal about watching motorbikes plow through water like boats while you sit on your 14th-floor balcony, wondering if you stocked enough instant noodles. I wasn’t scared. Just... suspended. Time stops when everything below you is underwater. You stop worrying about productivity. You start texting your neighbors, checking on strangers, sharing power banks and snacks. Funny how it takes a flood to remind us we’re all connected. Even when the streets disappear.

7.06.25: SoulPrint™

They said it was just for artists. SoulPrint™ scanned your subconscious and created an object—a painting, a sculpture, sometimes even music. A literal artifact of your essence. At first, the results were beautiful. Then they got darker. One man’s SoulPrint was a locked door with screams behind it. A woman’s came out blank. People started chasing better outputs. Cleanses. Hypnosis. Therapy. Anything to purify their inner world. But the printer never lied. You could fake your résumé, your smile, your entire personality. But SoulPrint™? That was truth in physical form. Turns out, some people don’t want to meet themselves.

7.05.25: Leo Must Die

Every year on August 9th, Leo dies. Car crash. Drowning. Lightning. Heart attack. Then he wakes up, drenched in sweat, gasping. Same date. Different death. He’s tried hiding. Running. Staying indoors. Nothing works. He’s never made it to August 10th. But this year, he sits calmly in his kitchen, drinking coffee. He’s done running. If it’s the end, so be it. The clock turns midnight. Nothing happens. He waits. Still nothing. A new date on the calendar. He breathes. Smiles. Then the doorbell rings. Outside, a stranger says, “You made it. Now it’s your turn to collect.”

7.04.25: Fantasy = Gambling

Fantasy football is just gambling with extra spreadsheets and fewer regrets. I pretend it's strategic. I tell myself I’m optimizing my lineup based on matchup data and injury reports. But really, I’m just chasing dopamine with a side of trash talk. I’ve spent hours debating whether to start a WR3 on a rainy Thursday night or a TE who hasn’t scored since September. It’s a ridiculous waste of time. And yet, it’s my favorite part of fall. Not for the wins. For the chat threads. The memes. The Monday night meltdowns. The fantasy isn’t the football. It’s the camaraderie.

7.03.25: GhostMode Glasses™

GhostMode Glasses™ let you see who’s blocking you in real life. Social overlays reveal anyone who’s ghosted you online. Walk into a bar and suddenly half the room flickers in red. That guy you dated last fall? “Blocked since October.” Your ex’s new girlfriend? “Private mode.” Friendships end quickly when GhostMode hits the group chat. The divorce rate tripled. People panicked. The company insisted it promoted transparency. Now there's a black market for analog sunglasses. People wear them to escape. Ironically, going offline is the new filter. Everyone’s hiding, but at least now we know who’s pretending.

7.02.25: Convenience Stores

Thai convenience stores are chaotic good. You can get coconut water, fried chicken, SIM cards, instant ramen, eyebrow razors, and a hot espresso at 3:00 a.m., all within a single aisle. And the clerks? Absolute saints. Always polite, even when you walk in soaked, half-drunk, and reeking of regret. The West doesn’t have a cultural equivalent. There’s something democratic about the whole thing. Everyone from tuk tuk drivers to tech bros stops at 7-Eleven. It’s not just a store. It’s a sanctuary. A place to reset. Or reload. Or, occasionally, just to cool down in the air conditioning.

7.01.25: Overseas Breakup

If you've ever had your heart broken overseas, you know the feeling. A city that used to be magic turns into a memory minefield. Every alley, every cafe, every streetlight flickers with some shared inside joke. You walk around like a ghost in your own adventure. The food still slaps. The sunsets still glow. But there's this echo of something that isn't yours anymore. And then one day, you’re sipping coffee and you laugh—like genuinely laugh—and the ghost finally lets you go. The city shifts back into focus. It stops being about them and starts being about you again.

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! 🙏♻️