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.

Visa stress, bureaucratic limbo, and a house full of half-packed boxes. Celia reflects on love, exhaustion, and quiet resistance. Meanwhile, Mowgli files complaints, Akela flees from shadows, and Poe communes with paperwork. The countdown to Thailand continues—chaotic, tender, and just barely held together by bedtime Phil and warrior paws

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.

I keep a whole war behind my teeth. Silent rounds chambered in my throat. Every word is a risk, every breath a negotiation. This isn’t just about language—it’s about survival. About the sounds we swallow, the truths we burn to say, and the silence that remains when even "I love you" aches too loud.

Tired of watching self-proclaimed “experts” spew geopolitical nonsense from their Wi-Fi-enabled soapboxes? Here’s a five-step guide to becoming a top-tier war apologist—plus actual sources debunking the tired myth that Iran has nukes. Sarcasm included. Evidence required.

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.

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.

The wardrobe has vanished, the neighbour’s smoking crack, and Zionists are being platformed while dissent is muted. We’re packing, protesting, and somehow still writing. Rage, rain, and resistance: another week in Underland.

Place your bets. Watch the egos combust. From cult leaders to crypto crybabies, Narcissist Derby™ is the only game where everyone loses and the audience wins. This week’s top contenders? The orange one and the rocket man. May the worst man implode first.

There is a suitcase in the hallway. Rodgit has vanished. Poe is acting... cuddly. Akela Jean Underland does not approve. In this week’s Catdiva Monologue, she processes the scent of betrayal, the encroachment of affection, and the growing threat of something called “Thailand.” Elegance endures. Trust does not.

They chose layout over love. Fonts over family. You? They left you on read. Introducing the Zine Abandonments Recovery Kits™ — for cats discarded in the name of literary pursuit. Includes a tear-absorbent blankie, guilt-activated chicken button, and the dignity you were denied. Because this isn’t a phase. It’s emotional print neglect.

“He named himself after big cats? Leo Kings of the universes. Wooooah.” This week, Poe responds to a panicked Traditionalist who fears the Pope has gone soft—and possibly woke. Enter: the velvet-draped feline theologian, riding a golden chicken straight through the Vatican. The Clucksmobile is real. And so is the chaos.

This week's Revelation finds Poe deep in mourning — abandoned in a locked house with only a strange man and the scent of wet socks for company. As the doors close and the biscuits betray, Poe proclaims a mighty lamentation: the world is without chicken, without love, and gravely lacking in proper reverence for the sacred feline order. So sayeth the Oracle of Poe.

Locked in. Doors shut. Biscuits wrong. Mothers in Turkey. In The Catdiva Monologues: Volume V, Akela Jean Underland recounts the horror of her abandonment with biting wit and theatrical disdain. A tale of closed doors, unseasoned men, and feline fortitude. Unlicked. Unfed. Unimpressed.

While the humans flee to Turkey, the cats of Underland remain behind to guard the realm (and the biscuits). Poe plots suitcase infiltration, Akela prepares for war with the kitchen chicken, and Mowgli contemplates poetry and tuna. The drama, as always, is feline. The claws, as always, are out.

Underland Dispatch: New Shop, Old Chickens, and Imminent Escape We opened a cursed little shop. We’re packing for Turkey. The chicken keeps coming in the kitchen. The cats are suspicious. There's a Discord now. Also: zine launch, stray diplomacy, mild existentialism, and biscuits. Come for the queer chaos, stay for the literary crumbs.

Mowgli writes again from the sacred folds of the Velveteen Blanket, where peace is fleeting, Akela is sprawling, and a chicken may or may not be an omen. A journal of feline philosophy, betrayal, and poultry surveillance. Featuring: bi-ambulators, dignity under siege, and one very strategic hairball.