Actually I’ve had this gnawing, growing fear for awhile. Starting a year or so ago? Perhaps as far back as two years. You can ask Henry. I’ve mentioned it to him several times. One of my greatest fears, if not perhaps the greatest? Fear of schizophrenia. Fear of losing touch with reality. Fear of mental and cognitive breakdown. The timeline would fit. The facts of the case seem very clear. There absolutely has been nothing to “read into”. All those men I saw yesterday were just strolling the gallery. I may just have imagined that they made eye contacts with me or were tailing me. CLASSIC SCHIZO Y’ALL. Worse is the break-in. Either I was mistaken about things being slightly or weirdly out of place or I was the one who physically messed with them in the first place or I experienced severe visual hallucination. Seriously I’m probably psychotic already.
— Journal: June 6th, 2025
So the following days from June 2nd to June 4th (on June 5th I was too out of it to care), I shook like a leaf – a withered, brittle, crumbling leaf that’s almost gone straight to powders. I read that one shouldn’t try to dissipate the nervousness or anxiety by getting rid of it as that would make things bottled up and worse. I read that putting some weight on your body would help make it feel safe so I laid a pillow on top of me and hugged the large leopard doll Henry gifted me with.
— Journal: June 7th, 2025
I swear to god it was a fear-driven behaviour that I took those photos. I saw a guy taking a selfie with the white figurine and had the same idea. Let’s anchor oneself in reality and not in feelings. Let’s “make it real”. Because it was real to me at that point. Very real and viscerally so. It was only when I sat down and had myself a watermelon smoothie (out of character here) in a cafe downstairs that it occured to me I should post them. I remember thinking that many of the 48-hours episodes where the netizens “sleuthed” on a case or the case detectives kept being taunted by a cold case the only one thing they have in common is that the victim is female, young, and pretty. No more, no less. A pretty simple formula. The more photos the better. The more clues in it, the more fascinating. The more flattering the photos, the more attention it gets. I pondered for a long time whether to add a smiley face to the title. On the one hand it isn’t me, on the other it would otherwise look like someone held a gun to my head in those photos. I don’t like being so obvious.. and always room for plausible deniability.
— Journal: June 7th, 2025
Had a sleep paralysis at one point during my morning nap. Tried to pry my eyes open. Body stiff and unable to move. Could not move limbs or fingers. I was lying on top of someone with my back on his chest – I guess similar to sitting in someone’s lap but in a prone position. Eyeballs sloshing wildly and wonkily in my skull. I remember seeing the ceiling of my bedroom. Couldn’t scream. We were lying in my bed. Fell back asleep again.. though it could be in split seconds. The second time I got “woken up” by a dramatic fall from great height. But unlike any of the previous falling dreams (happen once in a while – a few times a year at most), I wasn’t flung out of a seat or fell from a building or a highway. I think I was on a sky train – metal tube, secure, forging ahead at a headlong speed. Then a screeching halt. Derailed and plunged straight down from a stratospheric height. I remember being in a zero gravity suspension but felt no fear, just drumming heartbeat and wondering whether the ground impact or being battered around in an enclosed structure in a free fall was going to kill me first.
— Journal: June 8th, 2025
Ok, let’s try again. I actually feel better after our call for two reasons. First, I’m right and so not spiraling into a schizophrenia-induced psychosis (which means life as I know it would be over). Two, the fact that he took my call during his “work hours” means it’s business – perhaps mixed with pleasure – and thus he’s not allowed, legally or operationally or otherwise, to throw me off a high-storied building when we fuck on a rooftop (if we do). The fact that he’s not demented or deranged means it’s manageable. It’s at least someone or something I can deal with. If this were purely pleasure or personal, my chance of survival would be much lower… actually it almost would be nil […]. So SVR knowing about “us” plays into my favour rather than against it. In short, not going mad and not going to die. It’s a total win.
— Journal: June 7th, 2025
In response to the discovery that my neighbor was a spy who has been keeping tabs on me (and consequently that there are definitely cameras in here), I skimmed a dated paperback from the 70s titled “The Russians” from my shelves, extracted some snippets, and dispatched them to Henry yesterday. I like the bits about the country being ‘peopled by mini-dictators inflicting inconvenience and misery on the rest of their fellow citizens.. as a way of getting back at the system for the hardship and frustration they themselves have suffered’ and ‘give a Russian a plot of land and he will use his meager authority over that spot to make life hard on others’. It is petty but what else can I do? There is absolutely nothing I can do with little to no power I have (or don’t have).
— Journal: June 17th, 2025
Full snippets:
This deeply ingrained sense of impotence, because of the official power of retaliation, and the assertive intrusion of officialdom with personal lives, is something alien almost totally to middle-class Americans and perhaps understood only by blacks and poor people in America. Yet it affects almost all Soviets.
The fact that power and authority derive from above not below, has made Soviet society far more rank-and-hierarchy conscious than Western societies – strange as that may seem for a state that preens itself as the protagonist of the proletariat. Power determines rank from top to bottom in Soviet society. The crucial test, in Lenin’s blunt formula, is Kto Kogo?, literally, ‘Who-Whom?’ but more meaningfully ‘Who can do what to whom?’ It is an unspoken question Russians have in mind constantly as they deal with each other. Hence the enormous attention paid to the pecking order at all levels of Soviet society. It is the inordinate care that the Soviet leadership itself devotes to deciding who stands where in official photographs or on top of the Lenin Mausoleum which gave birth to the Western art of Kremlinology. It was the same under the czars. Centuries ago Western envoys to the Kremlin learned to study certain ikons to discern the importance of various court personalities because their position in processions was often shown not according to real life or the laws of perspective, but according to their rank and importance.
No modern Soviet writer has outdone Chekhov is capturing the twofaced fawning servility of Russian bureaucrats to their superiors and their arrogant disdain toward the masses.
Once again, it is Chekhov who sketched that trait so graphically in Chameleon, the story of a town bailiff who alternates between menacing self-importance and timid acquiescence in his handling of a stray dog – depending on what onlookers have to say about the identity and rank of the owner.
As the conflicting versions alternate, he changes like a chameleon. In Soviet life, this is an everyday occurrence. Any foreigner who has lived in Russia has experienced the volte-face from cranky arrogance to Uriah Heep helpfulness the minute it appears that people of some importance are involved.
This sort of thing can happen in other countries, too. Americans, like others, have their own sense of who stands where on the totem pole and of apple-polishing. But it is rarely manifested so baldly as in the rank-consciousness of Soviet life… During World War II, I was told, the national sense of solidarity diminished the normal sense of rank. But Russian life today is marked by status feelings – that some are above and others below, that some prevail and others submit.
For the quiet erosion of the spirit that takes place daily is caused more by the petty tyrants of Soviet life – the rigid little bureaucrats and the self-appointed busybodies who use infinite regulations and documents to harass, humble and hound the man in the street.
Soviet society in general is peopled by mini-dictators inflicting inconvenience and misery on the rest of their fellow citizens, often it seems, as a way of getting back at the system for the hardship and frustration they themselves have suffered. ‘The peasant learns to suffer and therefore to sympathize with suffering,’ wrote Maurice Baring, a British commentator, not long before the Revolution. ‘He learns to bear suffering with stoicism, and therefore to inflict it with insensitivity when the occasion arises.’ I have heard Russians in more recent years describe this phenomenon as a mass settling of scores on a personal level.
‘Put a Russian in charge of a little plot of ground or a doorway somewhere,’ a bespectacled scientist ruminated sadly to me, ‘and he will use his meager authority over that spot to make life hard on others.’ In one way or another, practically everyone works for the state and, on the job at least, adopts the psychology of government functionaries, which typically means a narrow and finicky adherence to the technicalities and a bull-headed stubbornness not to venture an inch beyond the rules for fear that any initiative will later be chastized.
That is not characteristic of the Russian. His way is usually to submit to the busybody just as he submits to the power of the authorities, to the system of ranks and privileges, to the rules and regulations, to the documents, to the myriad controls of his life. I remember an iconoclastic writer telling me that he had learned from the Army: ‘Never disobey. Always say, “Yes, sir,” and let *them* worry about whether you carry out the orders.’
This caught it exactly. The Russian tactic is not to confront Authority, not to seek reform of the system, but to step back, endure, and look for a loophole or pray that someone else’s inefficiency will somehow help you get by. As one Russian proverb has it, ‘The wise man does not climb the mountain, but goes around it.’ In this trait, today’s New Soviet Man is no different from his forebears under the czars. Ivan Novikov, an 18th-centry Russian writer, was quoted to me as having observed that ‘The good fortune of Russia is in the bad execution of bad laws.’ In the same way, Russians today find some comfort in the thought that an easygoing inefficiency in their lives – the opposite of German Teutonic discipline – will temper the harshness of the system.
‘Thank God we are not Germans,’ gushed Lev Kopelev, the bearded Russian writer. ‘If we were, it would be unbearable.’For years, journalists, scholars and writers have found that by citing Lenin prominently in their articles, especially at the beginning and end, they can sometimes get otherwise questionable material past censors. A Western scholar, for example, spoke of seeing a book on Africa by a Soviet foreign affairs specialist which he considered well done except for periodic non sequitur quotes from Lenin. When my friend talked with the author about it, the Russian candidly said: ‘Well, I have an editor and he inserts those passages.’ A highly successful free-lance journalist told me that he himself spent hours mastering Lenin’s works to bracket ticklish essays to make them more palatable.
For foreigners, the problem is that Lenin humour translates badly because so much of it consists of in-jokes that require close knowledge of Soviet history, personalities and the stilted idiosyncrasies of propaganda.
It is kind of sardonic and not at all wishful thinking or prophecy fulfilling that my favourite movie of all time is the one where the main character is being held hostage by a charismatic psychopath who lives in the shadows and whose existence is never known or confirmed by others. It’s ironically called Collateral. We tried to watch but you didn’t warm up to it so we didn’t finish it. Anton has watched it by the way for some reason – obscure the movie though it maybe.
I am rewatching Jessica Jones. Similar premise. Jessica is slim, raven-haired, jaded, and recovering from a trauma under the coercive control of a dangerous, obsessive man with a peculiar penchant for influencing others through a network of compromised individuals. It is dark, raw, dense and rather brutal. But the thing about Kilgrave is that he is infantile and takes himself way too seriously. Threats are sometimes delivered more effectively through smiles and chuckles when in high feather, alternating perhaps with a menacing tone of voice when they feel their hold is weakened. But ultimately it is the heft of their character and not their words that engenders panic and fear.
— Email to Henry, June 23rd, 2025
Been re-watching the Hangover movies. Currently on Part II – Bangkok edition. When the guys woke up in the shabby hotel room, I fucking laughed out loud. Remember how that night on Khaosan Road and I was too drunk to walk straight and Andre booked a hotel for me – which I think cost $4 dollar a night – and dropped me off in a hotel room just like that. No A.C. No built-in facility (had to walk back to my hostel the next morning to request a paid shower). No electronics. The room was a shoebox. The shared bathroom a real gunkhole. It was forgiveable at the time because he was a ‘framemaker from Vienna’. Who knew the Russians have any sense of humour.
— Journal: June 27th, 2025
Remember back in I think early 2019 when you found out Sebastian had access to your phone (which you mistook for an average snoopware) and after failing a complete blackout, you put on gangbang porn just to mess with him? I don’t think this would mesh well with wider audience. And you know since they’ve hacked the homecams it was the router that was compromised (less likely at ISP-level) which means none of my more obscure devices – kindle, two Onyxes, cheap battery-worn windows laptop – are truly sealed off from digital audits.
— Journal: June 27th, 2025
Old Boys’ Club – “dicking around to fend off their own impotence”. I think I just insulted every single one of them. Why doesn’t anybody stop me from making things much worse for myself? My gmail this morning had at least 5 open-in-other-locations suckerwares which I assume means that I tripped off a fucking alarm […] with my post yesterday.
[…] But maybe someone was just fucking with me as per usual. Tired of the guessing games. In any case, this is drizzling weather compared to the two weeks and four days of the Antonian reign of pure absolute unadulterated terror.
— Journal: June 27th, 2025
Just re-watched Thomas Crown Affair (1996). Too soapy than what I remembered. So knocked off my top ten list. It has some good bits: “Elegant crime by an elegant mind”. “Faceless businessman” (Magritte). “The world is watching”.
— Journal: July 10th, 2025
I remember when Andre and I had a meal in that food court one time. I believe it was J.J. mall near the Chatuchuk market. I commented saying the taste was somewhat “tangy”. Andre looked at me and asked “Tangy? What does ‘tangy’ mean?”. Oh my god! I told you the Russians have a sense of humour! I propose a Camusian alternative: Should I kill myself or have a chuckle? […]
“Tanguy Le Loch” is ‘Tangy’-‘French’-‘German’. That spells “Andre”. The word I used. His name’s linguistic root. His alleged ethnicity. Either I got one pulled over me by Anton or it’s one of the most nonsensical names of all time.
— Journal: July 15th, 2025
ChatGPT is awfully good regardless of what people say about it. I spent a lot of time on false leads: Japanese-speaking, German-speaking (not false but also not on the official record), stationed abroad and even geographically mobile (though I know this could be false – entry June 10th: “I think he’s in Moscow. That’s why he could talk rather jolly about his “business” “friends”), physics degree (this could however still be true), etc. Most of the men are much older than his age range. Doesn’t fit. And because of the Japan connection and the name “Anton” and the “book” he’s been writing, I even asked at one point: “Is it possible that the person appearing in public as Anton Vaino is actually not the real Anton Vaino”.
— Journal: July 20th, 2025
Yes, there were reasons I decided against my better judgement to keep streaming HD porn from my laptop last week (a bright idea I had just to fuck with them – and I hadn’t even gotten to the best part which was what I’d planned all along: gay porn). Interestingly enough the pornhub email verification wouldn’t arrive at my inbox despite repeated re-requests but it finally did after almost ten full minutes and that made me chuckle (Were all my emails manually screened? Were they reluctant to allow it in fear of upsetting their boss? Did they have to escalate and wake him up in the middle of the night? That would be funny – no, that would be *hilarious*). I mean free porn is public service but then it occurred to me that I had to be on call for work for the next two weeks so I should be on my best behaviour after all.
— Journal: August 1st, 2025
I peered through the window (there was only one peerable window since the other was blocked by a staff check-in table) and I was confronted with a view of a mismatched couple seated at the bar. The man was early 40s but sharp handsome profile, bespectacled, wearing a dark-colored long-sleeve office attire – the kind Sebastian liked to wear. In fact, if you really looked, the man was his doppelganger. From the haircut and styling, to the facial profile, to the shape of those glasses, to the outfit and mannerism. The lady beside him was a less fortunate looking Isarn woman. He kept turning to her to interact so I got a chance to observe them up close. There was nothing holding them together as a coherent unit – either as peer or a couple. He was so dashing and sophisticated and her demeanors were so childish and unhewed.
— Journal: August 1st, 2025
… if anyone, or any group of people, feels like retaliating against a woman PMS’ing they would be sadder little people than I thought. Because I am off my rocker right now and I think it’s the hormones.
— Journal: August 1st, 2025
To be honest on that note I haven’t been self-servicing as furiously or extensively because, well, the thought of the National Security Council of Russia is a major libido downer no offense.
— Journal: August 3rd, 2025
This would also explain why I was so emotionally and psychologically unhinged the past few days. Fentanyl overdose? The hell was that? If anything, I’ll give him a Gone Girl Special (the rich, lovestruck, puppy-eyed Neil Patrick Harris who is obsessed over her for years and then tries to lock her up in his mansion). Or if he prefers a more binding option then the opening scene of Sharon Stone (spoiler alert!) in Basic Instinct. He can come and then he can go.
This is also giving me a good chuckle. It means that the Russians will now have to monitor and track my lady cycle so they don’t unintentionally over-escalate. By the way, 24/4 regimen starting my new pack yesterday.
— Journal: August 3rd, 2025
There was a barrage of other non-standard incidents this past weekend which started firing off as early as Saturday morning (following my entry here about the suspected ongoing Russian sabotage on Friday). Like a bunch of them. At least a dozen. At weird non-standard hours too. That never happened. Infrastructure glitches in our company are almost exclusively due to traffic or server overload, hence, you get most of them during the European working time and you almost never get them during the weekends let alone consistently because nobody is using it […] So this just confirmed my suspicion that it *is* Anton’s doing. Just as it was perhaps his scheme all along to organise these events in such close succession (Trout concert at Siam Society on Wednesday, Stevie Wonder tribute at Siwilai club on Thursday, possible drop-by at The Missing Piece exhibition at River City Bangkok either Saturday or Sunday, and Echoes from the French School – Lekeu, Bacri, Ravel – at the Nielsen Hays library on Sunday – that’s four events in five days) as to apply as many pressure points as possible […] and in a time crunch such that I’d crack. And weighted down by work pressure too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he planned that the infrastructure incidents be set off one week beforehands – as I’ve said that man knows a thing or two about building “a crescendo” (“He understood pacing, rhythm, how to build a crescendo, when to be rough”).
— Journal: August 4th, 2025
Last night I said things Anton definitely didn’t want to hear. This morning after an early-morning escalation I decided to say things he wants to hear. Or things I think he wants to hear. Not all of it or even most of it but in the main. Because I’ve learned that getting angry at him, getting suicidal, accusing him of things… those things simply don’t work (including “talk to me or kill me I mean it”). He doesn’t respond to that whatever degree or level of desperation or despair. And neither is playing nice or naughty (flirting or simple “I miss your voice” or “how are you feeling today?”). If you ask him point-blank which I did several times – “what do you want from me?” – he ignores you also. So what does that leave you? What card would you play and how would you play it? Because for him everything is a “play” – no such thing as work-and-play only play-and-play. And even in play is a play-within-a-play.
— Journal: August 8th, 2025
Can you imagine what if, about a year before we met, Sebastian wasn’t on a teaching break that semester and was actually teaching the class he was supposed to be in and I was also in it? I think things would have been a lot different […] There would be no Twitter cute-meet […] It was highly likely that we would never become intimate. I wouldn’t be on the radar for the Russians. Anton would never have found me. None of this would ever happen. All because he was absent from the class he was supposed to be teaching. The class he was always assigned to teach. The Cold War class no less. For whatever reason.
— Journal: August 14th, 2025
I promise this won’t turn into the Anais Nin’s diaries (I’ve read that it has a lot of sex stuff in it). If that is the case, somebody please put me on their kill list. If anyone is more irked that everyone is up my vaginal business, it’s me (which is why I haven’t been putting up much of a huff and puff about Anton’s reading “assignments” – I mean to find out that your phone has been bugged these past seven years […] is so traumatising on its own that now anything goes I guess.. yes, my porn history is so extensive and monumental it could have a museum built in dedication to it). So really, I won’t go there.
— Journal: August 17th, 2025
I not only barely bat an eyelid but rather predicted precisely what Markus was going to say before he said it. It was this Monday and everybody was back from their vacation and so Markus finally announced Tatiana’s resignation from the company. He said she told him of her planned departure “about three weeks ago” – some time late in “July” he thought. She was going to head off after her partner to Zurich, Switzerland (Tanguy mentioned he considered going to Switzerland to find a job due to a higher pay; I thought ‘what is up with him he makes no sense’) because he’d requested a transfer to another branch of the current company he was working for. The Russians should be thoroughly ashamed for this weak, unconvincing, sorry sham of an excuse. Everyone was congratulating her. I immediately started rifling through my top drawer for a pack of painkillers because I could feel the acute attack of migraine that was coming on…
— Journal: August 20th, 2025
Slow on the uptake as usual. I woke up this morning to realise that he took out my home internet. Stupidly turned my router on and off and considered reporting an outage to my ISP last night. All the light signals on my router were blinking normally which often isn’t the case with a regular internet disruption. I must look like an idiot to him again to not have figured this out sooner that it was his purposeful fucking about. I guess he also wants to save himself from having to detonate a tsunami bomb off the coast of the Andaman Sea in case I decide not to show up to see him at the SIWALI Club later today. So messing with my home wifi is more cost effective and saves everyone a great deal of trouble I get it.
— Journal: August 24th, 2025
That bastard was fucking with me. I joked about blowing him (up) and he still hasn’t shown his face? He has no idea what he’s missing out on tonight.
And even if I joked about headache earlier, I did have to take a tablet before leaving the house because the pain in the skull started radiating out of nowhere and wasn’t getting any duller. You know, with the amount of painkillers I’ve been gulping down in the last couple of months I might as well just drink my way to cirrhosis like the rest of the world […].
— Journal: August 24th, 2025
I returned home and the front-door camera – which was just a wall-installed nanny cam – of my next-door neighbor was following me on foot and panned to a stop at a 90-degree angle to stare menacingly and directly at me as I was unlocking my front door. It’s the third or fourth time in recent few days (Saturday, Monday, Tuesday). Now looking back, I do remember my family cam flashing red at me in the dining room one or two days after I returned home from Phuket. I remember thinking “it has been awhile”. So the cam hack was some time in 2019 then which must be why I thought it was Sebastian (because it came after the break-up). I cannot at all recall how long that went on. I did say “for several weeks or even longer if I remember correctly”. It could have been a few months actually, but my memory completely eludes me. You get used to it after awhile. Became a sort of visual background noise. I think the frequency tapered off because I kept unplugging the device or turning it backward (it has a 180-degree span) even if that wasn’t possible most days because my mother needed to keep an eye on my sister’s day-to-day schedule.
— Journal: August 26th, 2025
I remember the night that Anton mentioned Phantom of the Opera and his Sarah Brightman concert. After darting to the other room to find the notebook that had Leroux’s quote, I came back to my bedroom and sat in the dark and cried. Then I got up to stare out of the window and got pensive. I think I even opened the window for a night breeze. The street lights in our block were turned off so my vision was grainy, but I remember seeing the camera at the opposite unit move. Although I think it was just me imagining it. My fancy taking hold. Consumer-grade surveillance cams cannot see in the dark anyway.
— Journal: August 26th, 2025
And just as I was about to send off the last in the batch, he pushed a notification to my phone that couldn’t make me stop laughing. Even when I’m petty I am elegant. He should try harder. It was so obscene. So here I sent him:
Oh no! My substack app froze just after I clicked on a notification for a post about cock sucking can you re-push it? You know I like things coming out of my mouth as much as I like things coming in it.
— Journal: August 26th, 2025
The bastard took out the power. Surely he said to his underlings “It’s ‘for-play’ with my girlfriend we’re having a little spat” and so went out the electricity grid of who knows how many blocks in the area. “Wide outage – unknown cause” someone said in a group chat quoting directly the power authorities. “Outage at the hospital too” – some other resident chimed in. Not sure which neighboring hospital but that’s quite a radius. Good lord I hope the power generators worked swimmingly in the regional hospitals or he might end up killing someone.
Doesn’t he know that without electricity the water pump won’t work in my house so I won’t be able to shower or brush my teeth? Already ahead of him on that contingency and so informed him of the following. He responded quickly within an hour.
Me: Thinking of sleeping at a random hotel tonight. May even pick up some random young dude with a lot of horsepower at a bar and bed him. What do you think?
Anton: shoot a video and send me.
— Journal: August 29th, 2025
Why do I feel like I’m not the only one sucking your cock? What the hell is with you people?
— Salisa to Anton, September 11th, 2025
Are aliens real? You must know that. I’ve always believed in Roswell. 15 yrs ago Wikipedia still not so sanitised. Out of all the conspiracies (big conspiracy person here), I need to know this one.
— Salisa to Anton, September 16th, 2025
I am not shielding you anymore. Or protecting you. Or caring or feeling sorry for you. I know you will kill me one day yet I am doing my best here. But no longer. Now I am doing my worst.
— Salisa to Anton, November 3rd, 2025
I read some rather funny passages the other week in Anthony Storr’s book on human destructiveness:
One theory which used to be popular was that physical restraint was an important determinant of infantile rage. Thus Watson, the founder of Behaviourism, writes: “Observation seemed to show that hampering of the infant’s movements is the factor which apart from all training brings out the movements characteristic of rage.” Geoffrey Gorer, in his book on the Russians, makes out a fairly convincing case that some facets of the Russian character may be related to the highly restrictive swaddling of the infant which was customary in Russia. He believes that such swaddling causes the infant to experience intense rage which it cannot express; that this rage also gives rise to intense guilt; and that it is projected upon the external world (that is, attributed to others) and consequently causes the child to feel intense fear as well. Gorer believes that the characteristic Russian tendency to confess to crime even when there is no evidence of guilt is derived from this infantile guilt. He also suggests that the sudden alternation of brutality with kindness common amongst Russians, and exploited by the secret police in interrogation procedures, may be related to the infant’s earliest experience of restriction and solitariness whilst swaddled, alternating with freedom and gratification whilst being breast-fed and unrestrained. […] Phyllis Greenacre .. concludes that tight swaddling may temporarily retard both intellectual and motor development, and probably has a tendency to increase sado-masochistic elements in character.
— Email to Henry, November 6th, 2025
Don’t freak out (guys) if you see me going into a bank. I’m sorting out mortgage payments […] not withdrawing money.
— Salisa to Anton, November 20th, 2025
I am out on a laundry run at the moment at a rather unusual hour and his men already freaked out (again) because they thought I would be as obvious as to make a break for it while I’m out and about town with my haul of clothes (like I’m unduly attached to them).
— Salisa to Markus, November 21st, 2025
And granted that they won’t have staged both of us a murder-suicide by then (good riddance for everyone), I will be back at work in February – February 2nd. Would that be acceptable to the company?
— Salisa to Markus, November 21st, 2025
Off early to see SEA Games (Southeast Asia) table tennis at a mega mall in the morning then in the afternoon I would like to watch Sisu kill some Russians on a big screen.
— Salisa to Anton, December 13th, 2025
That stuff aside, did you guys take my laptop to tinker with? Because it’s now glitching all over the place (internet connection, audio system, etc). Can’t you people just do a proper job and not muck this up?
Great now my laptop just randomly crashed and restarted. Perhaps spend less time obsessing over me and more on mentoring your own men.
— Salisa to Anton, December 21st, 2025
Did you soft-brick my laptop? Now it’s no longer usable and I’ve had it for less than a year. I don’t care which party took it.. you owe me a laptop when I see you.
— Salisa to Anton, December 22nd, 2025
And so I said, “I know, I’d rather deal with you guys than with my company’s HR” and the next thing you know they pranked me with a bomb in a duffel bag while I was on the stand watching table tennis SEA games at a nearby mall and they got me pretty good too. I still don’t know why they did that. Perhaps also because I bandied about about his death so casually […] as if it was a mere footnote in the story and so wanting to serve me the taste of it.
— Salisa to Markus, December 23rd, 2025
On this night I counted about 40 drones. Usually it isn’t this many. God knows why. Show of force I guess (last weekend I told him I wanted to go see ‘Sisu kill some Russians on a big screen’ because Sisu 2 was in the theatre but who knows…).
— Salisa to Markus, December 23rd, 2025
You guys are distressing these birds. Can you move the drones higher up or away? Macaws and cockatoos are especially sensitive. I just looked it up. Not kidding. They are going bonkers in here and their noises especially unnerving.
Don’t believe me? Listen to this at full volume you bird-bullying heartless bastards.
— Salisa to Anton, December 24th, 2025
Stop playing russian roulette with my professors.
— Salisa to Anton, December 25th, 2025
Or are you (guys) reasserting toughness because it makes you look wimpy caring about some birds? They almost blew my ears off. You gotta care about that?
— Salisa to Anton, December 25th, 2025
Gee (guys) do you actually think I would jump? Calm down. Don’t let his paranoia infect you.
— Salisa to Anton, December 28th, 2025
Happy New Year ya bastards 
— Salisa to Anton, December 31st, 2025
Salisa lohavittayavikant 