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Saigon born
and raised.


I used to be embarrassed about telling people where I’m originally from—mostly because I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to fit in.
Poor my 13-year-old version because that man didn’t really understand how fucking sick it is to be fluent in two languages,
to deeply understand the difference between Western and Eastern cultures, and to proudly say that he’s from a place that produces
one of the best and most diverse cuisines in the entire world. Oh, but what did he know?





If the world was perfect, this would have been my resume:



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*why do baby clothes even have pockets? it’s not like they have a job or money.*        *Karl Max failed to consider that when I buy things, I do get happy.*       *missing garbage day as an adult has to be the worst experience ever.”       


Running on Cargo