“The Coconut Milk is Off!”

After a much more chaotic week, I decided to top it off with the sacred Text of Chaos and Coconut Milk — a show so diabolically exquisite, so extravagantly deranged, that I can only describe it as a fever dream after too much rosé and an anxiety attack in Sicily. It's not just tele — it’s a Trojan horse of wisdom and resentment zipped up in linen pants.

Now, I didn't arrive here willingly. Oh no… I was peer-pressured and cornered by friends. "You have to watch it," they said, their pupils dilated like they'd just returned from enlightenment. And like any faithful follower of modern exploration, I caved. Here's a personal truth about peer pressure: it is not only real, it's salvation in disguise.

Think about it. Peer pressure introduced me to Fireball. It made me dress up like a fire hydrant operator for one tragic summer. It convinced me to try yoga briefly. But most of all, it dropped me straight into the White Lotus vortex, where satire meets sunscreen, and every smile is a mask glued on with generational trauma. And just because you're in paradise doesn't mean your soul isn't quietly decomposing in a luxury spa robe. It's like watching civilization exfoliate — publicly, with a hint of citrus.

And so, I thank the peer pressure peddlers — those noble champions of coercion. You led me into this mess, and I'll never be the same. Because sometimes you don't need free will — you need a mate to gently and gracefully exfoliate you away.

But hey, it's so good that it's hard to look away.