Sirinapa Churassamee

Book your date and see me there.

Love, B.

Born under a “blessed” sky, which is a poetic way of saying I was dropped directly into the chaos dimension with a calendar and no tutorial. I, Sirinapa, grew up learning to predict internal emotional weather patterns partly because it was interesting, mostly because no one else was going to warn me about the incoming storm named Me.

I fold equations into quiet, sweaty prayers: ŷ = a + bx. Desire reduced to a linear regression because therapy is expensive and I already spent my budget on matcha and domain names.

I taught machines how people lie, then taught students how to lie less believably with numbers. Honestly, I should teach a course called “Statistical Gaslighting: A Love Story.”

By day, I make hypotheses cry. By night, I iron silk and pretend it’s self-care and not avoidance behavior disguised as artisanal heritage.

Taemtakor Silk braids my fingers into generational trauma with a lovely sheen.

Datastist builds experiments that don’t flatter. They expose all your biases, mine included, especially the ones that scream “I’m totally fine and overworking is a personality!”

Datapsychologist is where I whisper to confused spreadsheets and they whisper back, “You good?”

WinterGhost is now Ghost now. Something happened. As a ghost I cannot do anything around it anymore.

I also keep a Dark Sirinapa folder, where I write all the things I’d delete before submitting to an academic journal. It’s where I test if honesty can survive formatting.

Spoiler: it can’t.

My niece, ข้าวหอม, is the only living being who doesn’t believe I’m a productivity machine with a personality glitch. She’s the one gravitational force that doesn’t file taxes or disappoint me.

I carry a scarred math of survival. Not for pity. For data collection.

Some people journal. I build dashboards of my emotional volatility. They mostly say “lol.” I’m the person who will burn a map to prove I can still get lost on my own terms, then make a curriculum about the ash.

I’m a scientist and a saboteur. A classifier who keeps dating outliers. Not soft. Not pretty.

Definitely apologetic, but like, performatively.

Ask me what I am?

A self-updating metric trapped in a bootstrap loop. A shadow with good lighting. A syllabus stapled to unresolved attachment issues.

I make space for rest. Then ignore it.

I schedule recovery time and spend it debugging someone else’s emotional code. I romanticize ordinary mornings while skipping breakfast.

This life?

Not tidy. Not gentle. Built mostly from panic, Google Docs, and something that might be hope but could also be caffeine withdrawal.

But it’s mine. I keep it written. Bad grammar and all.