Every bastard on Substack is bringing something to the table, and half of it is unlabelled Tupperware filled with psychological shrapnel.

You’ve got the doomsday economists, the caffeine addled philosophers, the memoirists bleeding on the carpet, and that one guy who writes 7,000 words about bread like he’s decoding the Dead Sea Scrolls.

It’s a banquet of beautiful lunacy and I wouldn’t trust a single dish, but I keep coming back for seconds.