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So this bird, she’s called somethin’ like Ruby—prolly fake, who cares? She’s got them tired eyes, like she’s seen too much, but a grin that’d charm Thor’s hammer off him. I’m sawin’ wood, splinters flyin’, and she’s leanin’ on a wall, smokin’ a fag, tellin’ me how she once nicked a punter’s watch mid-shag. Laughed my arse off—crafty minx! “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” I says, wavin’ my chisel like a scepter, “and you’re out here stealin’ time!”

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An overexposure to everything from love and sex to rules and grades has left me with a degree in life. By Nicole Forde · Opinion. April 30, p.m.. Make.

So, I’m sittin’ there, tryin’ to focus, but the café’s packed. People chattin’, laughin’, and I’m just tryin’ to keep my head in the game. Then, outta nowhere, this guy spills his coffee all over the table next to me. I mean, c’mon! It’s like a scene from a bad sitcom. The poor lady at the table freaks out, and I’m just sittin’ there, laughin’ my ass off.

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