I have a female friend who is incredibly astute.
“That’s the problem with being female in a big city,” she said recently. “You’re always either hunting for an apartment, a job or a guy”.
I didn’t realise they decorate the hamster wheel of compartmental destitution for Christmas. They do. In the really fucked up way that makes a rodent really excited because the bars of his cage got a fresh lick of paint. Hey! You! Don’t be hoodwinked into toying with the notion that your pathetic existence is meaningless and vapid. Look at all the things we have to offer! You can pay for your ride through tunnels of dust contactlessly. You get nectar points. Everything you drink is about to taste a hundred times better because WE JUST STARTED POURING EVERYTHING INTO CUPS THAT ARE RED!
The world also just got infinitely more exciting because Samsung have brought out a “notebook” that spontaneously combusts as its way of telling you it’s fully charged and also, what the fuck?
I’m a writer.
We have two tools we can exclusively call our own. Notebooks and pens. We’ve been around for thousands of years. Ten minutes, you’ve been on the scene and you’ve already violated the very elements that constitute us. Now everyone is a “writer”. I see them, polluting my headspace with their toffee nut proliteriat while I cling mercilessly on to my one remaining pleasure. Writing on 22×7 squared Clairefontaine notebooks with a brushed vellum paper weight of 90g/m².
Now I’m both angry and sad because the fancy pink grapefruit I bought to cheer myself up was rubbish so I’m going to go enter my customer receipt survey on the Waitrose website for the chance to win £500 in vouchers that can never ever happen because my postcode is too bourgeois.