...
Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before. They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
yeah people dont get it they assume its ahnaf
wait what is that
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
Maybe, Jack, I'm doing this because I'm English?
is this you as well
But seriously, thank you, Jack, for telling me that I could submit this to a high-level literary magazine or creative nonfiction outlet with some minor tweaks. I don't think I will do that.
thank you
and the fake qualifier
what do you think my name is
that looks like my instagram account
your feed looks like my tumblr
And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.
The only real Londoner remaining is old, bitter, kept around for entertainment, defined by tropes from 30+ years ago. They play gangsters in films, or they work in a pie and mash shop, or they go on Business Insider's YouTube channel to tell you about their crimes. And they somehow still find the time to spend all day hanging about cafes and pubs for you to bump into, to remind you of Real London.
Actual born-Londoners aren't LARPing like this, they sold their shite family home for a million pounds and moved to Malaga years ago. They have their culture and they've taken it elsewhere.
Dreams like these are highly symbolic and emotionally intense. Here’s a breakdown of common interpretations:
its good short few pages