You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve quit smoking. That smouldering little love affair of mine got a bit much. The testimony of every sapless bore, leaf-cruncher, sandal-wearer, smoothie-drinker, every green-haired leftie, and every insufferable rah named ‘Cheska’ from gentrified Brixton, has prevailed.
‘You must feel worlds better?!’ they implore, in more of a statement of their desire than a question with possible answers. I don’t trust anything with an interrobang—the neurotic of punctuation—tacked on to the end.
Read Full Article »