Brooklyn . . . Both your parents are incredibly hard workers and that’s what’s made them the huge successes they have become. You really should try it – or was it just easier to pick up your trophy billionaire in the VIP enclosure at Coachella, doubtless paid for by your parents?
Author: Jaci Stephen
I’ve felt like throwing up almost every day, my stomach a labyrinth of fear about what fresh hell the forthcoming day might bring.
There is one ad that brings me out in a sweat, I hate it so much, and if I can’t find the remote quickly enough to mute it, I have to run to my bathroom and shout very loudly to drown out the sound. Yes, you know who you are, Audi!
Lancaster reportedly had a high suicide rate for students throwing themselves off “the tower”. I had little difficulty in understanding why.
Sex certainly went out of the window. This new breed were in bed early, yes – to sleep and be rested sufficiently in order to arrive bright eyed and bushy tailed for the 9am session about HDTV. Jeez. In my day, they hadn’t even called last orders at the George Hotel at 9am.
When we next met – for dinner – he greeted me with a kiss so hard, it severed my lower lip. When I tried to eat my fish and chips, it was hard to see where the ketchup began and the blood ended.
Alex Comfort’s The Joy of Sex looked like one long advert for a ‘past sell by date’ Greggs sausage roll.
Apparently, we “wealth-hoarding boomers” are living comfortable lives in homes we own, while the struggling younger generation can’t get on the housing ladder and are barely surviving on low incomes, bless ’em.
I’ll relish my Sunday roast, sitting alone, as other people’s brats run riot in the restaurant, or older children sit glued to their iPhones, wishing they could be anywhere else.
Bloody penises. Seriously. Bloody effing penises. How much easier my life would have been without them. Why did I have to be born straight?