A pint of Guinness, a lettuce, an NCP car park

My word doc stopped tracking spelling and grammar today fml.

Do you ever find yourself trying to display little facets of your personality in everything you do? I know you do, and I know it’s exhausting. I have this affliction especially with meals: I’m boiling a lot of ruffled radiatore pasta, ad hoc-ly scattering tomato like it’s fallen leaves, and definitely cutting my sandwiches into notable shapes—I used to like one dominant triangle and two smaller submissive triangles, but moved onto a soldierly IIII formation, which is good for dipping in soups. I saw this pic and was reminded of life’s simple pleasures. Cutting your sandwich into four squares is juvenile and, from this day onward, absolutely mandatory.

I’ve been getting really into metallic brooches but this medieval Icarus look has both shat on my aspirations and completely upped my ante. My brooches suddenly feel like magpie-d tin can from a skip. Itsa Bitsa at-home projects. Blue Peter’s Tracy Island at my breast. I need full torso coverage before I leave the house again.

I haven’t bought these forks because they’re £260 (plus import fees from Europe, I’m sure). I’m not even sure if my newly-squared meals would taste better (because of the money), or worse (because of the money). I think about the money I spend on things that don’t last—a pint of Guinness, a lettuce, an NCP car park. I should really commit to the eternal flatware. A good fork isn’t just for Christmas.

Cawley’s latest collection dropped and I’ll be darned if I’m refused a plisse palm tree cummberbund. All the different greens are nice enough, but the humidifying waistline is the emerald cherry on the texture cake. …And they said winter tropical couldn’t be done.

Imagine we’re in a big business meeting and I’m wearing pinstripes and a tie clip and I’ve taken charge of the humongous merger and nobody’s slept for a week and they’re living off red bull and we’re reaching the pinnacle, and I’ve slammed my fist on the conference table so you know I mean business and further negotiations are futile, we have reach out final offer and I’m no longer playing around, sign the damn thing. Then imagine I turn around and I have Raven shaved effortlessly into the back of my head. What a fucking flex.