I’m bored. It’s a Friday night and I’m at home watching an episode of CSI. A woman is being held in a dark, damp cellar, her limbs bound, mouth taped shut.

I am thirty-two and living the life of a child. The only two keys on my chain are the ones to my parent’s house.

Sex costs. First, there are the drinks. You don’t really know him, and actually, you’re still not sure you like him, but you’d like something.

Last Tuesday my friend swiped the lock to her boyfriend’s iPad and found, in amongst the pictures of Tenerife, Old Trafford and pulled pork in a bun…a vagina.

It’s the chair’s fault I can’t write. It’s an absurd choice! The seat is so high my thighs cut into the little, pine desk.

I have a disorder. I used to flatter myself by calling it a mild case of Asperger’s or Autism, but its real name is ‘Intolerance’.

I excel at turning any activity into an exercise of compare and contrast. Especially the ones that are meant to be fun.