It's that time of the year: 25th May is nigh, and it's time to carry a towel to work (yes, I do work on Sundays) and not panic and try to hitch-hike — which, one must admit, is an extremely difficult ask in this city.
It has been a year full of ups and downs, but then, that is the USP of years: they are meant to be full of ups and downs. One may think that it's because "ups" is an anagram of USP, but they're wrong. Years are nothing but orthogonal fjords.
Had we both not been atheists, I would have prayed for you or typed out the acronym RIP on social media. Unfortunately, we both are, hence our plan of action may include a visit to Eroticon Six and explore that woman of questionable profession but perfectly agreeable endowments. If not, we can even visit Sago Mud Salad, or even have dates with Fenchurch or Kate Schechter.
In case you're not aware, I have moved on to analog watches; I have not yet taken to Bach, but am mostly harmless. And, to be honest, so are the inhabitants of the utterly insignificant little blue-green planet that orbits a small unregarded yellow sun in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy.
101010; 1120; 222; 132; 110; 60; 52; 46.