February
March
April
May
June
Oh hey, Tinder. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but… you look great. Seriously, have you been doing Bikram yoga or something?
Because we've all suffered a dry spell, right?
Oh hey, Tinder. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but… you look great. Seriously, have you been doing Bikram yoga or something?
Tinder, you should change your name to "Let's Match and Never Message Each Other." I think we should see other people.
Right now, this very second, some of the world’s most awful people are getting laid. If I listen carefully enough, I can practically hear bed springs squeaking in the Kremlin as Vladimir Putin has big, Russian sex.
Am I actually cursed? Is this like Drag Me to Hell, but instead of getting dragged to Hell, I get dragged to never having sex again? Have I refused a loan to any offensive gypsy stereotypes recently?
If I went into my room and Dr Zoidberg was on my bed, all splayed out and ready for action, I’d probably just shrug and get involved.
Nights are getting longer. It's dark. It's cold. Can you hear that? It's the sound of sex not happening. Or it might just be the wind. The cruel, icy wind. I would fuck George Osborne.
Frankly, well done, me. I've made it. I clearly missed my calling as a nun or Morrissey. Here's to a sex-filled new year. Please. For the love of all that's holy. Just hope I still know what goes where...