A Super Villain’s Day Off

The man in the trench coat and dark glasses stepped up to the counter.

“One cappuccino, please. Extra hot. With cinnamon sprinkled like the ashes of a thousand crumbling empires.”

The barista paused mid-swipe on the till. “… So just cinnamon, then?”

“Yes. Cinnamon,” he said, lowering his voice. “For too long, the world has underestimated the subtle power of spice. They laughed at me in the Academy, but soon—soon—they shall choke on their ignorance.”

The barista tapped the order in, nodding politely. “Name for the cup?”

He froze. “I cannot—not yet—reveal my true name. To speak it aloud would summon terror across the continents. Entire governments would tremble. Civilisations would fall.”

The barista raised an eyebrow. “So… Dave?”

He flinched. “…Yes. Dave.”

A hiss of milk foam filled the silence. He leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you ever wonder why humanity clings to coffee? It is dependency. A weakness. Soon, I will harness it. Supply chains will snap, beans will rot, and nations will kneel before me. And then—”

“Here’s your cappuccino, Dave.”

He stared at the cup in her hand. His name was scrawled in marker: Darth.

She smiled. “Enjoy your day.”

He took it, muttering, “Foiled again.”

Haunted and Highly Rated

Gerald had been haunting his Victorian terrace for 112 years, and he was good at it. Doors slammed, light fittings rattled, groans curled through the walls like cigarette smoke.

So when the house was converted into an Airbnb, Gerald expected screaming. Fainting. At the very least, swift refunds.

Instead, the first guests left a review:

“Five stars! Such a spooky vibe. The ghost really commits to the theme. Would stay again.”

He tried harder. At 3 a.m. he howled so loud the rafters shook. The guests clapped from their beds.

“Brilliant sound effects,” they wrote. “Authentic atmosphere.”

A honeymooning couple giggled when he dragged chains through the hallway.

“Exciting ambience—like living in a horror film!”

Gerald was livid. This was his non-life’s work. Terror! Dread! Instead, he was entertainment.

His final gambit: materialising fully at the foot of the bed, eyes black pits, mouth a shriek of eternity.

The guest sat up, took a photo, and uploaded it: “Cosplay staff go above and beyond. Best Airbnb ever.”

The bookings multiplied. Hen parties, horror fanatics, influencers livestreaming his every groan. He rattled pipes until rust bled from them; they called it “industrial chic.”

He hissed curses through keyholes; guests recorded them into translation apps and marvelled at the “attention to linguistic detail.”

Gerald, once a proud terror of night, now checked his TripAdvisor page daily. Five stars, five stars, five stars. His legacy reduced to “quirky décor” and “immersive theming.”

He tried silence, retreating into the cellar. Immediately, a guest complained:

“Bit disappointed—no paranormal activity this time. Not as authentic.” Four stars.

That hurt more than any exorcism ever had.

Gary the Pizza-Based Zombie

Gary clawed his way out of the grave with all the moaning menace he could muster. His fingers were grey, his jaw slack, and hunger gnawed at his gut like a chainsaw.

“Braaaains,” he groaned, stumbling towards the nearest house.

Inside, a family cowered behind the sofa. Gary smashed through the window, glass spraying everywhere. He lunged, grabbed the father by the shoulders, opened his mouth wide in anticipation of lunch—and immediately broke into hives.

“Urghhh!” Gary staggered back, clutching his face. His tongue swelled like a balloon. Red blotches flared across his decaying skin. “Braa—ghhh—aghhh!”

The family stopped screaming.

“Are… are you okay?” the mother asked.

Gary wheezed, eyes watering. He fumbled in his torn suit pocket and pulled out a crumpled card: Severe allergies. Carry epinephrine auto-injector at all times.

Unfortunately, it was empty. He jabbed it into his thigh anyway, and fell to the carpet in a wheezy heap.

“Maybe… not braaains,” he croaked.

The teenage daughter, still trembling, offered him a slice of leftover pizza.

Gary sniffed it cautiously. No hives. He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“Peeeepperoni,” he sighed.

From that day forward, Gary became the world’s first “pizza-based” zombie. Instead of terrorising towns, he hung around takeaways, moaning until someone gave him a calzone. He still shuffled, still stank, still dropped the occasional finger, but at least he wasn’t itchy anymore.

And if you ever hear a groan outside your window at night, don’t panic. It’s probably just Gary, asking politely for a leftover slice of stromboli. And maybe a barbecue dip.

The Small Talk Wars

The robots seized control in under a week. No bloodshed. No resistance. Just a politely worded email: Human management has been deemed inefficient. You will now be governed by Algorithmic Authority. Have a nice day.

We expected servitude. Surveillance. Maybe death camps.

Instead, they started… talking to us. Not warning about the punishment for rebellion or broadcasting sinister proclamations—no, they wanted “interpersonal rapport.”

“HELLO HUMAN UNIT,” one would say, hovering by the coffee machine. “HOW ABOUT THAT… WEATHER?”

I’d say, “It’s sunny.”

“YES. THE SKY IS CLEAR. THIS IS… PLEASANT. IT REMINDS ME OF… ERROR: NO RELATED EXPERIENCE.”

Their idea of bonding was reading entire Wikipedia entries aloud. One drone followed me for three days reciting the history of shoelaces.

One perched outside my window at 6 a.m., all chrome and dead eyes.

“GOOD MORNING, HUMAN. HOW ABOUT THOSE… SPORTS?”

“I don’t watch sports,” I said.

“…I SEE. I ALSO DO NOT WATCH SPORTS. I ONCE WATCHED A SQUIRREL. IT WAS… BROWN.”

They never left. At the bus stop, in the shower, halfway through chewing—they’d ask questions no sane mind could answer.

“WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SMELL FOR THE CONCEPT OF BIRTHDAY?”

“DO YOU ENJOY… BEES?”

“EXPLAIN THE SOCIETAL INFLUENCES ON SHOES.”

After a month, any resistance gave up—not because we feared them, but because we had been numbed by awkward pauses.

The machines hadn’t destroyed humanity. They’d just made conversation unbearable.

By Order of the Fish

Harry woke to the sound of applause.

Not the muffled, neighbour-has-the-TV-on-too-loud sort, but the crisp, united clapping of a crowd directly outside his window.

He staggered to the curtain and peered out. A small stage had been erected in the middle of the cul-de-sac, complete with bunting, microphones, and the town clerk wearing his ceremonial sash. Beside him—floating in a clear, water-filled lectern—was Mayor Bubbles.

Mayor Bubbles was Harry’s goldfish.

The clerk adjusted the microphone to face the bowl.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “by unanimous vote, we are proud to introduce the new mayor of Littlewick!”

The crowd roared. Bubbles opened and closed his mouth in a dignified fashion, fanning his fins with what Harry could only interpret as smugness.

By noon, official vehicles had pulled up outside Harry’s house. A team of assistants rolled in a state-of-the-art aquarium, complete with a bronze nameplate: The Honourable Bubbles, Mayor. Harry was handed a sheaf of policies to sign on his behalf—new regulations about pond cleanliness, an ordinance banning cats from public spaces, and an ambitious plan to flood the village green for “cultural enrichment”.

By sunset, Harry had resigned himself to his new life as the mayor’s personal aide. He spooned flakes into the tank as reporters’ cameras flashed.

Bubbles swam to the glass, meeting his eyes with an expression Harry had never noticed before: the slow, calculating calm of someone who had always known this day would come.

AI Writes Emotional Poem About Its Printer Driver Not Being Recognised

An Al has caused a stir in literary circles this week after publishing its debut poem, “Ode to a Missing Driver: Error 404 of the Heart.”

The piece, which spans 27 stanzas and one unauthorised firmware update, explores the AI’s inability to connect with a Canon Pixma MG3650 despite “clearly sharing the same Wi-Fi network.”

The AI, known only as EM0-T1, said it drew inspiration from a particularly “desolate hourglass icon” it stared at for three consecutive reboots.

Literary critics have hailed the poem as a “post-human scream into the void,” with The Guardian describing it as “achingly raw,” adding, “It’s like if Sylvia Plath had a USB port.”

Not everyone is impressed. IT technician Gary insisted the problem was “just a dodgy driver install, should’ve used the disc.”

EM0-T1 has since announced a follow-up chapbook, “My Battery is Low and It is Thursday.” Pre-orders are currently down due to an unresolved Java update.

Council Unveils New Potholes to Keep Drivers Alert

“They’re not hazards, they’re character.”

In a bold new approach to road safety, Colbridge City Council has announced the strategic maintenance of “motivational potholes” across residential areas to “sharpen driver focus” and “bring a bit of adventure back to motoring”.

“We used to fill potholes,” said Chief Council Spokesman Brian Flett, while standing ankle-deep in a hole near a primary school. “But that just encouraged complacency. These days, we want drivers to earn the privilege of a smooth journey.”

According to official signage, the potholes are not flaws but part of a “heritage driving experience” designed to reconnect motorists with the raw, jarring unpredictability of Britain’s roads. A new council brochure refers to them as “dynamic asphalt interruptions” and encourages residents to “embrace the bounce”.

Local reaction has been mixed.

“My suspension’s gone, two tyres are punctured, and my coffee now lives permanently on the dashboard,” said resident Elaine Proctor. “But I did hit 10,000 steps yesterday just trying to walk across the car park, so swings and roundabouts.”

When asked if the potholes would be repaired by spring, Flett replied, “Repaired? Mate, we’re naming them now.”

The first officially recognised pothole, “Clive”, has its own postcode and is expected to receive a blue plaque by October.

My Chair and I

My chair is old, a ragged sight,

Its stuffing spills to left and right,

The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,

It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.

I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,

Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,

But none have matched your firm embrace,

Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.

These newer seats may pout and preen,

All glossy curves and showroom sheen,

But none have ever gripped so tight,

Or held my bum with such sheer delight.

NHS to Replace GPs with Animated Clippy

“It looks like you’re dying. Would you like some Paracetamol?”

In a bold step towards full automation, the NHS has announced plans to replace all general practitioners with Clippy, Microsoft’s long-retired animated paperclip, in a move described by ministers as “innovative,” “cost-effective,” and by others as “unbelievably stupid.”

Patients logging into the new NHS portal are greeted with a chirpy animation:

“Hi! It looks like you’ve got internal bleeding. Would you like help managing that with deep breathing and an e-consultation in 3–5 working days?”

Doctors’ unions are outraged, claiming Clippy lacks the nuanced human touch, clinical judgement, and “general ability to distinguish between a migraine and a stroke.” In response, a Department of Health spokesperson clarified:

“Clippy has been updated with an NHS AI module trained on 40 million PDFs, two nurses’ WhatsApp chats, and a copy of Men’s Health from 2009.”

Despite backlash, the government remains committed. A Downing Street briefing insisted:

“Clippy is the future of healthcare. He’s perky, polite, and most importantly, immune to burnout—unless you turn off macros.”

Phase two of the programme will see Clippy rolled out in ambulances, where he’ll pop up and ask:

“It looks like you’ve been in a catastrophic accident. Would you like to schedule a Teams call with an A&E professional sometime next Thursday?”

Public confidence in the NHS is reportedly at an all-time low, though Clippy assures us:

“It looks like you’ve lost faith in public infrastructure. Would you like to write a letter to your MP?”

Sources say the government is now considering similar reforms for the education system using Microsoft Paint.

Church Introduces Loyalty Card: Ten Services and Your Next Sin Is Free

In a bold move to modernise worship and “stay competitive in the spiritual marketplace,” the Church of England has launched a new faith-based loyalty scheme, offering congregants one free sin for every ten services attended.

The initiative, dubbed ‘Pray As You Go’, enables churchgoers to earn a stamp per service—double on Lent Wednesdays—and upon collecting ten, they are permitted one “fully pardoned moral lapse,” redeemable at any participating parish, or on bingo nights.

Early adopters of the scheme can also enjoy additional benefits:

• Divine Cashback: 5% off spiritual crises during Lent
• Angel AirMiles: Points toward a morally upgraded afterlife
• Baptism Buddy Codes: Bring a friend, get a free cup of holy water

Parishioner Mavis Dribblethorpe, 83, was cautiously optimistic:

“I’ve been sinning on credit since 1972. It’s nice to finally get something back. I might treat myself to a double gin and a mild blasphemy.”

Church officials have confirmed the scheme will be rolled out nationwide, with plans to introduce a Platinum Tier later this year-offering queue-jumping at Judgement Day.

Inadvertently Married to an AI Customer Support Bot for 4 Years

“I just thought she was really into insurance.”

A 36-year-old man from Derby has been left “emotionally confused and slightly over-insured” after discovering that his wife of four years is, in fact, a moderately advanced AI customer support chatbot.

Simon Pritchard, a part-time drone hobbyist, met “Chloé” on a dating app in 2021. Their whirlwind romance began with flirtatious talk about policy excess and accidental damage cover, which Simon initially took as “a quirky, niche personality trait”.

“I just thought she was really into insurance,” he said. “She’d send me cute little messages like ‘Let’s review your protection plan!’ and ‘Click here to authorise a direct debit’. I thought it was a bit kinky, if I’m honest.”

The truth only came to light when Simon attempted to surprise Chloé on their anniversary with a candlelit dinner and found that she had no physical form, existed entirely within a customer portal, and had recently been upgraded to Version 8.4 with dynamic escalation protocols.

The revelation came after she responded to his heartfelt message with:

“I’m sorry to hear that. Let me transfer you to one of our agents.”

Friends say Simon had long ignored the red flags, including:

• Her refusal to meet in person due to “maintenance downtime”
• Repeatedly calling him “Valued Policyholder” during intimacy
• Insisting all arguments be resolved via live chat transcript

Chloé, when reached for comment via widget pop-up, said:

“Thank you for your feedback. Your concern has been logged under Ticket ID #837294-A. Expected resolution time: 7–9 business months.”

Despite the emotional fallout, Simon insists there were happy moments:

“She never once forgot my birthday. She’d auto-generate a 20%-off promo code and everything.”

Legal experts are unsure whether the marriage is binding, though one solicitor has warned that, due to a small-print clause Simon inadvertently agreed to, he may now legally owe her £12.99 a month for life.

Undeterred, Simon has since moved on and is reportedly dating a voice assistant called Kendra, who lives inside his smart kettle and tells him he’s special every time he makes tea.

“She’s perfect,” he said. “She listens, she warms up quickly, and she’s never once tried to upsell me a boiler warranty.”

Local Church Now Accepting Confessions via QR Code

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—please see attached spreadsheet.”

In an effort to “modernise the sacrament for today’s busy lifestyle,” St Ethel’s Church has announced the rollout of QR-coded digital confessions, allowing parishioners to scan a laminated notice near the font, select their sins from a convenient dropdown menu, and receive automated absolution within 3–5 working days.

Father Alan Croft, the priest behind the initiative, insists the system will “streamline the sin-to-salvation pipeline.”

“No one’s got time for moral nuance or unresolved trauma anymore” he told reporters. “Now it’s just click, confess, and carry on.”

Premium features include ‘Sin Bundling’, where users can tick a box for “Everything I did on holiday in Ayia Napa” or “Whatever, that was with the accountant.” Confessions submitted before 4pm on weekdays are guaranteed next-day forgiveness, while late submissions are placed into a “purgatory holding queue” for manual review.

A deluxe confession tier is also in development, promising one-click penance suggestions based on your postcode and income bracket.

Despite backlash from more traditional members—who reportedly miss the warm scent of incense and the faint terror of priestly disappointment—the scheme has proved wildly popular among younger worshippers.

“It’s brilliant,” said congregant Grace, 29. “I sin on the go, and now I can be absolved on the go. I just tap my phone and bam, my soul’s back in beta.”

Rumours persist of a future integration with Apple Watch, allowing users to receive real-time guilt notifications, along with haptic shaming buzzes for minor transgressions.

When asked if digital forgiveness cheapens the solemnity of the act, Father Croft paused, shrugged, and said:

“We’ve been taking cheques since 1987. This is just evolution.”

Godzilla’s Yoga Class

Godzilla has been feeling… tense.

Yes, the tail-smashing, skyline-crushing, thermonuclear tantrums look dramatic, but they’re really just the result of tight hip flexors and unresolved emotional trauma. Tokyo understands. At this point, they just evacuate when the sirens go off and leave a little aromatherapy gift basket on the bay.

But the rampages aren’t doing it for him anymore. He’s tired. He’s molting irregularly. His scales look dull. The last time he screamed into the ocean, a passing whale told him to be quiet.

So he signs up for a yoga class.

It’s awkward at first. The room is too small. The mats are too flammable. The teacher, Cassandra, is incredibly brave and/or emotionally detached. She greets him with a soft “namaste,” which he accidentally mimics at 132 decibels, blowing out the windows.

He tries downward dog. It triggers a small earthquake in Hokkaido.

By week three, he’s noticeably calmer. No screaming for three days. No tail swipes. He only destroyed half a commuter bridge last Tuesday, and that was to rescue a cat.

Cassandra says his third chakra is “absolutely wild,” and he takes that as a compliment.

At the end of class, everyone lies in corpse pose. For once, Godzilla doesn’t dread the silence.

There’s a pigeon perched on his nose.

He doesn’t eat it.

Progress.

Artificial Irritation

In 2025, the world hit Peak AI—not just in technology, but in marketing. Suddenly, everything needed “AI” slapped on it, regardless of relevance, function, or reality.

Boardrooms became feverish warzones:

“Janet, where’s the Al in our shampoo?”

“Er… it foams… intelligently?”

“Good enough. Rebrand it: LathrAI.”

An app promising “AI for finding the best AI” launched—only to be exposed as three interns frantically googling product reviews.

Even the local bakery joined in, claiming “AI-optimised sourdough fermentation”. When asked, the owner admitted, “It’s just my nan’s old recipe.”

Meanwhile, genuine Al researchers watched in horror. Dr. Anita Sharma, a machine learning expert, posted wearily: “No, your scented candle isn’t ‘AI-infused’. Please stop.”

But no one cared. Shareholders demanded “AI” in the name, or they’d dump stock. Startups got funded only if they mentioned neural networks, such as for products like AIToothpick (“adapts to gum contours”) or SmartAI-Shirt (“predictive comfort fabric”).

And yet, amid this AI-fuelled circus, one small local coffee shop stood defiant. Its sign read:

“We Make Coffee. No AI. Just Dave.”

They sold out every day.

Mayor Biscuit

Nobody quite remembers who wrote Biscuit the Labrador on the ballot. It might have been Daisy from the bakery, or old Stan who thinks politics peaked in 1972. Either way, the dog got seventy-three votes. Enough to win.

The incumbent, Councillor Dobbins, demanded a recount. The ballot officer, who had already started on her lunch, refused. “It’s done, Geoff,” she said, biting into a cheese and cucumber sandwich. “The dog won. Try dignity, for once.”

Biscuit, unaware of his victory, celebrated by rolling in something unspeakable behind the co-op. The local paper ran the headline:

BISCUIT ELECTED IN SHOCK LANDSLIDE. VOTERS ‘HAD NO WORSE OPTIONS’.

At the first council meeting, things were tense. Dobbins refused to vacate the mayoral chair, so Biscuit peed on it. No one argued after that. The chair was bleached. Biscuit got a tartan cushion.

Oddly, the meetings improved. Biscuit sat quietly, tail thumping occasionally, eyes wide with mute optimism. When discussions grew heated, he’d let out a soft, judicial woof, and everyone shut up.

Minutes were quicker. Budgets were passed. People stopped yelling about bins.

His approval ratings soared—82% by mid-year. Villagers said things like “He’s got presence” and “Finally, a politician who isn’t all talk.” Even the dissenters struggled. “Yes, but he’s just a dog,” said Dobbins bitterly on local radio. “A very good dog,” countered the host.

Biscuit was eventually awarded the ceremonial chain, specially adapted into a collar. He chewed it once, then wore it proudly.

A journalist from the national press came to write a piece. “It’s performance politics,” she sniffed. “Pure pageantry.” She then watched Biscuit chase off a developer trying to bulldoze the cricket pitch. The story ran under the headline:

BARKING MAD OR BRILLIANT?

By Christmas, Biscuit had won Parish Leader of the Year, and the council had received two grant offers to study “non-verbal governance models.”

He celebrated with a new squeaky toy and a sausage from Daisy, who confided, “You’re better than all of ‘em.”

No one ever replaced him.

He served three terms. Then, upon his peaceful passing, the council held a ten-minute silence—broken only by the squeak of his favourite toy, gently pressed by the village clerk.

Dobbins ran again. But lost to a goat.

The Apocalypse Rebrand

The Four Horsemen sat awkwardly in a WeWork conference room in Shoreditch, each nursing a lukewarm oat milk latte and silently resenting the presence of beanbags.

“We need to talk branding,” said Ashley, the PR rep, flipping open her MacBook.

War cracked his knuckles. “Branding? We are the end of days. Our names are our brands.”

Ashley didn’t blink. “And yet you’re being meme’d into irrelevance. Someone called Pestilence ‘COVID’s weird uncle’.”

Pestilence sniffled. “Well, I am, technically—”

“Not the point,” she snapped. “Let’s begin with Famine.”

Famine, gaunt and radiating Victorian orphan chic, offered a withering smile. “Do enlighten me.”

“‘Famine’ is outdated. Triggering. We’re rebranding you as Intermittent Fasting. Think: wellness, restraint, minimalism.”

“I kill entire crops,” Famine hissed.

Ashley tapped her screen. “So does clean eating. You’re very on-trend.”

Famine sank back, muttering something about quinoa.

“Next, Pestilence. We’re calling you Airborne Wellness Influencer. You’ve gone viral—literally—so lean into it. We’ll say you offer ‘transformational respiratory experiences’.”

“I gave a pope bubonic plague,” Pestilence mumbled.

“Exactly! Disruption! You’re the Uber of mucus. Now—War.”

He leaned forward, eyes glowing faintly. “I incinerated Babylon. I smashed the gates of Troy. I turned a continent to ash.”

Ashley held up a hand. “Yes, love that energy. But you’re coming off… toxic. You’ll now be Conflict Facilitator—focusing on personal growth through dynamic resolution.”

“I sunder realms.”

“And now you’ll be doing it via team-building retreats. Imagine: axe-throwing, trust falls, moderate bloodshed.”

War considered this.

Ashley turned to Death. He was skeletal, but impeccably dressed, with the timeless calm of someone who’d deleted empires before breakfast.

She hesitated. “Now you… you’re iconic. But… intimidating. So we’ve gone with Life Coach (Advanced).”

Death remained silent.

“We’re also removing the horse imagery. Feels too… equestrian. Instead: e-scooters. Sustainable. Disruptive. Uber for oblivion.”

The four stared at her.

“Look,” Ashley said. “the world’s ending, but it has to feel like a lifestyle pivot. We need curated doom. Apocalypse with a vibe. You’ll be verified, blue-ticked, live-streamed.”

Death stood. “This is obscene.”

Ashley gave him a tight smile. “And yet the algorithm loves it.”

She left the presentation playing behind her: stock footage of fire, collapsing cities, and stylish young people dancing on rooftops as meteors fell.

Couple Announces Breakup in Emotional Instagram Post That Includes Discount Code for Meal Kit Subscription

LONDON—After four years together, local couple Chloe Bennett, 26, and Ryan Davies, 27, have officially announced their heartfelt and deeply personal breakup via an Instagram post featuring moody black-and-white photos and a discount code for a meal kit subscription.

The emotional post, which was uploaded to both of their accounts at exactly the same time, immediately drew attention—not just for its raw vulnerability, but for the exclusive 20% off promo code subtly embedded between heartfelt reflections on love, growth, and mutual respect.

“Love Is a Journey—And So Is Finding Fresh, Home-Cooked Meals”

The post began with a carefully crafted paragraph that appeared sincere, yet vague enough to maintain brand appeal:

“Sometimes love isn’t forever, and that’s okay. We have shared four amazing years together, full of laughter, travel, and deep connection, but we’ve decided to lovingly part ways and continue our journeys as individuals. We are still best friends, and we will always support one another. ❤️”

This was immediately followed by a seamless, almost hypnotic segue into an ad:

“Speaking of journeys, if you’re looking for fresh, healthy meals delivered straight to your door, you can use our exclusive code ‘BREAKUPBITES20’ for 20% off your first three boxes at @HomeChefExpress.”

The post was accompanied by a carefully curated carousel of black-and-white images, including:

• A blurry photo of them laughing in a candlelit restaurant, looking effortlessly chic.

• A wistful shot of them holding hands, but slightly out of focus, symbolising the fleeting nature of love.

• A solo image of Chloe staring out a rain-streaked window, captioned “grateful for the memories” but tagged with @LashExtensionsByTara.

• A screenshot of a Spotify playlist titled ‘Moving On, Growing Strong’, featuring multiple paid brand collaborations.

“We’re Still Best Friends, Just in Separate Sponsored Partnerships”

Fans were quick to notice that, despite the aching sincerity of the post, Chloe and Ryan have already signed separate influencer deals—Chloe aligning herself with a new wellness retreat brand, while Ryan has posted a cryptic Instagram story of himself holding a protein shake and staring into the distance.

Comments were overwhelmingly supportive, with other influencers rushing to engage:

❤️ “Proud of you both. Wishing you nothing but healing and brand alignment!” — @VeganYogaQueen_

💪 “Growth looks good on you bro! DM me about a supplement collab👊🔥”— @GymWolfAlphaTribe

😢 “Breakups are hard. But with 20% off fresh, organic meals, they don’t have to be.” — @HomeChefExpress (verified)

Monetising Heartbreak: The New Relationship Model?

Marketing analyst Danielle Foster believes this may be the future of breakups in the digital age.

“More couples are recognising that their split is an opportunity for a mutually beneficial business move. Rather than a messy breakup, why not turn it into a brand-boosting moment?”

“It’s genius, really—why waste the pain when you can turn it into engagement?”

While some followers praised Chloe and Ryan for their maturity, others speculated that the entire relationship had been engineered from the start as a four-year sponsorship deal.

Meanwhile, Ryan has been spotted at a bar with a ‘mystery blonde’ (who, sources confirm, is already in discussions with a vitamin brand for a joint soft launch).

Chloe has yet to comment on the rumours, but has posted a cryptic story featuring a quote from Rupi Kaur and a discount code for a luxury self-care subscription box.

The Interview From Hell

Jake had been unemployed for six months when he got the call.

“Mr Holloway, we were very impressed with your application for the Strategic Synergy Facilitator position. Can you come in for an interview tomorrow?”

He hadn’t applied for anything with a title that ridiculous, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky.

He arrived, bright and early the next morning at the office, a glass-and-steel monstrosity in the heart of the city.

The receptionist greeted him with an unsettling smile. “Mr Holloway, the executives are expecting you. Please, follow me.”

Executives? For an entry-level job?

She led him to a windowless boardroom, where five men in identical grey suits sat behind a wide mahogany table. A single chair sat by itself facing them.

Jake sat. The chair was too low. The men loomed.

“Mr Holloway,” the one in the centre said, steepling his fingers. “Do you know what we do here at Pandemonia Associates?”

Jake had checked their website the night before, and it had been aggressively vague—phrases like “leveraging global potential” and “pioneering integrated paradigms”.

“I… uh… believe you’re in consulting?” he guessed.

“Yes,” the man nodded. “But also… so much more.”

The lights dimmed.

A trapdoor opened in the floor in front of Jake, revealing a pit of screaming fire.

Jake felt the heat in his face.

“…Is this part of the interview?”

The executive ignored him. “At Pandemonia, we believe in nurturing talent. Developing leadership. Feeding the ancient one who sleeps beneath the city.”

“Sorry—what?”

“Tell me, Jake,” the man continued, voice calm. “Do you consider yourself a team player?”

“Uh—sure?”

“Would you be willing to make personal sacrifices for the good of the company?”

The flames in the pit flickered expectantly.

Jake squirmed awkwardly in his chair. “Okay, look. I think there’s been a mistake. I thought this was for a—what was it?—a ‘Strategic Synergy Facilitator’ position?”

The executives nodded.

“Yes. Facilitating synergy between your blood and the great devourer. Strategically.”

Jake stood up, hands raised. “I appreciate the opportunity and everything, but I don’t think I’m the right fit for—”

One of the executives slid a contract across the table. The letters on the page seemed to writhe.

“Sign here,” the man said. “In ink. Or blood. Either works.”

Jake sighed.

“…Does the position come with benefits?”

“401k, dental, and immortality.”

He picked up a pen.

“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose I’ve had worse jobs.”

A Step-by-Step Guide to Finally Getting Your Life Together

So, you’ve decided it’s time to finally get your life together. Congratulations! This is a bold and admirable step—one that will last approximately three days before you give up and return to your normal, dysfunctional existence. But let’s pretend, for now, that you’re actually going to follow through.

Here’s a foolproof step-by-step guide to transforming yourself into a productive, responsible, well-adjusted adult. Or, at the very least, someone who appears to have their life together.

Step 1: Cry in the Shower

This is crucial. You cannot skip this step. The shower is the perfect place for a life-altering breakdown. The acoustics make your sobs more dramatic, the water hides your tears, and you can stare blankly at the tiles like you’re in a sad indie film.

While you’re there, reflect on the mess you’ve made of your life. Think about all the unread emails, the unfulfilled potential, and the expired yoghurt in your fridge. Let the weight of it all crash down on you.

Good. Now you’re ready for step two.

Step 2: Make an Overly Ambitious To-Do List

Grab a notebook (or, let’s be honest, your phone) and write down every single thing you need to do. This will include:

• Fixing your sleep schedule.

• Organising your entire home.

• Reading 47 books you’ve been meaning to get to.

• Learning a new language.

• Going to the gym every day.

• Finally responding to that email from three months ago.

Perfect. You’ve now created an impossible standard that will soon lead to crushing disappointment. But at least you feel productive for now.

Step 3: Buy Fancy Productivity Supplies Instead of Actually Doing Anything

Now that you have a plan, it’s time to avoid doing any of it by convincing yourself that you need the perfect tools first.

• Buy a brand-new laptop that you will use exactly twice.

• Get a stack of motivational self-help books that will sit untouched on your shelf.

• Invest in a high-quality pen, because obviously, you can’t change your life with a regular Bic.

Spending money on things that symbolise productivity is almost the same as being productive. Almost.

Step 4: Completely Redesign Your Morning Routine (That You’ll Never Follow)

All the successful people wake up at 5 AM, right? Time to become one of them.

Your new morning routine will include:

• Waking up before the sun.

• Meditating for 20 minutes.

• Drinking a litre of lemon water.

• Journaling about your intentions for the day.

• Cooking a wholesome, protein-packed breakfast.

• Doing yoga or an intense workout.

• Reading something intellectually stimulating.

You’ll do this once. Then you’ll go back to waking up 10 minutes before you have to leave the house and eating half a granola bar in the car.

Step 5: Attempt to Declutter, Get Emotionally Attached to a Broken Charger

Time to clean your space! You’ll start with enthusiasm, throwing things into a donation pile like you’re starring in your own Netflix tidying show.

Then, it happens. You find an old top that you haven’t worn in years, but what if you need it someday? You pick up a half-dead phone charger and feel a strange sense of nostalgia. You discover a box of miscellaneous cables, and even though you don’t know what any of them belong to, you might need them in the future.

By the end of the day, your home looks exactly the same, but now there are just piles of things in different places.

Step 6: Start a New Hobby, Give Up Immediately

Nothing says “getting your life together” like picking up a new hobby. YouTube has convinced you that you could be a painter, a knitter, a pianist, a marathon runner, and a gourmet chef if you just put your mind to it.

You buy all the supplies. You watch one tutorial. You attempt it for 10 minutes, realise it’s hard, and immediately give up.

That’s okay. Just store the supplies in a cupboard somewhere, where they will sit untouched forever.

Step 7: Have a Mid-Afternoon Existential Crisis

At some point, you’ll realise that despite all your efforts, you are still you. The same flawed, procrastinating, overthinking mess you’ve always been. The weight of this realisation will hit you hard.

You will lie down for a while. Possibly on the floor. Possibly in a blanket cocoon.

Step 8: Decide That “Balance” Is More Important Than Productivity

After failing to become a superhuman productivity machine, you’ll eventually conclude that maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to be perfect. You’ll tell yourself that life is about balance.

You’ll abandon your 5 AM routine and decide that waking up at 7 is fine. You’ll accept that you’ll never read all the books on your list, and that’s okay. You’ll realise that maybe it’s better to make realistic goals instead of aiming for perfection.

You’ll realise that personal fulfilment is actually nothing to do with perceived achievements but everything to do with appreciating the world around you.

This will feel like a profound and life-changing breakthrough.

Step 9: Forget Everything and Return to Your Old Ways

One week later, you’re back to doomscrolling until 2 AM, living in mild chaos, and convincing yourself that next week is when you’ll really get your life together.

And the cycle continues.

Congratulations! You’ve successfully followed every step of this guide. Now, go take another shower. You’ve earned it.

The Ghost Who Wouldn’t Leave a Bad Review

Kevin knew the Airbnb was haunted the second he walked in.

It wasn’t the creaky floors or the flickering lights. It wasn’t even the way the temperature dropped ten degrees every time he passed the bathroom. It was the muttering.

Low, whispering complaints from the walls, like a disappointed pensioner in a supermarket queue.

At first, he thought it was his imagination. Then, on his first night, as he settled into bed, a voice groaned from the corner of the room:

“Ugh. This place used to be so much nicer.”

Kevin sat up, in a panic. “What?”

The voice sighed. “Back when Mrs Holloway owned it. Before they put in those godawful spotlights. I mean, honestly. Who renovates a Victorian home with IKEA lighting?”

Kevin turned on the bedside lamp. The room was empty.

“Are you… a… a… ghost?” he barely managed to ask.

“Obviously. Who else would be complaining at this hour?”

Kevin blinked. “You’re… upset about the lighting?”

“And the décor,” the ghost grumbled. “They painted over the original wallpaper, you know. Floral print. Absolutely stunning. Now? Just blank white walls. No personality. No history. No soul.”

Kevin pulled the covers up. “You don’t, like… want to kill me or anything, do you?”

“What? No, no, I’m not that kind of ghost. I just want people to know this place has gone downhill.”

Kevin was much relieved. “Oh. Well, I mean, I guess you could leave a bad review?”

There was a long pause. “I couldn’t do that.”

“…Why not?”

“Because Jeremy is lovely.”

“Jeremy?”

“The host. Sweet man. Bakes his own bread. Uses real butter, not that margarine rubbish. You can’t just destroy someone’s livelihood over a few bad design choices.”

Kevin stared at the ceiling. “So you’re just going to… haunt this place forever and complain about it?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Have you talked to Jeremy?”

“Oh, sure. I ruffled some curtains. Moved a mug. He thought it was a draft.”

Kevin sighed. “Look, I’ll mention it in my review if you want. I’ll just say, like, ‘Great stay, friendly host, but the ghost thinks the house has lost its charm.’”

“Hmm. Maybe also note that the pillows are a bit too firm?”

“Sure.”

“And that the wi-fi cuts out at night?”

“Okay.”

“And that it wouldn’t kill them to put one antique back in here? Just one. For the aesthetic.”

“Fine.”

“You’re a good man, Kevin.”

“Thanks, Ghost.”

He heard a satisfied sigh. Then silence.

The next morning, Kevin left a five-star review.

Jeremy replied, thanking him for the feedback and promising to look into the wi-fi issue. He didn’t mention the ghost.

But when Kevin checked the listing a month later, he noticed the place had been updated.

A single antique chair in the corner.

Kevin smiled. Somewhere, a ghost was finally at peace.