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.
“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.
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:
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.
“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:
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.”
“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 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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
By the time I realised I was dead, I
was already in line.
The queue stretched a long way, a slow-moving procession of
the newly departed. There was no pain, no fear—just a strange sense of
acceptance, like I was waiting for a coffee I hadn’t ordered but was happy to
drink anyway.
Ahead, a glowing kiosk hummed gently, with a ring light
flickering above it. A digital voice chimed:
“Thank you for living! Please rate your experience.”
The person in front of me, a hunched old man in a tweed
jacket, tapped the screen hesitantly. His expression shifted from curiosity to
horror. He muttered something under his breath, then shuffled off into the
mist.
The screen blinked invitingly. It was my turn.
Welcome to the Afterlife Feedback Portal!
Life of: Daniel Everett
Status: Concluded
Time Spent Alive: 38 years, 4 months, 12 days
Total Rating: 2.9 / 5 stars
Two point nine? That was dangerously close to “would not
recommend.”
A glowing progress bar appeared. Review Breakdown
Loading…
Relationships – 2.5 stars
• “Started strong but lost momentum. Needed better
communication skills.” ★★☆☆☆
• “Girlfriend of three years? More like unpaid therapist of
three years.” ★★★☆☆
I winced. That was… uncomfortably fair.
Career – 3.0 stars
• “Showed up to work on time. Mostly.” ★★★☆☆
• “Colleagues liked him. Boss tolerated him. Printer hated
him.” ★★★☆☆
That last one stung more than I expected.
Personal Growth – 1.8 stars
• “Kept saying he’d learn a language. Never did.” ★☆☆☆☆
• “Joined a gym. Went twice.” ★☆☆☆☆
• “Had an epiphany about life’s meaning once. Forgot it
immediately.” ★★☆☆☆
The screen flickered. A new section appeared.
Regrets – Most Common Mentions:
• “Too scared to take risks.”
• “Spent more time looking at screens than faces.”
“Would you like to leave a response?” the kiosk asked.
I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the screen. What was
there to say? That I tried? That I thought I had more time? That I wish I’d
paid more attention, held on to people tighter, been braver, been better?
The screen pulsed.
“All feedback is final. Thank you for existing.”
A door opened, and I stepped through.
Dave Saunders had spent his Tuesday
afternoon the same way he spent most Tuesday afternoons: avoiding work,
scrolling on his phone, and wondering how early was too early to microwave a
pasty.
Then, the ceiling cracked open.
A booming voice echoed across the office, rattling coffee
mugs and making Sandra from HR spill her tea. “DAVID SAUNDERS,” it bellowed, “YOU
ARE THE CHOSEN ONE.”
Dave sighed.
“Right,” he muttered. “And what exactly am I chosen for?”
A golden portal materialised in front of his desk, swirling
with celestial energy and an unreasonable amount of dramatic lighting. A robed
wizard stepped through, staff in hand, eyes glowing with divine knowledge.
“Oh, brilliant,” Dave said. “Another one.”
The office workers stared. The IT guy took out his phone to
record. Sandra was still mopping up her tea.
The wizard looked momentarily flustered, then recovered. “The
prophecy has foretold your coming! The Dark Lord is rising! You alone can save
the world!”
Dave swivelled slightly in his chair. “Yeah, see, I’m really
busy today, so…”
The wizard blinked at the empty desktop surface and the
Microsoft Outlook tab open to a blank email draft.
“But—but you’re the one!” the wizard stammered. “Born under
the Blood Moon! Marked by fate! A warrior destined to wield the Sacred Blade
and bring balance to the realm!”
Dave took a sip of his lukewarm instant coffee. “Alright,
couple of things. One, I was born in Stoke-on-Trent under some very ordinary
streetlights. Two, I don’t ‘wield’ anything. The last time I tried axe-throwing
at a stag do, I nearly took out the instructor.”
“But the prophecy—”
“The prophecy can get in line,” Dave said, pointing at his
inbox full of ignored emails. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t really
have time for all that ‘hero’s journey’ nonsense. I’ve got a report due by
Friday and a dentist appointment I’ve already rescheduled three times.”
The wizard hesitated. “But… the fate of the world—”
The wizard stared. The entire office stared. Even the IT guy
was staring, instead of looking at his phone.
“But… this is not how these things should work,” the wizard finally
said.
“Well, maybe you lot shouldn’t keep having Dark Lords
popping up all the time,” Dave pointed out.
The wizard’s eye twitched. His dramatic celestial glow
flickered slightly.
“Besides,” Dave continued, taking another sip of his coffee,
“even if I agreed to this, what’s the deal? Do I get paid? Dental? A company
horse?”
“You would be rewarded with eternal glory,” the wizard said
weakly.
“Uh-huh. And how’s the annual leave policy?”
“…There isn’t one.”
“Right. Yeah, no, I think I’ll pass.”
The wizard’s shoulders slumped. He turned to leave, then
paused. “What if I offered you a powerful enchanted sword?”
Dave shrugged. “Can I trade it for a Greggs voucher?”
The wizard sighed, muttered something about “the end of
civilisation,” and vanished in a puff of magical smoke.
Dave leaned back in his chair. “Honestly,” he said, “some
people just don’t know how to recruit properly.”
And with that, he returned to his phone, scrolling until it was an acceptable time to microwave his pasty.
Love is blind, they say. But is it
this blind? You thought you found the perfect partner—charming, mysterious,
maybe a little jittery—but something just feels… off. They disappear for long
periods, avoid direct questions, and seem way too interested in nuts. Could it
be that your significant other isn’t a single human being at all, but rather
five squirrels working together in an elaborate disguise?
Here are some clear warning signs that you may, in fact, be
dating a highly coordinated team of woodland rodents.
1. They Avoid Sitting in Chairs Like a Normal Person
Have you ever actually seen them sit in a chair properly?
No, they either crouch on the edge, sit bolt upright with an unnatural
stiffness, or refuse to sit at all. They might even grip the chair arms a
little too tightly, as if struggling against gravity. Almost as if… they’re
trying to prevent the whole operation from toppling over.
2. They’re Weirdly Obsessed with Trees
A casual stroll in the park turns into an uncomfortable
experience. Their eyes dart towards every tree, their whole
body tensing. They get distracted mid-conversation whenever they spot an
oak, and they always suggest sitting under a tree instead of at a café. One
time, you caught them stroking the bark and whispering, “Home”.
3. Their Diet Consists Almost Entirely of Nuts and
Berries
When you first started dating, you thought it was just a
quirky personality trait. “Oh, they’re just really into healthy snacks!” But
now that you think about it, they’ve never ordered anything at a restaurant
that requires cutlery. They recoil at the sight of soup, avoid pasta like the
plague, and get visibly excited whenever they spot an unattended bowl of
peanuts.
4. Their Hands Are Always Hidden
Gloves. Long sleeves. A firm commitment to pockets. They
refuse to let you see their hands, no matter how many times you jokingly ask, “What,
are you hiding something?” If you do manage to catch a glimpse, they seem…
smaller than expected. Although strangely dexterous. Suspiciously furry.
5. Their Speech Patterns Are Strange and Repetitive
They keep repeating phrases like, “Yes, indeed, what a
normal human thing to say” or “Ah, the stock market, of course, a topic I
understand.” Their vocabulary leans heavily toward survivalist themes: “Dangerous
world out there.” “Must be alert at all times.” “Food storage is key.” If you
ask them about their childhood, they get evasive and say something cryptic
like, “I was raised in the trees.”
6. They Have a Deep-Seated Fear of Dogs
You introduce them to your friend’s Labrador, and suddenly,
they’re on edge. Their eyes widen, and they slowly start edging toward the
nearest tree. When the dog notices them and barks, they disappear so fast you
barely see them go. Later, they claim they “just had somewhere to be”.
7. You Once Caught Them Trying to Fit Into a Postbox
This should have been the moment you realised. Maybe it was
a dare, maybe they said they “dropped something,” but no normal human attempts
to crawl inside a postbox with such determination. When you confronted them,
they panicked and threw a handful of acorns at you before bolting at an inhuman
speed.
What To Do If You Suspect Your Partner is Five Squirrels
in a Trench Coat
• Test their reflexes. Drop something suddenly—do they dart
after it with alarming precision?
• Offer them a salad. If they pick out everything except the
nuts, you have your answer: you’re dating an unstable stack of rodents.
At this point, you have two choices:
1. Confront them. Sit them down (if they can sit) and ask
for the truth.
2. Accept it. Maybe love really is blind. Maybe five squirrels working together in perfect harmony is actually the most romantic thing of all. Just know this: your relationship will require a steady supply of cashews.
Hollywood executives have unveiled an ambitious new initiative to remake, reboot, and reimagine every single movie that has ever existed, ensuring that original ideas will remain safely buried where they belong.
The announcement included a slate of upcoming remakes, including:
• Titanic (2026) – Now a cinematic universe where multiple Titanics sink across different timelines.
• The Godfather (2027) – Starring a TikTok influencer with 50 million followers but no acting experience.
• Jaws (2028) – Remade with 100% CGI and a gritty backstory for the shark where he’s actually the misunderstood hero.
• Citizen Kane (2030) – Reworked as a musical with EDM remixes and a post-credits scene teasing a sequel.
Industry analysts say the strategy is foolproof.
“Think about it,” said film historian Mark Reynolds. “If you watch a movie as a kid, then Hollywood remakes it when you’re an adult, you’ll go watch it for nostalgia. Then, when you’re old, they’ll remake it again, and you’ll go see it for nostalgia of your nostalgia.”
Some critics have voiced concerns that Hollywood’s obsession with remakes is killing creativity.
However, studio representatives dismissed these fears, stating:
“As long as people keep showing up, we’ll keep pressing Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V.”
What’s Next?
Looking ahead, Hollywood is already working on the remake of the remake of the remake of Spider-Man.
Small talk is an art—one that, when
wielded correctly, can turn brief, forgettable encounters into excruciating
experiences people will remember forever. Whether you’re at a party, in a lift,
or trapped in an Uber with a driver who just won’t take a hint, here’s a
foolproof guide to ensuring your small talk is as uncomfortable as humanly
possible.
1. Start With a Wildly Inappropriate Icebreaker
Most people ease into conversation with something
light—weather, current events, a vague compliment. Boring. Instead, kick things
off with something truly unsettling:
• “Ever wonder what your last words will be?”
• “Do you think your cat secretly hates you?”
• “I read somewhere that eating too much rhubarb can kill
you. Anyway, what’s your name?”
Watch as their eyes widen in mild panic, and
congratulations—you’ve already made an impact.
2. Make Every Compliment Slightly Creepy
If you must resort to a compliment, make sure it leaves the
recipient with more questions than answers.
• Instead of “Nice jacket!”, say: “That jacket really suits
you. I knew it would.”
• Instead of “You have great hair”, say: “Your hair reminds
me of someone… but I can’t remember who. They disappeared under mysterious
circumstances.”
3. Ask Deeply Personal Questions Immediately
Forget polite chit-chat; real connections happen fast. Cut
through the nonsense and demand emotional vulnerability from the start, such
as:
• “When was the last time you cried in public?”
• “Do you consider yourself a good person, or just someone
who avoids getting caught?”
If they hesitate, maintain unblinking eye contact until they
answer.
4. Answer Every Question in the Most Confusing Way
Possible
If someone tries to steer the conversation back to normal,
resist.
• Them: “So, what do you do for work?”
• You: “I mostly haunt places.”
• Them: “How’s your evening going?”
• You: “Better than most. Worse than some. Time is a flat
circle.”
• Them: “Do you live around here?”
• You: “In a sense.”
Now they’ll have to decide if they want to dig deeper or
run. Either way, you win.
5. Respond to Every Silence with an Overly Intense
Statement
Nothing kills a conversation like an awkward pause. Which is
why you should fill those pauses—with something that immediately makes everyone
regret starting this interaction in the first place.
• “I used to make plans. Then I realised everything we do is
just a distraction from the inevitable.”
• “If you had to fight one person here, who would it be?”
6. Exit the Conversation on the Most Suspicious Note
Possible
If your interlocutor somehow stays this long, it’s time for
a grand finale. Leave the conversation with a vague yet haunting remark,
ensuring they think about you long after you’re gone.
• “I should go. The police are probably looking for me.”
• “Well, enjoy your night. And remember:
don’t answer the door if you hear knocking after midnight.”
Then simply walk away, leaving them with nothing but a deep sense of unease.
Final Thoughts
Making small talk is an essential life skill, but making
memorable small talk is high art. By following this guide, you can ensure that
strangers will not only regret speaking to you but possibly rethink their
entire approach to social interaction.
And isn’t that what conversation is all about?
Ending a relationship is never easy,
but it can be efficient. Why waste time on teary, emotional conversations when
you can deliver a clear, data-driven exit strategy?
Step 1: Schedule a Formal Meeting
Casual breakups are for amateurs. Instead of vague texts or
dramatic confrontations, send a well-crafted calendar invite, titled “Relationship
Performance Review”.
Step 2: Prepare Your Breakup Presentation
Craft a concise, informative, and brutally honest PowerPoint
deck. Keep it under five slides—nobody likes an overlong presentation.
Slide 1: Title Slide
• A simple, professional title like “Moving Forward: A
Relationship Realignment Proposal”.
Slide 2: Relationship Performance Overview
Key highlights:
• Strengths: “We had a good run. Mutual love of pizza etc.”
• Weaknesses: “Severe communication breakdowns. You never
laugh at my jokes.”
• Opportunities: “Escape from the daily misery of coming
home to you, etc.”
• Threats: “If we continue, resentment will spike. Risk of
accidental marriage.”
(Pro tip: Include a bar graph comparing happiness levels at
the start vs. now. Let the data do the talking.)
Slide 3: The Decision Matrix
• A flowchart demonstrating why staying together is not a
viable option.
• Key categories: Emotional exhaustion, lifestyle
incompatibility, general levels of suffering.
• Use an arrow leading inevitably to “Breakup Confirmed”.
Slide 4: The Exit Strategy
• Clearly outline the roadmap with milestones and next steps
to ensure a smooth transition, such as a social media deletion strategy: “You
untag first, then I do.”
Step 3: Deliver the Breakup with Confidence
Use corporate jargon to soften the blow:
• “I appreciate all the effort you’ve put into this project.”
• “Unfortunately, I must pivot towards personal growth at
this time.”
• “It’s not you; it’s the evolving market conditions.”
Step 4: Handle the Q&A Session
After your presentation, open the floor for questions. Be
prepared for the following:
• “Can we still be friends?”
• Suggested response: “We are open to renegotiating our
terms after a cooling-off period.”
• “Is there someone else?”
• Suggested response: “Due to confidentiality clauses, I
cannot confirm or deny third-party involvement.”
• “Do you even care?”
• Suggested response: “I value our shared history but must
prioritise future investments.”
Step 5: Wrap It Up and Log Off
• Conclude with a firm handshake.
• Send a formal follow-up email:
Subject: “Relationship Dissolution Summary & Next Steps”
Dear [Name],
Thank you for your time today. As discussed, our
relationship will be concluding effective immediately. Please find attached our
breakup agreement with key points outlined. Let me know if you require
clarification on any items.
Wishing you continued success.
Best regards,
[Your Name]
Final Notes
Breaking up doesn’t have to be messy. With a professional approach, you can streamline the process and ensure both parties walk away with clear deliverables and actionable next steps.
Ah, job interviews. That magical
experience where a stranger decides your entire fate based on how well you can
pretend to be a functioning human for 30 minutes. If you, like me, suffer from
chronic overthinking, you’ll know that preparing for a job interview isn’t just
about research and confidence—it’s about meticulously crafting every possible
scenario in your head, and ultimately sabotaging yourself by saying something
deeply unhinged.
To help you navigate this minefield of anxiety, I’ve compiled some foolproof job interview tips, designed specifically for overthinkers.
1. When They Ask, “Tell Me About Yourself”, Try Not to Have an Identity Crisis
This is where normal people say something simple like, “I’m
a marketing professional with five years of experience” and so on.
This is not what you will do.
Instead, you’ll briefly forget who you are, panic, and blurt
out something alarming like, “Oh wow, where do I even start? Well, I was born
on a Tuesday, I have a fear of deep water, and one time in primary school I
cried because I thought the sun was following me.”
Alternative Strategy: Memorise a safe, boring script. If you
feel the urge to overshare, don’t!
2. Maintain Eye Contact (But Not in a Psychotic Way)
Eye contact is important! But if you’re an overthinker, you
will immediately start obsessing about it.
Too much eye contact? Intimidating.
Too little? Suspicious.
Accidentally stare at their forehead instead? Now you look
cross-eyed.
Alternative Strategy: Use the “triangle method”—casually
shift your gaze between their eyes and nose. If you forget how to blink, just
fake a thoughtful nod to break the tension.
3. The “What’s Your Greatest Weakness?” Trap
A normal person would say something harmless like “I
sometimes get too invested in my work.”
You, however, are about to overthink yourself into oblivion.
• First thought: Should I be honest?
• Second thought: If I say something too weak, will they
think I’m a liar?
• Third thought: If I say something too real, will they call
security?
• Fourth thought: Why do I have so many weaknesses? Am I a fundamentally
flawed human?
And before you know it, you’ve said something horrifying
like, “My biggest weakness is that I feel crippling guilt over what I did in
the summer of 2009.”
Alternative Strategy: Pick a fake weakness. Something
harmless. Something that makes you sound both flawed and employable. Try: “I
sometimes over-organise things” or “I care too much about the Oxford comma.”
4. The Deadly Silence After a Question
They ask a question. You answer. Then… silence.
At this moment, your brain will catastrophise at lightspeed:
• Oh no. They hated my answer.
• Are they waiting for me to say more?
• Did I accidentally insult their entire family?
• Did I just ruin my entire future?
To fill the silence, you will start nervously rambling. You’ll
tell them a completely unnecessary story. You’ll say, “Does that make sense?”
27 times. You’ll add an awkward laugh at the end, even if the topic wasn’t
funny.
Alternative Strategy: When you finish your answer, STOP
TALKING. Count to three in your head if needed. Interviewers sometimes pause—it
doesn’t mean they’re judging your soul.
5. “Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?”—A Loaded
Question
Normal people answer this with “I hope to advance my skills
and grow within the company.”
Overthinkers? Oh no. We see this as a trap.
• What if I don’t know?
• What if in five years I’m dead? Should I factor that in?
By the time you’ve finished spiralling, you’ll blurt out
something like, “In five years? Oh. Um. Ideally, I’d like to have a dog.”
Instead, say something about how all your ambitions will be
fulfilled by devoting your precious life’s energy to working for their tedious
company (but try not to mention the tedious part).
6. Handling an Unexpected Question Without Having a
Meltdown
Some interviewers like to throw in an unexpected question
just to see how you react.
• “If you were an animal, what would you be?”
• “Describe yourself in three words.”
• “How many basketballs would fit in this room?”
Your overthinking brain will not process this like a fun
challenge. It will immediately panic.
• Why basketballs?
• What if I pick the wrong animal? Am I now stuck with that
as my spirit guide?
• What are three words that sum me up? “Chronically,
Anxious, Overthinker”??
Before you know it, you’ve answered, “I’d be a squirrel
because I have a lot of anxiety and like snacks”—and now you’ve ruined your
credibility.
Alternative Strategy: Take a breath. Laugh a little. If
needed, stall with “That’s a great question!” while your brain catches up.
7. Ending the Interview Without Ruining Everything
The interview is almost over. You’ve survived. Now comes the
final hurdle: the goodbye.
If you’re an overthinker, this will not go smoothly.
You will accidentally say “You too” when they say, “Good
luck.”
You will wave in a weird way.
You will stand up too quickly and knock over your chair.
You will walk to the wrong door and then have to turn around
in shame.
Alternative Strategy: Move slowly. Think before you speak. If you mess up, just pretend, with confidence, that you meant to do it.
Final Thoughts
If you’re an overthinker, job interviews are basically an
extreme sport. So breathe. Speak slowly. And for God’s sake, do not talk about
squirrels.
Unless the interviewer loves squirrels. Then, by all means, lean into it.
