I’ve always lived a life based on my imagination, from hopeless dreams of romance to concocting alternate realities involving supernaturals. I’m completely fascinated with anything hero-related, and often speculate which superpower I’d possess. I haven’t settled on one yet.
I was born in England, and currently reside in Wales, UK. I love to write, and most days you’ll find me happily tapping away at the computer whilst in my pyjama-clad bubble. I also spend my time reading, and if that isn’t enough I’m often in the kitchen baking up a treat.
On Friday, I promised to release a snippet into my current project providing Grayson, my main character, behaved and gave me my word count. He didn’t. Yet here I am still rewarding him. I guess I’m just as bad for enabling his sins.
So, who is Grayson Rush?
He’s a bad boy billionaire looking to expand his empire whilst maintaining all his other business ventures. He’s a hardworking man that enjoys the stress-relief of good-looking women. Plural. And he’s not after love; that takes too much of his precious time. But as womanizingly manwhoreish as he is, he also has a few redeeming qualities – his sense of humour, and the kindness that’s buried deep down in his heart. Deep, deep down. Remember that.
Anyway, this novel is all through his viewpoint, so it’s filled with filthy man-talk. You know, just so you’re warned beforehand. If that sounds like your kind of guy, then keep on reading.
*First draft. Content subject to change come publication. Copyright, Justine Winter 2015.*
“Good morning, Mr. Rush.”
“Olivia,” I acknowledge my secretary as I enter the top floor of Rush Tower that houses only my office. “What have we got going on today?” I ask as she hovers beside me, clearly something is on her mind.
“Your afternoon appointment with Enhance Graphics and Design has been moved to this morning. Now, in fact.”
I raise my brow, keen to meet the person with enough guts to rearrange my busy schedule. “Have they been waiting long?” I ask.
“No, sir. Just a few minutes. I have her in the conference room for you.”
“Thank you,” I appraise, flashing the grey-haired woman my warmest smile as I head toward my office to unload and prepare. “Hold my calls until I’m done.”
These days, loyal, hard-working assistants are hard to find. Most think it’s their best opportunity to screw me by applying for one of my jobs, but the truth is any girl on the street has a far greater chance of that happening. Workplace fucks never happen. It’s my number one rule. I can’t afford to mess business up with pleasure. Lawsuits, remember? They’d kill me. Never mind the work that would never get done, brain cells can be a bit lacking sometimes. Fuck, that was a nice way for me to put it. What I mean is, they’re all fucking dumb.
So when Olivia entered my doors, dressed conservatively elegant for her older age, I had no qualms that this would be the woman with only an agenda to work on her mind. And fuck me was I right. She’s brilliant.
As I hang my coat on the rack in my office, I consider using the effective power-shifting tool of making my appointment wait a little longer. I told you, I’m all about control. I’m the one in charge.
If I let one client rearrange my schedule then it sets the precedent for others, and I’ve worked too damn hard to be at another’s beck and call. But I’m also a professional. So in the thirty seconds it takes for me to have a to-and-fro battle in my mind of how this would play out, I decide to cut to the chase and get on with the reason I called for the meeting in the first place.
I straighten my jacket, pull on my stony business face, and head towards the conference room.
By the time I reach the glass doors, I’m afforded the chance of checking her out without her knowing. She’s staring out the windows, glaring at the view of London’s famous landmarks. Big Ben. Westminster. London Eye.
When I’ve eventually had my fill of her scrumptious arse and bare legs that are accentuated by the delicious four-inch heels she’s wearing, I clear my throat to announce myself, but even as the words leave my mouth I’m lost inside the most enchanting jade green eyes.
Call it what you will – lust, attraction, desire – I know I’m in fucking trouble. The number one rule I swore to myself just minutes ago already has me crippling with hatred. Fucking rules.
And that’s just her eyes. I take her in entirely, and I’m impressed. No, more than that. I’m a bloody animal that wants to press her bare cheeks up against the glass window and fuck her brains out until all she remembers is the raw pleasure I give her. Over and over.
Her lips are full, begging to be kissed. Her tits, though concealed in a smart, hot-pink dress, are bigger than my hands. And those sweet long legs look even better up close.
This is what I get for being a sexually active man. A boner for forbidden fruit.
“Mr. Rush, pleasure to meet you.”
Oh, it will be.
“I’m Maya Kennedy, Enhance’s junior designer.”
I blink, and blink again. Junior? I call for an important meeting with a new company and they send me a fucking junior?
“Is this a joke?” I ask, wondering what the girl’s gain is in wasting my time. She rearranges my day for this?
She sputters as if offended. “Not at all, Mr. Rush. My boss asked that I come in her stead. She’s out with food poisoning.”
I scrutinise her, knowing she’s seeing the dark danger in my eyes. Many have faltered under my gaze, yet she seems unaffected. Clearly she isn’t intimidated, and neither is she falling head-over-heels in love with me.
Oh, good god. It’s finally happened. I’ve lost it. You know, the it that makes me dangerously alluring. The it that makes businessmen I compete with squirm.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!
“My qualifications and creative mind far succeed my job title, Mr. Rush. I wouldn’t be so quick to walk me out the door.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and the movement alone is enough to distract me for a few seconds.
What? She’s the one encouraging me to look. Don’t tell me women don’t do that on purpose to distract us men long enough to agree to whatever it is they want. It’s one of their womanly powers.
And it works, because I can’t remember what it is we were talking about when all I’m thinking about is having my cock wrapped in her tit sandwich for lunch.
“Mr. Rush, are you really so snobbish, you’d readily disregard what I can do for you and your company without the grace of assessing a simple mock-up beforehand?”
I smirk at her boldness, liking her confidence. Of course, I won’t tell her that. I like this fire in her.
“Please, sit down, Ms Kennedy.” I extend my hand to one of the many seats along the long conference table, eager to have her in my company, questioning my every word.
Christ, she’s fucking gorgeous.
She stares dubiously, no doubt assessing my intention. When she sits, I take it I’ve passed her test for now, and settle in a seat opposite her.
“So, what can Enhance Graphics and Design do for you, Mr. Rush?”
I have to hand it to her, she’s remaining professional no matter what she already thinks of me. And I know, based on her distance, that she has strong opinions about me. Which is fine for now, I’ll make sure I’ve changed her mind about me by the time the job is done.
Then, business will be over, and the all-night pleasure party can begin.
Have you ever been to a pamper evening? You know, the kind that treats your flaws, and makes you feel better about them?
Well, you know me. I’m good for making a laugh out of any situation, I’m good for making others happy. Well, life would be dull without it. Right?
That’s what I thought, until I made a complete fool of myself. I know what you’re thinking, why should you be surprised?
Okay, so do you want to hear what happened this time? Yeah, I know. Of course you do, you nosy bugger. You need a laugh, right? Well, let me entertain you!
What’s the first thing you check out at these events? For me, it’s cake. Always the cake. Have you ever mistaken soap for cake? Trust me, you don’t want to.
I’ve had the busiest day, keeping my mind from straying to my thoughts, because thinking meant Drew, and Drew meant depression. I’m ready to be over that. Fintio. Sayonara. Au Revoir.
So, I’ve been busy, working without eating when I’m being roped into coming here. Oh, the things we do for friends.
My stomach hasn’t stopped gurgling for the past few hours, berating me for ignoring it. So, the moment I burst through the doors I’m rushing towards the cake stand. I need something to eat, and I barge my way across all the stalls. I pay without thinking, something I’ve done real well all day, unseal the wrapper and take a bite, before I spit every last morsel across the packed hall floor.
I’m rushing for water.
My mouth is foaming like I’m a rabid squirrel. My eyes are watering like I’ve bitten an onion.
No, this is worse than that, and EVERYONE is staring.
Here’s a little lesson ladies, never mistake a fancy bath bomb for a cupcake even if it looks like it.
That shit sucks. Trust me.
You know the old saying ‘Don’t talk dirty or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap?’ Yeah, I’d fear that sentiment from now on. The burn in your nose isn’t worth it, so bottle that cockiness for another day. You can thank me later.
Foam party for one, you say? Well, I guess I can cross that off my bucket list.
P.S It isn’t fun when you wake in the middle of the night because a hidden sud has popped, and is oozing a soapy trail for you to ingest. Again. Just in case you forgot how stupid you were the first time. Nice one, Lib.
Poor Liberty’s been at it again, and I’m sure this isn’t the last of her conundrums. Stay tuned for more in Living Funny; Dying Clumsy. And if you need to catch up, check out the category tab to the right for previous posts.
“Oh, shit!” I turn my back to Drew and cover myself up quickly, rearranging my dress in double-quick time.
I hear him cough, and then he speaks. “I think we should start again. Hold on.” The door clicks behind me, and I quickly turn to see he’s left. That’s it.
My boobs have officially repelled a man.
A few seconds later the door knocks, and this time I’m loathed to open it. Why? Because I’m pretty sure the date is over and he’s expecting to move things to the bedroom.
Not that I blame him.
‘Bloody hell, Libbie. Slap on your balls and man up,’ I think to myself before opening the door with as much of a smile as I can muster without laughing. It’s hard, I’m used to laughing at myself. It comes with the territory of being clumsy.
“Wow, you look great,” Drew manages without a hint of a smirk. I’m pretty impressed that he fails to mention any obvious jokes, and decide to go along with his new plan. My titstrastophe never happened. Right?
“I’ll just be a minute,” I say, and rush to my room to spray on some perfume before taking his hand to leave. I grab the nearest bottle and spritz lavishly across my body and face. “Now, I’m ready,” I whisper to myself.
The night goes on, waiters move around us, and noise carries along the Italian restaurant. Conversation is surprisingly comfortable, and I’ve managed to keep the food from falling in my lap. And despite my earlier mishap, I’m calling this date successful. I’ve managed to keep my clumsiness at bay. Something I should receive a medal for.
I feel like the date is wrapping up, coming to its natural close. Drew calls for the cheque, and watches me with puppy dog eyes. He walks me home like the gentleman I know he is, and the moonlight highlights his smouldering sexiness. I’m entranced completely, and I feel my body compelling me to kiss him. I want to. I have to.
I lean towards him with eyes closed, puckering up like a mighty goldfish. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I’m leaning in, further and further . . .
“Hey, Liberty? What are you doing tomorrow?”
I open my eyes swiftly, and notice he’s a few feet ahead of me. He never stopped, didn’t even notice my advancement. The ground meets my face with a welcoming hug before I have time to stop myself. I land with a giant thud, and my nose smacks the concrete with a tear-jerking crack.
“Jesus Christ!” Drew rushes to kneel beside me, and all I can feel is his hands patting around me. God knows why.
My eyes have watered, and blood is pouring out of my nose like I’m the star of a badly budgeted horror movie. Clumsy chick gets the cut first <– that’s my tagline.
Drew helps me to my feet, and I’m surprised by the sudden pain. “Fuck me, this hurts,” I say and pass out in his arms like an upside-down butterfly with the grace of a slug.
Did you know you see stars before you faint? They’re like little black dots of fairy death getting ready to take you.
Well, guess what? I fucking do now.
Stay tuned to find out what happens next in Living Funny; Dying Clumsy.
Have you ever wondered about the process a woman goes through in preparation for a first date?
I’m not the type of girl that participates in this kind of activity on a regular basis because I prefer to lounge about in my sweats with a tub of Haagen Dazs, howling out the ‘All By Myself’ song Bridget Jones-style. But when you see the same guy frequently over a span of a couple of weeks, you’ve gotta ask yourself a question. Is fate intervening here?
It’s date night, and I’m running out of time. It’s already gone seven, and only half of my body is hair-free. Look, you can judge me all you want, but I’m trying to avoid being one of those embarrassing date blunders. You know, the kind that start out all innocent and then end up with your big knickers on show. I’m trying to be prepared for whatever happens.
I’m rushing through the shower, speeding up my process with each tick of the second hand. Tick; I’m patting myself down. Tock; I’m rubbing my hair dry. Tick; I’m putting on my knickers. Tock; I’m dragging my hairbrush through my tangles.
Have you ever tried putting on eyeliner when your hand is shaking more than an earthquake?
The doorbell rings, and I actually start to panic. I’m rushing around my room, throwing my make-up on and hoping for the best. I grab my dress, and hop towards the door, putting one shoe on at a time. I’m a woman, I’ve got this handled.
I pause a moment, taking a breath before opening the door. I smile the moment I see him. He’s dressed casually; jeans, check shirt and a jacket. It’s simple yet mouth-wateringly sexy on him. I feel like a predator eyeing him up as if I’m about to eat him for dinner. Though I imagine he’d be quite the tasty treat.
I’m too preoccupied by my thoughts to realise the length of time that’s passed without any communication. That’s when I notice he’s staring at me. I clear my throat, and offer an easy “Hi!” before waiting for his reply. He continues to stare.
“I…um…well…” I smooth my hair quickly before finding my voice again. “Are you ready?” I ask.
Can you guess what he’s doing? That’s right. He’s STILL STARING! I follow his eye-line. I’m a little unnerved that he seems to be so obviously glaring at my chest. It’s like I have a big neon sign there demanding his attention.
This is new territory for me. The date is what I wanted, but his behaviour isn’t matching the somewhat Knight in Shining Armour my mind had conjured for him.
I’m torn between closing the door on him, and suffocating him between my cleavage. He’s clearly entertaining the idea if the cheeky little smirk on his face is anything to go by.
I’m about to decide when he finally opens up. “Liberty,” he coughs. “That’s an interesting dress you have on.”
I look at him questioningly. I chose a simple, black, halterneck dress. I look down to see what he’s on about, when my face flushes the brightest pink on a paint chart. I’ve put it on backwards.
And my tits are hanging out for Drew to salivate over.
This date is doomed from the start.
Next week on Living Funny; Dying Clumsy find out if Liberty and Drew actually make it to their date.
I have a confession to make and it may not come as much of a surprise, but I think it’s something that needs to be addressed. Up until now I’ve tried real hard to think about what I’m saying to you, but the truth is, I swear. A lot.
I can’t help it; I’m an adult. And honestly, when you’re as clumsy as I am you need a little ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ when you’ve broken your last set of china. Does anyone have any paper plates? Best not go with plastic, too risky. . .
I’m sorry if it offends you, but I wouldn’t be faithful to my true character without a little balls-deep humour. You know, the kind that makes your arse crack smile from the farts that escape while you laugh.
Yes, I’m looking at you. Don’t pretend I didn’t hear those cheerful poofters.
Why am I making a big deal about my swearing now? This is why; Drew. He’s the source to all my problems. I have a scratch I can’t itch. Damn, I mean. . . Well, you get it. When it comes to him I can’t be held accountable for what I’m about to say.
I know you’ve already met him, and I know you know how much I’ve fucked up my chances with him. I’ve literally dug my own spinster grave, and signed the nun contract. Sister Liberty; cobwebbed and dry since 2014. Caution; chainsaw advised.
But he’s all I think about, so I made myself a promise, and it went like this:
I have to see whatever this post-teen crush means because you know what? I’m bordering stalker. Like, “Hey, I bumped into you at work which is 30 minutes from where I work, and I’ve run out of tea and I was wondering if you’d tea bag me? I mean, do you have any tea bags?”
Yeah, you can imagine how that went down. And not like that, you dirty bastard.
Aside from going red, my mind is rushing through ideas to make the situation better. I’m already mortified that I tracked him down to his workplace, paid for a bus fare to get there, and asked him for tea in an unconventional way, but it’s okay because I’m about to make things worse.
He stares at me a while, probably weighing up his chances of escape when he asks me, “What are you doing here?”
I take my time, blink a few seconds before answering because my knickers are diving into my arse like they’re trying for gold at the Olympics and it’s really distracting.
“Do you want to feed me?” I splutter, and then try to rectify the damage. “No, I mean, do you want to go eat me?”
He bursts into laughter, and I’m done. My words are more confused than a straight man at a gay bar. I turn to walk away because there’s really nothing I’m capable of saying to make it work. Talking cohesively is for adults, and apparently I’m really not one of them.
I make it to the elevator before he chases after me with a smug grin on his face. The doors are beginning to close when he yells, “Liberty, I’ll pick you up at eight.”
I’m overwhelmed with confusion and move forward to hear a little better. “Just make sure you’re still in one piece when I get there,” he jokes.
I let out a sarcastic laugh when the doors close on me, squeezing me like a puss-filled zit.
Hey, at least I got what I wanted.
Stay tuned to find out how Liberty and Drew’s date goes next week on Living Funny; Dying Clumsy.
Sports. This is the Devil’s way of siphoning out the co-ordinated from the clumsy. In school you have no choice, sport is a part of your curriculum no matter how good you are. As an adult, you’d think that makes things simpler. You’d think the days of heckling are behind you because you get to choose which sport you’re going to do, if any. And for the life of me, I’m still wondering why I put myself into these situations.
Let’s talk about swimming. I mean, there’s not much that could go wrong besides drowning, right?
There’s swimwear that doesn’t fit your body shape – unless you’re a man. Yes, the men get it easy. A pair of shorts. That’s it. No fuss.
But, women? Ohhhhhh. . . No! First we have to decide if we want an all-in-one piece, and no matter what, that costume will ride up your butt when you try to exit the pool without slipping on the rungs of the ladder.
Then there’s the bikini/tankini, and you know what? Doesn’t matter what size you buy, guaranteed one half will be too small/big. Don’t even get me started on the practicality of strapless tops; those are not swim-friendly if you wanna keep the ladies tucked away nicely.
And after all of that there’s still the issue of actual swimming. I try my best, honestly, but there’s some part of me that can’t help but try and show off even when I know it’s going to end in disaster. It’s like accelerating in a 1-litre engine car against a 16-cyclinder Bugatti Veyron.
Disappointing. Laughable. Pathetic.
I can’t help it though when I see him strolling out of the changing rooms into the pool. I have to regain some kind of composure after my terrible fart escapades last week. I can’t catch a break – 3 weeks ago I’d never laid eyes on Drew. Now he’s everywhere I go, and every time a little spark flies between us, I manage to ruin it all like a goddamn wrecking ball.
Here is my chance to rectify that.
I manage to escape the water without injury, and I step up on to the diving block ready to show off the dive I’ve been trying to perfect since I was a kid. I catch his eye and wink with a seductive smile too.
I don’t know, I’m feeling brave all of a sudden.
I bring my legs together, and breathe in and out as I tuck my head in my arms ready. I rise on my tiptoes, and just as I’m about to jump I lose my balance, slip on the wet block, lose my leg half way down the water, and the rest of my body tumbles down in a big ol’ belly flop.
My skin stings from the impact, but I stay underwater. I’m too embarrassed to resurface anyway.
While I wait down here, watching the bubbles float from my mouth, I’ll tell you my name. My friends call me Lib or Libbie, but my real name is Liberty. I tend not to use it though because every day I’m reminded by my own name that my life really is just that.
Oh, how I’ve been doomed from the start.
Stay tuned for more adventures next week in Living Funny; Dying Clumsy
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Today I’m nursing a hangover, well that’s what I keep telling myself. The fact my head is glued to the toilet seat lets you know how well I’m handling my current situation. I’m an excellent drinker, and the best partygoer known to man, but come the morning after I transform into The Hulk on steroids. I’m crabby, hungry, and green from throwing up every last drop of my stomach. Yeah, I bet that had you reaching for your mouth. I could even go into detail about the little chunks floating around in the bog water, but I won’t.
Sorry for the overshare, but I told you I’m horrible the day after.
Anyway, you’ve probably guessed I’m not much of a lady. That’s okay. It’s too hard to be funny while minding my manners. Last night is a prime example for that.
Have you ever really noticed how funny farts are? And I’m not just talking about the little puffs of air that escape when you bend over. Those are harmless little bubbles of embarrassment. No, I’m on about the stomach-ripping explosions of gas that intoxicate an entire crowd on the dance floor. I’m telling you, if the army ever run out of tear gas, then all they need to do is bottle up a fart. That baby will render anyone defenceless, and that, my friends, is a million-dollar idea. Trust me, I know how effective it is.
Okay, so last night I’m busy dancing on the table tops when I spot my rescuer amid the hazy nightclub’s room. You remember the tall, dark and handsome one that watched my dignity disappear the moment my lips became a prime target for bird poop practice? Yeah, him. And I’m telling you, there’s no living that down. Once a guy has watched your mouth become a receiver for crap, it doesn’t matter how much bleach you’ve scrubbed your lips with. That guy is never going to kiss you.
I guess you’re wondering why I even bothered to try and seduce him. I’m waiting for that answer too, especially when all I’ve done is make matters worse for myself.
So, I’m busting out these ‘impressive’ shapes I’m always watching in music videos. A pop of the arm here, and a twerk there, making sure I’ve got the ‘Miley’ down to a tee when Drew (the guy) comes towards me. He’s wrapping his hands around me, and grabbing on to my butt to pull me off of the table, when I let one rip. Yes, ladies. It caught me off guard, and I didn’t have the time to clench my cheeks and keep that sucker where it belonged.
And I did the only thing I thought would help the situation.
I farted again, and laughed until the smell came. That’s when the room kind of bunched to one side before they cleared out. And Drew, bless him, shirked it off before he made his quick exit.
All I know is if the bird poop isn’t enough to keep him away, then I’m pretty sure that cutting the cheese has done it for me.
While I hang my head in the toilet of shame with last night’s vodka keeping me company, I can’t help but wonder.
Maybe flatulence isn’t as funny as I thought.
Stay tuned for more adventures next week in Living Funny; Dying Clumsy
You see that girl over there? The one with black hair that looks deathly pale? Yeah?
I used a home dye kit. You know, the ones that somehow managed to cover half my forehead, all of my ears, and dot my cheeks with uneven blobs of freckles. Which in turn means I have to scrub and scrub that crap off with an exfoliating flannel until a layer of skin peels off. Then I step out of the shower, wipe away the condensation and glare at myself in the mirror. And guess what? That bloody stubborn black dye that said brown on the box is still there, stained like I’ve applied make-up in the dark.
Yeah, that type of hair dye. And all I wanted to do was cover the ridiculous ginger stripe that haloed around my hair from the botched red hair dye I’d tried before.
I’m an embarrassing, walking disaster. I go from one mishap to another, there’s just no ‘fixing’ it with me. I could successfully become a Walking Dead extra, and nobody would question it. I wouldn’t even have to go through hair and make-up. I frequently sport bird’s-nest hair, and a bloody nose on a daily basis. It’s my best look yet.
So, how does a girl like me spend her days? I’ll tell you. I’m either constantly kissing the ground, or I’m saying something stupid in front of important, good-looking people. I can’t help it. It’s like the only filter that runs in my brain is the ability to be embarrassing, like an impulsive need I have to do.
I can’t have friends without them laughing at me. They say I’m funny, half the time I can’t decide whether they’re laughing at me, or with me. And in all honesty, I don’t even know if I care. I think I’m too simple-minded for that, or as my friends like to say, outgoing. Have you ever noticed how lively people don’t have much to care about? It’s like they’re incapable of thinking deep, and that’s definitely me. I’m the funny one because I laugh at myself too. I’d be too depressed if I gave my clumsiness a deeper meaning than what it is.
Anyway, have you noticed how I like to talk a lot? I’m sorry. It’s infectious, just like my laugh. You’ll see, don’t worry.
Wait, did you see that wink I just sent you? No? Gosh, please don’t let my humour be wasted here. Come on, now. Pay attention.
So, the other day I was walking around town on my lunch break, minding my own business when my foot caught on the ledge of a drain. I fell forward, and you know when the movies use those incredibly expensive slow-mo cameras to capture the best part of a fight? Well, that’s what it felt like when I saw this guy barrelling towards me, arms spread out to catch me. And all I hear is this deep voice call out, “Noooooo…”
He’s too late of course. By the time he reached me, I’d snogged the ground with added tongue. And gravel, by the way, does not taste good, never mind the texture.
As you can probably imagine, I’m used to being down here on the floor, making friends out of the stones, but I must admit, I’m a little shocked at the guy holding his hand out to help me. There he is smouldering away with his tanned skin, broodingly dark eyes, and deliciously pink, pouty lips, and I, for once, can’t actually form a sentence. I know, shocker.
I’m dusting myself off, patting away the dirt from my jeans to bide myself some time, when he suddenly starts laughing at me. And that, at least, is something I can handle, but I’m still confused. Why help me and then laugh at me?
I have two words for you: Human nature. It’s ironically funny. We help a man up, and knock him back down with laughter.
Anyway, I’m finally ready to thank/punch this guy, and I open my mouth to speak. Oh, did I tell you I’m extremely lucky? No? Well you’re about to find out.
“Thanks, my name is…” and just as I’m about to tell him, I have to stop because something’s landed on my mouth. I close my eyes because, let’s face it, I already know what it is. And if I didn’t before, then the moment the guy’s eyes went wide and grimaced, that was a pretty huge hint in itself.
“Here.” He hands me a tissue from his pocket. I stare at it, but I know I can’t be picky. I have to take it.
Because a bird just pooped a giant, white blob on my lips. And now I look like a bloody Dalmation.
Yeah, my ‘luck’ is only just beginning.
I had so much fun writing this today, that I’ve decided to create it as a weekly feature. Each week I’ll spontaneously expand on this story, and see what funny mishaps this character gets herself in to. So if you liked this, don’t forget to check back for the next installment of Living Funny; Dying Clumsy.
Have a great week, everybody!