Not My Problem

by Ciara Smyth

Have you met my wife, Kristen Stewart? We’re flying on a private jet to Maui tonight to have lots of sex and lip biting. Fuckity bye, arseholes.

I love this book already

I dug deep into my empathy store and found a dried-up old raisin.

“All right, come on, then. We find the hole, we fill it up.” “Yeo,” I said. “Fill the hole in your knowledge, you degenerate.” “With the fingers of information?”

Why was I mesmerised by the way the muscles in her arms tensed as she clutched the bags, though? There were only two explanations. One was that I was a cannibal. The other didn’t bear thinking about.

“I like your hair,” I said, and I privately congratulated myself on being smooth with the ladies. I like your hair. That was going to go down in history as one of the great lines.

Same aideen, same