The first and only time I went to Glastonbury Festival was in 1995, a year when the internet and webmail still wasn’t widely used, when most people still had rotary dial telephones in their homes, except for the handful of executives and drug dealers that carried Mercury m300 mobile handsets on the one2one payment plan that gave them free evening and weekend calls, and when fax machines still printed onto thermal paper which would fade after about two hours, making the text harder to read than the hieroglyphs on the Rosetta Stone.
How do you write a story that culminates in a character unbuttoning his jeans, shooting out a lateral shit and yet no one comments, especially when that's not even the most interesting part of the story? Please keep this train moving Tim so you can compile these stories into a book.
How do you write a story that culminates in a character unbuttoning his jeans, shooting out a lateral shit and yet no one comments, especially when that's not even the most interesting part of the story? Please keep this train moving Tim so you can compile these stories into a book.