In Cairo, there’s an overcrowded area called Khan el Khalil. There I was, wet, smelly and limping on what may have been a broken toe; just like me to have a flashback.
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In Cairo, there’s an overcrowded area called Khan el Khalil. There I was, wet, smelly and limping on what may have been a broken toe; just like me to have a flashback.
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Saturday night isn’t about consuming as much alcohol as possible before passing out. Preposterous I thought, but the magazine made me follow a social princess around for a day and find out.
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Peahens – like women – are fantastically confused creatures, and as a result have driven their male counterparts to the brink of madness.
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Our eyes locked and he let out a menacing squeak. I lunged at him, and he was gone before I landed. The hunt was on.
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I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and scaring myself half to death with, say, a mental image of Willie’s teeth and bubbling stomach was apparently insufficient. I had to give him a glowing, red eye.
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All the crying has made that part a bit fuzzy, what is crystal clear though is picking up the 5 kilogram, metal-cast xylophone I was playing with and smashing it on his skull. Turns out he didn’t like surprises either.
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Rappers are philosophers, and while we’ve been mining into Confucius and Plato, these young G’s have had the answers to life, the universe and women all along.
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Somewhere in the mess of neurological pathways I call Karl (when I’m referring to myself in the psychotic third-person) I’ve managed to equate affection with violence; in other words, if I enjoy someone’s company, I hurt them.
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He stops and sniffs his drink. Their eyes lock for half a minute – but men are ill-equipped for these games.
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They stared at each other for a long time, him through the mask and her through a wispy cloud of existential angst. Whatever magic they shared was absolutely lost on me.
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Some 2 million years ago, give or take ten minutes, in a cheery cave in central Africa, an ancestor paused in an unprecedented moment of consideration and regarded his mate.
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What follows is an accurate transcription, with some clarifying side-notes of the notebook I lived in prior to my summer lit examinations. ’twas a stormy summer night…
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We live in a world larger than our egos, and understandably want to shrink it into manageable screens. And wouldn’t it just be lovely if our social lives were really servants of mice and keyboards?
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Somewhere in the 19th century, a New Zealander drove the final nail into the patriarchal hierarchy coffin and gave women the right to vote. This is now widely regarded as a very bad move, and women have since plotted to enslave us.
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Memory is a fragile faculty, subject to time, lies, alcohol abuse and a hundred different chemical errors that could erase the unforgettable as easily as yesterday’s lunch.
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