The Difficulty of Living with Others

During my first year of university I was given a nickname by new flatmates, which if not the first nickname I had received, was the first one I had been informed that I had be given. Taken out of context, this nickname sounded inappropriately cool for a person whose social life consists of minimal interaction with the supermarket self-checkout machine. In fact, it sounded so cool that one may have even suspected that I had coined it myself, like some sort of zany boss who insists his staff refer to him as “Ludichris” or “Mattman” or “J-Dawg”. But this was not the case.

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A Holiday in Orlando (Parts 6 to 9)

vi. Walk Don’t Run: Sea World & the Water Parks

If I recall correctly, the last time I went bare chested was during the summer of 2005, when the reflective paleness of my skin was the cause of a small beach fire and the impaired vision of three unsuspecting bystanders. Since then, to avoid similar accidents from happening, I’ve done the good thing and accepted that I should never remove my shirt, least of all in public.

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