P2P Marketing

I love adventures and travelling.

What else do you write? It says ‘Bio’ like it expects you to understand. ‘Write about myself’? How is that supposed to be attractive?


So it’s a sales pitch. A ‘Yo check me out i’m 7’11” and thas not even my height 🍆💦😎’ for every ‘Tall boys only, if you can’t grow a beard find another app.’

It’s the economics of attraction. An ocean full of fish eager to hook onto a large rig, and a lone fisherman trying to catch a Megamouth with his rod.

A fishing rod u naughty u.

It’s also about targeted advertising. Sure, rejections are inevitable, but some are likely to be curious. A ‘goth freak’ for every ‘fair girls only’. But don’t lay all your cards down — that’s not how attraction works.

Entice them, foster a lingering feeling of unquenched wonder, make them so inquisitive for what’s coming that they just have to know. It’s about optics. A devil-may-care attitude masking deep emotional scarring gets you swipes like dollar bills at a strip club.

*background sobbing intensifies*

An ‘I once chopped off my… Sorry, you’ve reached your Bio limit for the day. Swipe right to read more’ for every ‘Only compatible with Gemini, Aquarium and Caprisun (orange flavour).’

But remember to filter out the noise.

You can’t spend your precious time exchanging bad puns with some loser who writes misspelt poetry. And why would you date someone that doesn’t support Donald Trump? How would that work?

‘Right of centre or gtfo’ is popular, but personally, I think you should set up an orgy with the members of parliament for some post-second date fun. It shows real dedication.

And yes, I said second date u thirsty [versatile agricultural hand tool].

Remember, you have no right to avoid mentioning that you’re a foodie, but if all else fails, leave it blank. Most people do. If you’re scalding hot (like me) it won’t matter. Besides,

“A picture’s worth a thousand words.”

⁃ Clarisse Renaldi, former Queen of Genovia

And tbh, I really hate adventures and travelling.



Here’s the thing. If it’s a ‘work party’, I’m gonna be sitting in a corner, sipping my beer. I’m a man of few words and have even fewer fucks to give, so leave me be.

I may be young, but I’m ambitious, y’know? I got dreams. Sure, it’s construction work for now, but the money’s comin’. And it’s comin’ real soon buddy. Real soon.

Until then, I make sure I show up on time and leave when I’m asked to. I was hoping to be at home, cuddled up in my jammies by now, watching re-runs of Scrubs on NBC (the ABC seasons are trash — don’t @ me). Unfortunately, it was this dickass manager’s birthday today and he’d decided to take us all out for drinks.


I woulda been fine if he’d just left me the fuck alone. But no. Big ol’ birthday boy wants to ‘catch up’. Catch this you time-wasting bitchass—


“Sir?” I said, but not because I wanted to.

“Are you enjoying the party? We was wondering if you wanted to join us over there?”

I don’t know what it is about me that makes people want to sit down when I never asked them to.

“I’m good right here.”

He gulped down a third of his beer. “Alright, well what else is goin’ on? What happened to that business plan of yours?”

“It’s going wild. I got it all planned out. I just need to find some investors, y’know? Then I’m outta this town.”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck with that endeavour,” he said.

bEsT oF lUcK wItH tHaT eNdEaVoUr man fuck you AND that screwdriver you always carrying around. Why the fuck would you ALWAYS needs a screwdriver anyway?

“You know, we haven’t spoken in a while. I’ve been pretty busy with the new baby and all. What’s new with you?”

I took a sip of my drink. “Well I met this girl.”

He raised an eyebrow, and then said the creepiest shit I ever heard outta 55 year old man.

“Yeah? You hittin’ it?”

“Yeah yeah she’s real cute, check it out,” I said, pulling out my phone. I didn’t have her nudes but he didn’t need to know that.

“I can’t show you the good stuff because that would be unethical, not to mention weird, but this here’s how she looks.”

Have you ever seen a man’s face melt? My dude, this guy’s eyebrows straight-up folded inwards. He looked so confused I thought he was my ex-girlfriend.

“Goddamn it you alright?”

He cleared his throat and straightened himself. “What’s her name?”

“Diane,” I said. “She’s really sweet looking. And she may be a cougar but she a feisty cat.”

“Diane Williams?”

I backed up in my chair a little. “Yeah that’s the one. How’d you know?”

He chugged the rest of his beer. “She’s my… My brother’s wife… I don’t…”

I froze, man. I ain’t know she was married.

“You two a thing?” he said, nauseous. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I’ll be real with you, I felt weird. On one hand, I just gave this dude some fucked up news. On the other hand, he wasn’t sitting next to me no more. 🤷‍♂️

After maybe fifteen minutes I decided to go check on the big guy anyway. I was feeling generous. Plus I wanted to take a video in case he was cryin’ or somethin’.

I walked into the bathroom and he’s leaning against one of the sinks facing the mirror. His head was hung low.

“Hey man,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I’m not sure—“

He raised his right hand and grabbed my goddamn skull. “Fuck you,” he said, smashing my face against the sink.

I was on the floor, delirious and in agony. This motherfucker has just broken my nose, but he was twice my size. I didn’t stand a chance.

“I’m really so—“

He kicked me in the stomach, and I started coughing blood out onto the tiled floor. Next thing I knew, I was curled up against the entrance wall, and my left eye felt empty — but like it was on fire.

He pulled out a cellphone. “Diane?” he said.

I knew I only had seconds to live, and as each second went by, it all made sense to me.

“He’s not home? Slip into something sexy. I’m coming for you,” he said, washing the blood off his screwdriver and into the sink.

So that’s why.


She was a strange little world to crash land on. The skies were dark green, with a dash of vermillion between the darkened clouds.

I always thought of her as a mentor. Someone to look up to, confide in and never dare disappoint. It hurt too much to see her frown.

I remember watching the clouds with her. Apart from the muted sun rays, they were the only spectacular part of the sky.

The stars never came out on this world, even at night.

She taught me how to make friends, make love and make do. Only one of those skills has been beneficial so far.

I told her I’d rather burn out than fade away. Not because I do, but because it’s an interesting conversation to have.

She said I wouldn’t die young because I was like an apprentice to her, and that the clouds blocking the sun ensured her pupils die late.

It was dumb. But I laughed. And then I cried into her elbow while she caressed my face in her arms. Her hairless head shone even in the dim evening light.

It’s hard to lose someone, but I think it’s harder to know it’s going to happen before they’re even gone.

I guess I’ll just have to make do.

I broke away from her and stood up to look at her, almost blaming her for fading away. I wasn’t just angry — I was outraged.

I wanted to kill her right then. At least it would have been me rather than a soulless mass of rogue cells inside her. I wanted to keep her. But I couldn’t. And maybe it’s better that way.

Because as the sun set for the night and she took her last breath, for the first time in years the clouds parted and the stars came out to claim her.

Cherry Wine

How do you let go of someone you once loved? Someone you thought was your person, always would be and always was. Perhaps you still love them, it’s hard to define. Can you really love someone, masking your dread with wine? How do people change so much over a short course of time? And the longer you tolerate it, the slower the clock chimes. They begin to lose respect only after they’ve won your trust. Was it all fuelled by juvenile lust?

The undefined roles of intertwined souls, burns your lungs all the way from their bowl. The effort, the amount of time wasted in pain. The fights, the lonely hour-long walks in the rain. The disagreements, drunk, left alone at the bar. The insecurity, the sulking in a stranger’s car. The love, or your addiction to the abuse.

Perhaps it was all a ruse.

Reaching home to an empty bed and messed up sheets. Delirious, the floor calls to you, and begs you to sleep. Waking up to the same dark, empty room. No one knows nor cares what they’ve done to you. You’ve kept it to yourself for so long, you feel embarrassed. “Why do you put up with this shit?” but no one answers. In your fear of being alone, you reach out to them. You apologise, and the cycle starts again. You can’t break out when fear holds you back. You begin to prepare an attack.

Rise, fall, rise again. You’re willing to love, but you can’t keep pretending. And though this ‘cul-de-sac’ is a two-way street, you limp across alone, broken and beat. You’ve never known a love that matches your own, as you look back at the empty call logs on your phone.

You want someone to love you, someone to give it all. Someone to hold you, but not against the wall. Someone on this unsteady ship to keep you on deck, but not necessarily with their hands around your neck. Someone who knows the signals, when to stop, when to go. Because it’s not really abuse if you don’t say ‘no’. Someone to catch you when you’re about to fall. Who’ll let you learn to fly, training wings and all. Who understands your chaos, but orders it anyway. Straight off the menu, a la carte, not buffet.

You are not one to be defeated, nor one to be broken. Not one to be swayed by a bag of their love’s tokens. You want them to care for you, understand how you feel. Not just feign love between the sheets and not at meals. Having their tongue explore your mouth, your inability to speak. Not once, not twice, but three times this week. Despite your protests, they don’t seem to listen. The skin along your  left cheek begins to glisten.

They used to take your breath away, but now they leave you breathless – choking on your tears, damaged and defenceless. You pick yourself up off the cold, hard floor. Dust yourself off and lock the door. You shower, change, get ready for bed. Tuck yourself in, rest your head. You close your eyes and imagine a life without them. No more crying alone at 3am. The lights go out, you’ve burnt out the fuses. No amount of love or wine can mask these bruises.

The Rattling 

Is it strange that I can’t fall asleep? Two or three hours a night and then a day I don’t want to see. Is it strange that the sound of a baby’s rattle reminds me of machine guns? Or that spirits in my head laugh at my words when I speak? That I hear music in my head when I’m alone in my room and that it’s always at its peak?

Is it normal that I don’t feel like talking to all the people I meet? The things they say seem irrelevant and discussions seem weak. I find it hard to believe that everyone else is fine. They probably know how to cope. Energy in their veins, every dialogue, every line. What will it take to break from this? This isn’t how I used to be. There used to be a time when kisses were stolen and love was free. 

I wish I could find a way to turn back the time. To when I was younger, maybe eight or nine. When things were good and my grades were fine and it was easy to get some sleep at night. Sure, no one liked me and my hair was weird. I dressed funny and I couldn’t grow a beard. My accent was strange and I didn’t know the language. But I persevered and learned until I could understand it. 

It all seemed so bright – the future and its mystery. And so even though my face was dark and blistery, I felt like I was in the right place, somehow it made sense. Each word heartfelt, each step, each pace. 

They say you shouldn’t approach a lion if you aren’t one yourself. But what am I to do if I was born a gazelle? Do I sit in the shadows and wait for them to hunt me? Or step into the sun and run wild, run free?

Do I set down my ego, like a broken shield and sword? Take off my armour and climb aboard. Retreating from battle, never to see it again, and sit alone in my room with a pen for a friend. 

At what point do comets lose momentum and die? Stop roaring through asteroids in the minds of our skies? Turning cold at the thought of a never ending pursuit, a lonely course through a desolate route?

The roses begin to wither away, between the pages of our books while our thoughts are at play. Forgotten, dried and drained of all colour. When all it really needed was the love of another. But a dried out flower is a thing of beauty. It’s what we’ve been taught, you cannot refute me. What is love without loss? Strenth without rust? Peace without chaos and dawn without dusk? 

A broken man is a symbol of construction. Perhaps a better man shall begin to rupture through the rough exterior of the hardened concrete.

All that’s left to do is leap.

Dear Keyboard

​I haven’t been able to write for a while now – and I’m unsure why. Perhaps the reason I used to write before was to waltz myself away from my thoughts – or perhaps right into them. I don’t feel as conflicted anymore. I don’t feel as hollow. Was it to fill the gaping void in my soul that I wrote? Was it all just a fling I had with my keyboard when my emotions abandoned me? Do I really not care enough for writing anymore to have the patience to open up my laptop and type this out? I tap away at the touchscreen keyboard on my phone, trying to make sense of what it was about writing that made me feel so complete. Or rather, distracted me from my incompleteness. 

No matter how many times I convince myself of my love for writing, I cannot convince myself to write. It is but at 3am that I find the time and calmness to collect my thoughts and regurgitate them into a virtual notebook on this digital screen. 

Do I write to prove a point? Maybe it’s to show myself that I do feel. That emotions do exist in me. Maybe I do it to feel human. Because what are human beings if not accurately wired chemical reactions held together by sleepless musings? If writing is what makes me human, then what do I become without it? Do I write to keep my dull, animal self at bay? And if so, which one is the real me? The one who hides behind his temporary fix of writing a few paragraphs? Or the one who accepts who he is and tries, in vain, to face it. 

Maybe I’m just a junkie, addicted to the sound of my clattering keyboard and hooked to the pain-numbing characteristic held by each word I type. Maybe I can’t let go of writing, despite my inadequacies, for the same reasons people savour the last few drags on a cigarette. Maybe I just love the rush in my veins. Or maybe I’m just a coward who can’t face his withdrawal symptoms, unwilling to move past his fear of being hollow. 

Maybe that’s why we all write. To fill ourselves with purpose. Maybe we all feel the need to pour our musings into a flat bucket made of paper. Because the world is a harsh place and sometimes, people just don’t understand.

But you’ve always been there for me, my trusty keyboard. You listen, without asking questions. You let me push your buttons. And no matter how long I leave you alone for, you always take me back with open arms. 

You let me Esc to an Alt world and give me a sense of Ctrl. You Enter my mind, Shift my perspective and Delete my misery. They say dogs are man’s best friend, but us writers have our keyboards to be our bitches.

To my sole companion in my past loneliness and internal desolation – my keyboard. 

Thank you.


It is the future.

Robots roam about programmed to satisfy our every need. They bring us energy and entertainment.  We don’t need to work because everything is done by the robots.  Assault turrets guard the country borders. Packages are delivered by messenger bots. Public transportation is controlled by carrier robots. Everything is run by them. They never tire. They never falter. Solar powered as they are, we do not need to feed them.

They have no mind to think. One robot for each function and they do not stray from their function. They cannot. Their only means of entertainment and livelihood is serving us. Or so we believe. No one works. No one earns money. No one spends money.

Everyone just lives.

The robots have some form of currency which we regulate, though we’re not sure why they need it. We live with together with the robots. Our families–both ours and theirs–live together in cities they have built for us. The way they build their young is also remarkable and it’s fascinating to watch a baby robot build itself as it grows older. They build everything for us and it’s brilliant the way they do it. They even build the rockets which send us to outer-space. We are, in a way, lucky that they don’t just leave us on this planet, stranded.

Not that they could.

We still do not fully understand them, but they do as they’re told and that’s all that they really need to do so no one’s really that bothered. Some of the more defective robots sometimes try to make us understand them, as if they wanted to communicate, but it doesn’t really work that well.

But who invented these robots? How are they so remarkably perfect? How were they built?

No one really knows. Most of us were just born into a world where they already existed, but our extensive database tells us that they have their own beliefs and theories about their origin. We’re not exactly sure what these theories are, but from what we do know, they are rather fantastical.

We don’t know much about them, but it’s handy having them around and being able to live in such peace. Never before has there been such a period of communal harmony as this one.

Though they are technically robots, we call them ‘humans’ and they call us ‘computers’.

Not sure why.

//Wrote this last year for a competition by MTTN called WriCon.

Mind Map

I close my eyes but consciousness won’t evade me. I lay in bed – feet twitching, ears itching and sleep ditching. Thought reels switch in and out of my mind’s projector. I do dream, but awake in my thoughts. They aren’t disturbing, but they keep me from fading. The puppet strings that link my eyelids to my mind’s eye are torn and I can no longer silence my brain’s spokesperson.

Whatever parts that remain of my heart have rearranged themselves into a shrunken callus of organic machinery, transporting blank emotions to my fingertips which bleed onto this empty piece of paper. The visions are like the view seen outside the window of a fast-moving train: blurry, incomprehensible, yet somewhat beautiful. But unlike the rhythmic sounds of a train, they do not lull me to sleep.

The only light in my bedroom originates from my phone screen, burning into my retinas. I realized my inability to sleep easy is derived from a lack of self-esteem, disappointment and horror. I’m incapable of achieving anything new, disappointed how things haven’t turned out as well as I’d hoped and I’m horrified by the person inside me, moving my limbs and saying words I’d never meant to speak.

I can’t sleep because I’m too afraid to let myself go to this soul-intruder. He roams the city in my mind, constructing fascinating structures while burning the old, cherished ones where I had lived. So I stay awake for as long as I can, keeping first watch of my city’s borders.

Perhaps this is what growing up is about. Learning to live in your new buildings, settling in your unused bed and coming to terms with the fact that living on the 25th floor with a broken lift is how life is going to be. And the faster you learn to accept the intruder as one of your own citizens, the sooner you’ll stop being haunted by yourself.