Ad-Rock screams into my ears, penetrating my muscles, compelling me to play the notes with precision. Kunal's on the drums, locked in a trance that makes his hands a blur. The energy radiating from the giant speaker next to me threatens to knock me off my feet.
“You’re gonna enjoy it, I’m sure. It’s so Stephen King-ish,” he said to me during one of our summer chitchats. The book fell into oblivion then, mostly because we were too busy making out.
“Where the money at?” The ringleader walks around the back of the couch, letting the barrel of the gun drag across the tops of the cushions and brush against our shoulders. The cold steel scares the shit out of me.
I plop down on the carpet as the familiar Star Wars opening crawl takes over the TV screen, filling me in on events that occurred a long, long time ago. 4000 years before Episode I. Whoa. That was unexpected. That must be the “old” in Old Republic.
Mark gazes upon that tight body of yours: perfect curves and insanely long legs. Your eyes are a cheeky promise nested behind black-framed glasses. You even have a sexy little birthmark on your chin, which gives you the look of an adult film actress.
Football Manager has become my reality. I’ll easily spend seven or eight hours playing some days. I haven’t told many people I play Football Manager because, well, I'm a woman.