Welcome to Acerbia; population: π
This is the archive of the many and fabulous adventures of . Like a hard-bitten son of Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius taught to write by William S. Burroughs; continually reincarnated, debated over by intellectuals and literati at cocktail parties the author can't get invited to, the target of scorn and ire from women everywhere, frequently mistaken for a former member of the Warsaw pact, named after the Italian explorer Giuseppe Acerbi, slowly rewriting the Book of Cataclysm, this is postmodern fiction at its most playful and creative.
Septumatic
I was sitting at my desk, sniffling away and reading Mil because I like to sneer and think "ha, you've got it easy pal!" to myself when one of our media buyers passed my desk and picked a tissue out of the box on my desk.
"Can I borrow a tissue?" he asks, as if I'm in the habit of demanding they be returned after use.
"Watch this," he says "I'm about to blow £50 out of my nose"
You've got to love the advertising industry.