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One job. You cant fuck this up. Not even me. It was a simple job for a simple man. Transport a document from A to B. That was it. No catches. Worth only $19 million mind you, but I was trying my hardest not to think about that. As far as I was concerned, all I had to do was escort a document a few thousand miles across the world. Usually, you would use a service like DHL, but this was worth too much to let those certified muppets anywhere near it. Anyhow, the glove fit as well as OJs or about as well as the extremely small promotional condoms ordered from China for the African market, oops, a few thousand wasted units along with a few thousand unplanned babies (sorry god). Forgetful, unpunctual, disorganised, ADHD positive individual who resides in the outer galaxies. You’re hired.

My parents had fucking stitched me up. How could they be so selfish, lose their money on unlucky business decisions(airplanes, farms, cotton, tyres, ice-pops, metal gating) and force me to move back to go to a normal state school 2000 miles away in fucking England? At least I knew where I stood in the family chain: first from the bottom. I was a little disheartened but mainly daunted to see what urinal water tasted like. The extremely privileged chauffeur-driven life of international school kid id taken for granted for so long had suddenly vanished. This fucking sucked. Maybe I could just blend into the background.

How to avoid paying bribes when dealing with police officers in Tanzania.

The inevitable result of repeated sub-par decisions had stockpiled like a blocked sewage pipe ready to burst a ginormous shower of turd so majestically over 5 years of University fees. Fuck all to show my parents for their investment in my future. One hundred thousand pounds spunked up the royal wall. They say an Indian invented the number zero, now I understood why.