In a rare moment, I answered my phone:
he: “What are you doing?”
me: “I just got out of the shower.”
he: “Are you naked?”
me: “Pretty much.”
he: “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
me: “Eeeek!”
It’s not what you think — or maybe it is. Within 20 minutes Jonno was in my kitchen molesting my coffeemaker (“Can I drink out of the Hustler mug?!”) and on my couch needing blankets and pillows and wifi and publishing Fleshbot and playing horrible bad rock music set to a “support our troops gangbang” sent to us via tips@fleshbot (“America, fuck yeah! Terrorists can lick my balls! America, fuck yeah!”). My house is now Fleshbot ground zero for the weekend. Send help!
