It’s called Tim Whitby. I don’t know where it came from but after three hours of attempting to flush it down the toilet after I squashed it with my size 14 trainers, it decided it wasn’t dead and attempted to disco dance with me. Fortunately, the window was open so I chucked it out to enjoy a four story faceplant. True story.
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Futurist, Husband, Lover of Small Animals. I'm the quintessential jaded New Yorker with a mind for all things fashion. My articles are the type you'd expect from the popular girl at school; mean spirited and ready to pour some pigs blood on your homemade prom dress.
