I have about as much artistic talent as a cluster of colour-blind hedgehogs in a bag.

As soon as I stepped onto the train, I knew why Shifters and Weres shunned the contraptions like E.coli avoided antibacterial agents on a petri dish. It smelled. Badly. A putrid mix of old man, sweaty socks, and cigarettes. My nose hairs didn't shrivel; they curled into the fetal position before they withered and died, leaving my nasal passage a dry, barren wasteland no longer capable of being harmed by the olfactory assault.

I meant to text quickly, but it took five attempts to type with my thumbs. Ever since the time I accidently told Wick I'd stopped for cocaine instead of coffee and when Mel, my best friend, asked me to get a penis instead of a penis I lost my faith in technology and proofread all my messages

Ever notice "demon" in the word pandemonium?