John writes
Alright.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm doing this.
Why am I sitting here, in this miserable apartment that reeks of moldy walls and George's cheap cologne, telling complete strangers about our trivial daily lives?
George—this idiot I share living space with for reasons that sometimes escape my understanding—convinced me this would be "fun."
He said, verbatim:
"John, my dear friend, people love this sort of thing these days. We'll publish it, some will read it, and maybe—just maybe—we'll make a few pounds."
Pounds.
That magic word is the only reason I agreed.
Don't expect anything valuable from this. We're not writers. We're not even interesting people, if I'm being honest. Just two idiots trying to make ends meet.
But apparently, people these days enjoy prying into strangers' privacy. They love reading trivialities—the miserable, ordinary lives of people they don't know. Maybe it makes them feel their own lives are slightly better. Who knows?
I don't know you.
I probably won't like you if I meet you.
But I do covet your "views," your "reads," or whatever term George uses for this nonsense.
I'm John.
And joining me on this miserable journey is someone I'll let introduce himself—because he won't stop complaining if I don't.
George writes
Hello, hello! ♥
George here!
First, allow me to apologize for my dear friend John. He's… how do I put this gently? He sounds harsh—but trust me, deep down… well, he's harsh there too... Still, he's my friend, and I love him anyway.
Now, since John has successfully made this introduction sound like a funeral, allow me to add a little life to it.
First, to all the beautiful ladies who might be reading this—and I know you're out there, because God wouldn't be that cruel—welcome. Especially to you!
Yes, we're poor.
Yes, we live in an apartment where Mrs. Margaret—our elderly landlady, charming in her own way—hunts us down every week for rent.
And yes, John is miserable most of the time.
But isn't this real life? Isn't that what makes it exciting?
Adventures. Problems. Attempts to escape rent.
Our cat, Nesli—who, by the way, is the most beautiful creature in this apartment, myself included, and that says a lot.
John thinks people read this out of morbid curiosity.
I think you're reading because you're looking for something real. Something genuine.
And that's exactly what we'll provide.
We're not heroes. We're not rich. John is stingy to the point of counting rice grains before cooking them, and I spend the last of my money on decent cologne because I refuse to leave the house smelling like the despair that fills this place.
But we have each other—though John would say, "We have nothing, and you're a burden on me."
We have Nesli.
And we have stories.
Stories that might make you laugh. Or at least make you grateful your life isn't this chaotic.
So welcome to our small, chaotic world.
John will complain.
I'll have a romantic date almost every night (completely innocent, I assure you).
Nesli will do cute cat things.
And Mrs. Margaret will hunt us down.
You'll get to know us better with each chapter.
You'll hate John, then love him.
You'll love me—and, well… you'll probably keep loving me.
And I promise you, unlike John, this will be fun.
Or at least… entertaining in a catastrophic way.
—George ♡
P.S. If you're a beautiful girl reading this, I'm
single, available, and interested. John will say this is unprofessional, but when were we ever professional anyway?
John writes again
See?
This is what I deal with every day.
And George keep Nesli away from the ink before—
**There is a clear ink on the page**
Too late...
George
Nesli! Sweetheart, no—no…
John, don't look at her like that. It was an accident!
John
Are we done now?
To be continued… if we survive Mrs. Margaret this week.