We’re back. Pitches?

Lef suddenly stopped typing, an overwhelming feeling of sadness taking over him. He thought of all those hours he’d idly spent in bed, no stupid print deadlines, no stupid paper distribution cutting his sleep short. He thought of all that nutritious cooking he’d have to kiss goodbye, replacing it with packed lunches and canned energy drinks. He thought of the Met Gala. “Seriously Katy Perry what was going on with that head piece. Veils are cool and all but those side mirrors and bed springs that were glued on your head were questionable at best.” He eye-rolled but there was no one there to see it.

Lef reigned his easily distracted brain in and tried focusing on that overwhelming feeling of sadness. He tried not to smile as he revelled in self-pity in fear of ruining the sadness. Not many things gave him pleasure like a good dose of drama did.

He pressed and held backspace. He couldn’t start his editorial with “Yay!”. “I’m not Drew Barrymore,” he thought. Indeed he was going for something between Liza Minnelli and Jane Fonda.

He typed “Sup” followed by “cunts”. Again he stopped, lips pursed tight forming a grimace of sassy indigestion. “Now that’s really wrong”, he thought. “I sound Australian. Not sure what kind of Australian but definitely not the cool kind you wanna be friends with.”

He stopped. Was there really a point in this exercise of self-indulgence? Does anyone ever even read editorials? What is an editorial? Is he trying too hard? How many questions can he ask consecutively before it gets too much? Ten? Twenty?

“Fuck it,” he thought and concluded that whoever it is that picks up the paper anyway would have to do without an editorial.

It’s not like they don’t know what’s in the paper. Some news, some nudes, some horoscopes, the usual. He was going to go home early.