The Bad Immigrant
Amir of Skid Row
Humble Beginnings
To say that Amir comes from a modest background is to put it mildly. Amir lives in a developing country that, well… who the fuck are we kidding? It is not really developing. If anything, what was once considered by many the country's lowest point in history is now referred to as its Golden Age.
High on Hopium
Nationalists love to think that hitting rock bottom means that the only way left is back to the top, but not Amir. He is too cynical to believe what some hopium-dosed clowns have to say about the bottomless pit he knows the motherland to be.
Make it Stop
Where he came from, he'd have to toil in back-breaking labor for a monthly salary equal to the price of an off-brand iPhone case in a truly developed economy.
Faced with crushing underpayment and non-existent domestic—let alone international—buying power, Amir could only fantasize about immigrating elsewhere.
It is a vicious cycle that breaks you before you get to break the cycle.
Cooked Not Juiced
Amir was jacked. He decompressed at the gym without repercussions as he daydreamed about making it big.
Amir's bottled and pent-up aggression makes lifting the heaviest dumbbell set and curl bar plates look like a walk in the park. This ungodly display of strength was technically the only good that came out of living in misery; it's no wonder Mexicans are so good at boxing.
Someone asked Amir what his secret was. What the curious stranger did not know, however, was that before hitting the gym, Amir clashed with his manager after he'd been falsely accused of stealing the pantry's teakettle and was made to sign an agreement in which its cost was to be deducted from his salary over next three months.
Not Without a Price
Amir's life was about to be turned on its head when he met a young and beautiful woman twice his old man's age on Facebook. It happened when the social media rush got people adding strangers on the Internet on the off-chance of exchanging post hearts.
Not The Time for Semantics
Amir echoed one of the love story cliches he'd found particularly applicable: "Age is just a number."
Yeah, sure. Age is just a number... a stepping stone... or some might dare say a way out of the fucking slums.
For now, "a number" is just fine.
Gramma Ulcers
Quieter With Each Child
Stephanie is a widowed grandma to 6 beautiful grandchildren. She loves them to death, but there was an unsettling correlation that bugged her day and night:
The nearer she got to the end of her shelf life, the more branches the family tree had, and also, unexpectedly, the lonelier she got—what good is an offspring's company if they watched reels and played Roblox all day, all night?
Who Dat Boy?
Gramma Steph thought her days of falling in love were well behind her, but it is one thing to resist a vice that was never on the table and another to walk away after teetering at the brink of it.
A chime sounded, "Amir added you as a friend. " That was all it took for Gramma to feel the feels. "There's no need to eliminate certain possibilities," she understandably told herself.
Sinful Photo Gallery Perusing
Grannie Steph overdid it a little bit when she bit her underlip as she flipped through the photos of this brown Hercules-looking gigachad, resulting in a painfully persistent sore, the ulcer of love. It hurt, but it was the good kind of pain if you know what I'm saying.
Life-Changing Prospect
It's almost too good to be true. A young paramour and a potential full-time caregiver who is there to tend to Gramma Steph's every need. This must be the result of all the good karma she farmed over the years returned to her in one highly concentrated brown masculine dose.
The Time for Semantics
"Love is blind" is a quote Gramma Steph thought she would see Hades before finding relatable.
She's more open-minded now, for why else would this handsome young stud wanna be with an old-timer like herself? What else could it be if not her 401 (k) or the clear pathway to immigration and stability?
Nah, nothing like that: love is truly visually impaired.