I bite my nails . . . And Go!
Home-town-time, oh yeah! Okay, where do I begin . . . I'm going to go with the name, because its long enough to give me time to think about what else I could possibly say that would make it any different to any other "home town", while I'm typing it - you guessed it . . . Multi-tasking. Plettenberg Bay, what? Exactly! To narrow down this little town on a map, you'd have to look really closely at a map of the Western Cape (in South Africa) and graually run your finger along the coast line heading east until you accidently skim over it, back track a few times and eventually get frustrated and give up completely while convincing yourself I'm fucking with your head. Unless you live in South Africa, thereby making that previous sentence - the ridiculously long one - NOT FOR YOU! Moving on . . .
Plettenberg Bay was still considered a village when I moved down to the coast with my family, 20 odd years ago, A FUCKING VILLAGE! Imagine that . . . (Its safe to use your imagination here, I condone it.) The thing is, however, when you're 6 years old that means nothing to you, especially if you've just come from another small town - in this case its a small town on the South African side of the border to Lesotho, near its capital Maseru, called Ladybrand. Wow, super town name drop there. You should know at least one of those places . . . Come on, Lesotho is a real place, I'm not bullshitting! Some even call it a kingdom, others think its just a gaping hole in the middle of South Africa, but really its just another fucking country . . . No, I'm kidding, you most likely haven't heard of Ladybrand. No bother, its dead to us now anyway, so no use lingering . . . where was I . . . Oh yes, nothing special about small towns, when you're that little, everything is big. My sister (funny story,) used to think that whenever we left Plett (Okay, 'Plett' is officially accepted as an adequate short name to the town with a long name like Plettenberg Bay. No really, look it up,) DAMN IT! Filling you in on what I'm talking about is so annoying. I hate brackets. . . Yeah so, whenever we left Plett my sister was convinced we were leaving South Africa as well, and it took a lot to convince her otherwise. She just couldn't seem to wrap her little head around it. Then again, she was 3 years old, I think.
Plett was great growing up in, kids could ride their bikes in the streets, people left their houses open - sort of - during the day. It was 'the South African dream', so to speak. Sandy beaches, sunny days, nature reserves, forrests, other 'small town' folk . . . It was great. Nothing could be better. Of course this is the reality of a child from 6(y.o.) upwards. Now days all the same things are there, and much more, but no longer could you safely ride your bikes in the streets in fear of Sea Rescue members running you down in their oversized four-by-fours as they scream around bends like they're Aqaumen in Batmobiles. Nor leave your houses open with previously segregated people prepared to hide in your trash - and I don't mean in the big black bins outside your property, I mean in the little metallic ones located under the sink in your kitchen. Street kids are fucking ninjas these days, they really don't make them like they used to. Whatever happened to sniffing glue like the good old days? No, no they smoke tik or stab people for being in the house they're robbing. I blame FW de Klerk, incompetant bastard, and Nelson Mandela. But thats for another day.
Plett was cool . . . If you went to school there, that is. (I'm not sure if I really believe what I'm saying there. Regardless,) I found it painfully difficult to connect with people in the town, because I went to school in a totally different town altogether, 30 kms heading west, called Knysna. I'm going to go into too much detail about the town, just imagine an airline toilet seat, but with a lagoon in the middle and two islands floating like terds. Yeah, I'm all for neighbouring town rivalry. So what, you wanna fight about it? Anyway, so I took the bus to school every morning for 12 years. 12 fucking years. I want you to imagine I sound like Archy from the movie, Rocknrolla, when I say that. And of course, the return trip 30 kms back every afternoon. For 12 fucking- . . . No, kidding. The real problem was the fact that all my school mates then lived 30kms away, which made afternoons back in Plett fairly lonely (which is probably why I picked on my younger brother so much.) And it was only until the last 2 years, of those 12, that I really started to make friends, my own age, back in Plett. And I'm guessing because we all had one thing in common . . . Wreckless teenage drinking and partying in the local night club called the Cave. You should have seen this place, it literally looked like a cave, but its the meer fact that everyone behaved like neanderthals in there that made the name so appropriate. Might I add, I started going there when I was 15 or so, and it was there that I met my pack of closest friends, to this day still. And that says a lot more than what you may be thinking . . . We're good people. Just bad teenagers.
I've decided. My next post will focus on the wreckless teenage pack I brought up previously. I'm not going to go into my school career just yet, just some of the fucked up extra-mural activities we got up to. I hope I've given at least some insight into where I am, who I'm with and where I come from, so far. More will come with plenty of events ranging from the Rocky Horror Picture Show to getting arrested for driving without my lights on. Its going to be fun, I promise, no I don't promise, promise is just a word these days . . . I reckon? Yeah, I reckon. Ooh . . . Reckon . . . Look at that word for a moment. Its so cool. Reck-on. Ha. Awesome.
Done. (You know what, I'm going to go ahead and tell you not to pay much attention to that previous paragraph. That is all.)
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Robyn, Thor and a Marsupial.
And... Go?
Day 3, and I'm once again on the computer, listening to cat vs dog outside my window. Wow, cats are pussies, they scream like creepy plants from Harry Potter whenever a more dimwitted animal approaches them. So I said I was going to talk about my girlfriend today, and so I will. For introduction's sake, her name is Robyn, lets not forget that. Robyn has wild, totally and utterly wild, dark brown hair and boobs that officially ended the broadcasting of baywatch reruns on many channels worldwide. And of course a striking forehead as mentioned in my previous post, after it replicated itself upon my daughter's brow. What I also managed to mention was that a story was attatched to that particular feature. I didn't forget, but before I remember I'm going to hold that thought and have you wait a little bit longer.
Back to the girlfriend, yes we're unmarried, that much should be clear by now. And yes its even clearer that we had a child before wedlock. I love how lock has crept its way into marraige terminology. Men did invent language after all, there's no doubt in my mind. Marraige is obviously a hot topic in the little loft apartment and it's tennant's lives, and in the two years we've dated its had us come close to Celebrity Deathmatch style friction minus the celebrity status, of course. And the whole clay putty vibe . . . And the commentary . . . If only though, they'd make the situation a whole lot better. You know how often I wish there was someone who knew exactly what we were fighting about, and kept us informed throughout the fued, because sometimes it feels like we're arguing like we're married about not being married, while not being married, because we're not married. So whats the point, I ask? There is a point and my girlfriend knows it almost too well. I sometimes question her about whether she knows why people get married in the first place and why this tradition means so much and why it is so neccessary and where it actually originated. Her response is the Bible, in more words, even though all one has to do is mention the word Bible and we know exactly where they are coming from. I personally don't understand it completely, but who am I to question a tradition as old as the Bible itself, or older, doesn't matter. Everyone's doing it. Having said all that I am prepared to get married, its just, the last thing I want is a shotgun wedding because we've gone and had a child so soon.
Let it be known, Ella, my daughter, was not at all planned. Robyn and I had only been dating nine months, ironically, before the fateful coincidence of anti-biotics counteracting the purpose of contraception. A two week window was all Ella needed to shoot on out of my penis and soar past weakened defenses until burrowing into a fully fertile egg, despite all possible odds. Strong willed, eh? If she is anything like that growing up I'll have my hands full. When she is all grown up, however, it won't be as much of a problem, though I may have to pity the poor lad that annexes her surname. I know she has a bit of her mother in her already, because she's the headstrong one between the two of us.
And a lovely play of words has triggered the forehead story I've been prompting . . . Headstrong doesn't begin to describe the lethality of one of her headbutts. Trust me, I've been on the recieving end of one these blows, and it hurts, damn does it hurt. It's foce is what I imagine Thor's hammer, Mjolnir, would resemble when the Thunder guy slams it into your cranium. It leaves a shiner not much smaller than Asgard itself, too. Speaking of Thor, I underwent a haircutting experience I am not too familiar with when I traded my Samson-like hair for a dry pillow at night, resulting in me looking a little more Captain America-like. Beneath the blue swimming cap with a large capital A and Mercury wings, that is. Listen to me, I'm all over the place like a marsupial on a typewriter, darting from one topic to the next. To clear up the haircut story, I sweat like a pig plugged into a geyser, its horrible. Fortunately though, I don't have such bad body odour. I suppose I sweat so much that all possible toxins are excreted in the first five litres, leaving me more like a portable water filter with salt reserves, mmmmm . . .
Anyway, lets go back . . . Ah, yes, my girlfriend, who I fondly call Bubby, derived from Bobby. We met out one night just over two years ago in our small home town's only dingy bar (the one other bar I'd consider an embarrassing attempt at a cigar lounge,) she recognised my friend, who recognised her, which meant nothing to me because I had never met her before, despite her younger brother and my younger sister being childhood friends, which is irrelevant. It was mutual attraction at first sight, between myself and Robyn that is, my friend thought he was the one but that came to an awkward conclusion several months later. Anyway . . . There it was, I probably saw her on two or three occasions over the next few days which mostly involved me driving her and her friends around and abandoning them in strange, unwanted siuations. Ok, at this point I didn't know there was a mutual attraction, I was still grasping at straws hoping one had our name on it. What happened next was she left our home town to her other home town 500kms away, without either of us knowing what the one thought or felt about the other. It was time to get serious. I would systematically search out every Robyn with her surname, until I eventually found her. Turns out there was only one, I was spelling it wrong each of the first 100 times. Which is odd because I think there's atleast 47 other Robert Thompsons in the world. I then made the 500 km trip to reunite with her and hopefully with any luck manage to drag her back home so we can turn a mutual attraction into something that made a little more sense. Which is exactly what I did. I used a friends 25th birthday as the platform to reacquainting ourselves and propose for her to come stay with me in our little home town. Of course, we had to get through the first holding of hands and the first kiss and the first night together with me absolutely Irished. It was a triumphant success, and my trophy, the girl, of course, because 3 days later and we were sharing my single bed in my tiny room in my folks place. Right on!
Once again I've left you short on information describing my little home town, because tomorrow's post will be all about it. So calm down, FUCK! I'm actually so incredibly over typing this post because the longer I write, the slower the computer or the internet, or both, is getting. And because it saves like every 60 fucking seconds, slowing the process down even more, its got me all worked up and in a 5 litre sweat, which is unneccesary to say te least. There will be no editing again today, be grateful that I took the time to seperate the paragraphs, because I almost didn't, you know. Lucky bastards.
Done . . . Can I go now . . .
Day 3, and I'm once again on the computer, listening to cat vs dog outside my window. Wow, cats are pussies, they scream like creepy plants from Harry Potter whenever a more dimwitted animal approaches them. So I said I was going to talk about my girlfriend today, and so I will. For introduction's sake, her name is Robyn, lets not forget that. Robyn has wild, totally and utterly wild, dark brown hair and boobs that officially ended the broadcasting of baywatch reruns on many channels worldwide. And of course a striking forehead as mentioned in my previous post, after it replicated itself upon my daughter's brow. What I also managed to mention was that a story was attatched to that particular feature. I didn't forget, but before I remember I'm going to hold that thought and have you wait a little bit longer.
Back to the girlfriend, yes we're unmarried, that much should be clear by now. And yes its even clearer that we had a child before wedlock. I love how lock has crept its way into marraige terminology. Men did invent language after all, there's no doubt in my mind. Marraige is obviously a hot topic in the little loft apartment and it's tennant's lives, and in the two years we've dated its had us come close to Celebrity Deathmatch style friction minus the celebrity status, of course. And the whole clay putty vibe . . . And the commentary . . . If only though, they'd make the situation a whole lot better. You know how often I wish there was someone who knew exactly what we were fighting about, and kept us informed throughout the fued, because sometimes it feels like we're arguing like we're married about not being married, while not being married, because we're not married. So whats the point, I ask? There is a point and my girlfriend knows it almost too well. I sometimes question her about whether she knows why people get married in the first place and why this tradition means so much and why it is so neccessary and where it actually originated. Her response is the Bible, in more words, even though all one has to do is mention the word Bible and we know exactly where they are coming from. I personally don't understand it completely, but who am I to question a tradition as old as the Bible itself, or older, doesn't matter. Everyone's doing it. Having said all that I am prepared to get married, its just, the last thing I want is a shotgun wedding because we've gone and had a child so soon.
Let it be known, Ella, my daughter, was not at all planned. Robyn and I had only been dating nine months, ironically, before the fateful coincidence of anti-biotics counteracting the purpose of contraception. A two week window was all Ella needed to shoot on out of my penis and soar past weakened defenses until burrowing into a fully fertile egg, despite all possible odds. Strong willed, eh? If she is anything like that growing up I'll have my hands full. When she is all grown up, however, it won't be as much of a problem, though I may have to pity the poor lad that annexes her surname. I know she has a bit of her mother in her already, because she's the headstrong one between the two of us.
And a lovely play of words has triggered the forehead story I've been prompting . . . Headstrong doesn't begin to describe the lethality of one of her headbutts. Trust me, I've been on the recieving end of one these blows, and it hurts, damn does it hurt. It's foce is what I imagine Thor's hammer, Mjolnir, would resemble when the Thunder guy slams it into your cranium. It leaves a shiner not much smaller than Asgard itself, too. Speaking of Thor, I underwent a haircutting experience I am not too familiar with when I traded my Samson-like hair for a dry pillow at night, resulting in me looking a little more Captain America-like. Beneath the blue swimming cap with a large capital A and Mercury wings, that is. Listen to me, I'm all over the place like a marsupial on a typewriter, darting from one topic to the next. To clear up the haircut story, I sweat like a pig plugged into a geyser, its horrible. Fortunately though, I don't have such bad body odour. I suppose I sweat so much that all possible toxins are excreted in the first five litres, leaving me more like a portable water filter with salt reserves, mmmmm . . .
Anyway, lets go back . . . Ah, yes, my girlfriend, who I fondly call Bubby, derived from Bobby. We met out one night just over two years ago in our small home town's only dingy bar (the one other bar I'd consider an embarrassing attempt at a cigar lounge,) she recognised my friend, who recognised her, which meant nothing to me because I had never met her before, despite her younger brother and my younger sister being childhood friends, which is irrelevant. It was mutual attraction at first sight, between myself and Robyn that is, my friend thought he was the one but that came to an awkward conclusion several months later. Anyway . . . There it was, I probably saw her on two or three occasions over the next few days which mostly involved me driving her and her friends around and abandoning them in strange, unwanted siuations. Ok, at this point I didn't know there was a mutual attraction, I was still grasping at straws hoping one had our name on it. What happened next was she left our home town to her other home town 500kms away, without either of us knowing what the one thought or felt about the other. It was time to get serious. I would systematically search out every Robyn with her surname, until I eventually found her. Turns out there was only one, I was spelling it wrong each of the first 100 times. Which is odd because I think there's atleast 47 other Robert Thompsons in the world. I then made the 500 km trip to reunite with her and hopefully with any luck manage to drag her back home so we can turn a mutual attraction into something that made a little more sense. Which is exactly what I did. I used a friends 25th birthday as the platform to reacquainting ourselves and propose for her to come stay with me in our little home town. Of course, we had to get through the first holding of hands and the first kiss and the first night together with me absolutely Irished. It was a triumphant success, and my trophy, the girl, of course, because 3 days later and we were sharing my single bed in my tiny room in my folks place. Right on!
Once again I've left you short on information describing my little home town, because tomorrow's post will be all about it. So calm down, FUCK! I'm actually so incredibly over typing this post because the longer I write, the slower the computer or the internet, or both, is getting. And because it saves like every 60 fucking seconds, slowing the process down even more, its got me all worked up and in a 5 litre sweat, which is unneccesary to say te least. There will be no editing again today, be grateful that I took the time to seperate the paragraphs, because I almost didn't, you know. Lucky bastards.
Done . . . Can I go now . . .
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Aliens and Babies, (and Progress . . . I Hope.)
And... GO!
Its been less than 24hrs since my last post and the meer reason I'm navigating my indecisive fingers over the keyboard is because my girlfriend is just so encouraging. And because I've never put much effort into developing my typing skills. You may notice a slight improvement, however, from my last post as I've resorted to the more commonly used computer to post a blog, instead of the technologically advanced pain-in-the-ass I call the phone. Yes, I have internet on my phone, and its slowly killing my social skills, but the gradual deteriation is barely noticed over a short space of time. At least I think so. It's one of those things you notice when you're 55 years old and have just come out of a gruelling and unneccesary mid-life crisis only to discover, upon reflection, that it was a Blackberry that ruined your life. For now though, I'm ignoring that fact and I'm giving future Robert the benefit of the doubt.
Onto a more specific topic of discussion, and when I say discussion I mean between the voices in my head, I haven't invited you just yet. Having said that, don't be afraid to read my posts, I don't mean to intimidate anyone with my lack of external influence. See, you give someone something to write on - not about - and it ends up being completely insignificant to stray blog readers. Thats assuming this is reaching anyone. Where was I . . . ? Oh yes, the next paragraph . . .
Like I said a more specific topic, something I was told to write about, seen as I've already found something to write on. Last night I endured (and I mean it in the loosest possible way,) a 6 month old trying to digest carrot pulp for the first time. Little did we know this is a painful and heart breaking procedure, and my poor little girl was even worse off. Let me take a few lines and a moment of your time (feel free to skim over,) to introduce you to my little (naturally,) baby daughter, Ella. She's absolutely gorgeous and I'm not being bias, plenty of people say the same thing, with out me even prompting them, so I am convinced and so should you be. With denim blue eyes, a striking forehead* (this - * - means a funny story involving the word, placed directly before it, will be told in a future paragraph, if I remember to, that is,) the most wonderful gums (really they are, you should see them when she smiles,) funny monkey ears inherited from her father, and amazingly her grandfather on her mothers side, though her mothers ears are fairly ordinary. Ella was born not more than 6 months ago, a healthy, fat baby with lips as red as an inflatible doll's, and a presence I had literally never felt before. She didn't have that deformed - only parents could love - face that babies have when they tunnel their way out the baby shoot. Instead, Ella turned to the emergency escape hatch, carved open by a surgeon, and through my partners gaping abdomen, like a portal from another world, she was hoisted into our lives. I of course chose not to witness the Alien-like exit, and kept constant eye contact with my numb partner. Something Sigourney Weaver wished she had done. This particular description came from my girlfriend, which she had every right to, and not me. So for the record, I wasn't the one who refered to my daughter as a product of poor special effects. Anyway, so the next step was for the nurses to spray the new lifeling down run off with her with me in hot persuit. No, they weren't illegally adopting her, turns out the baby room (don't know the technical term,) was basically onthe opposite side of the ward. A three letter word should pull your face into a puzzled expression . . . Why? So, I eventually catch up to them, in my turquoise scrubs and shower cap shoes and find my self trying to look over the broad shouldered nurses to see whats going on with my little alien.
I know, what was supposed to be a brief description of my daughter turned into a misleading tangent and I have, as a result, strayed from my original topic. Though, come to think of it was the perfect introduction and excuse to my unexpected descripton of her birth. (Ha, I tricked you . . . Read on . . .) Since I have subsequently lost interest in what I was original writing about, I am going to briefly conclude the agonising experience that was last night. I am tired as a result of a lack of sleep, due to Ella screaming all night and was bemused, innitially, to see her gums in the shape of a smile and her sparkling denim-blue eyes glaring at me with love and appreciation, yet completely oblivious to the torture she had me endure. Which brings me to the end of my second post, because I feel I have successfully addressed the topic proposed by my girlfriend. Now before you begin to complain about reading absolutely nothing about my girlfriend other than the credit given to her for her unique description of a C-section. I have instead, craftely left you unfulfilled - yes, she's that amazing - so that you read my next post which will involve her more (actually, you'll probably find it'll be mostly about her,) so that you know the one other person in my life that shares the same tiny loft apartment.
Done. (Just so you know I was too lazy, and in a bit of a rush to read over the post, so excuse any confusing or incomprehendible grammer. I trust you'd rather read the content and not note the language. Language has, after all, evolved and so have you, so work it out.)
Its been less than 24hrs since my last post and the meer reason I'm navigating my indecisive fingers over the keyboard is because my girlfriend is just so encouraging. And because I've never put much effort into developing my typing skills. You may notice a slight improvement, however, from my last post as I've resorted to the more commonly used computer to post a blog, instead of the technologically advanced pain-in-the-ass I call the phone. Yes, I have internet on my phone, and its slowly killing my social skills, but the gradual deteriation is barely noticed over a short space of time. At least I think so. It's one of those things you notice when you're 55 years old and have just come out of a gruelling and unneccesary mid-life crisis only to discover, upon reflection, that it was a Blackberry that ruined your life. For now though, I'm ignoring that fact and I'm giving future Robert the benefit of the doubt.
Onto a more specific topic of discussion, and when I say discussion I mean between the voices in my head, I haven't invited you just yet. Having said that, don't be afraid to read my posts, I don't mean to intimidate anyone with my lack of external influence. See, you give someone something to write on - not about - and it ends up being completely insignificant to stray blog readers. Thats assuming this is reaching anyone. Where was I . . . ? Oh yes, the next paragraph . . .
Like I said a more specific topic, something I was told to write about, seen as I've already found something to write on. Last night I endured (and I mean it in the loosest possible way,) a 6 month old trying to digest carrot pulp for the first time. Little did we know this is a painful and heart breaking procedure, and my poor little girl was even worse off. Let me take a few lines and a moment of your time (feel free to skim over,) to introduce you to my little (naturally,) baby daughter, Ella. She's absolutely gorgeous and I'm not being bias, plenty of people say the same thing, with out me even prompting them, so I am convinced and so should you be. With denim blue eyes, a striking forehead* (this - * - means a funny story involving the word, placed directly before it, will be told in a future paragraph, if I remember to, that is,) the most wonderful gums (really they are, you should see them when she smiles,) funny monkey ears inherited from her father, and amazingly her grandfather on her mothers side, though her mothers ears are fairly ordinary. Ella was born not more than 6 months ago, a healthy, fat baby with lips as red as an inflatible doll's, and a presence I had literally never felt before. She didn't have that deformed - only parents could love - face that babies have when they tunnel their way out the baby shoot. Instead, Ella turned to the emergency escape hatch, carved open by a surgeon, and through my partners gaping abdomen, like a portal from another world, she was hoisted into our lives. I of course chose not to witness the Alien-like exit, and kept constant eye contact with my numb partner. Something Sigourney Weaver wished she had done. This particular description came from my girlfriend, which she had every right to, and not me. So for the record, I wasn't the one who refered to my daughter as a product of poor special effects. Anyway, so the next step was for the nurses to spray the new lifeling down run off with her with me in hot persuit. No, they weren't illegally adopting her, turns out the baby room (don't know the technical term,) was basically onthe opposite side of the ward. A three letter word should pull your face into a puzzled expression . . . Why? So, I eventually catch up to them, in my turquoise scrubs and shower cap shoes and find my self trying to look over the broad shouldered nurses to see whats going on with my little alien.
I know, what was supposed to be a brief description of my daughter turned into a misleading tangent and I have, as a result, strayed from my original topic. Though, come to think of it was the perfect introduction and excuse to my unexpected descripton of her birth. (Ha, I tricked you . . . Read on . . .) Since I have subsequently lost interest in what I was original writing about, I am going to briefly conclude the agonising experience that was last night. I am tired as a result of a lack of sleep, due to Ella screaming all night and was bemused, innitially, to see her gums in the shape of a smile and her sparkling denim-blue eyes glaring at me with love and appreciation, yet completely oblivious to the torture she had me endure. Which brings me to the end of my second post, because I feel I have successfully addressed the topic proposed by my girlfriend. Now before you begin to complain about reading absolutely nothing about my girlfriend other than the credit given to her for her unique description of a C-section. I have instead, craftely left you unfulfilled - yes, she's that amazing - so that you read my next post which will involve her more (actually, you'll probably find it'll be mostly about her,) so that you know the one other person in my life that shares the same tiny loft apartment.
Done. (Just so you know I was too lazy, and in a bit of a rush to read over the post, so excuse any confusing or incomprehendible grammer. I trust you'd rather read the content and not note the language. Language has, after all, evolved and so have you, so work it out.)
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Blogs . . . And First Timers . . . And GO!
And go!
This is a blog, a first blog, a first blog from a first time blogger. Curious... Has blog been inducted into the English dictionary yet? So apparently I have a lot to say, almost too much according to some people, so for their sake I redirected my misunderstood opinion towards fellow bloggers, or those who bother reading other people's blogs. Its always puzzled me actually, who reads blogs? Other peoples blogs, I mean, because I have read my own over a few times already - all four lines, that is. To be honest really, I have successfully completed reading one person's blog - bar a few paragraphs towards the end, but enough to get the gist of it. And, you know... Come to think of it now, for the life of me I can't remember what it was about, but I am certain I understood what the poor blogger was talking about. One would guess you're thinking the same thing as you read this. So to prevent any more confusion I'm signing off on day one's attempt at a blog, I really don't think I know what I'm doing yet. Stay tuned as I will be addressing more interesting and controversial topics in future blogs, and perhaps be a little more interesting while I'm at it. Atleast I've got my first blog out of the way, and confused one unfortunate reader. Watch space, its sparkly.
Done!
This is a blog, a first blog, a first blog from a first time blogger. Curious... Has blog been inducted into the English dictionary yet? So apparently I have a lot to say, almost too much according to some people, so for their sake I redirected my misunderstood opinion towards fellow bloggers, or those who bother reading other people's blogs. Its always puzzled me actually, who reads blogs? Other peoples blogs, I mean, because I have read my own over a few times already - all four lines, that is. To be honest really, I have successfully completed reading one person's blog - bar a few paragraphs towards the end, but enough to get the gist of it. And, you know... Come to think of it now, for the life of me I can't remember what it was about, but I am certain I understood what the poor blogger was talking about. One would guess you're thinking the same thing as you read this. So to prevent any more confusion I'm signing off on day one's attempt at a blog, I really don't think I know what I'm doing yet. Stay tuned as I will be addressing more interesting and controversial topics in future blogs, and perhaps be a little more interesting while I'm at it. Atleast I've got my first blog out of the way, and confused one unfortunate reader. Watch space, its sparkly.
Done!
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