What can I say? I believe this may well be the dozenth blog I’ve started, doubtlessly to be squashed out of all remembrances in the near future for I have a shameless tendency to delve too far into the recesses of the personal (fabricated or otherwise). Hence the extermination of my past blogs. I believe I’m already off to a bad start: I am sitting like a videoed monkey on pause this very second. Left knee supports my left arm at the Armpit junction, while my right foot is supporting the entire weight of my body, to the sad extent that its pins and needles are being numbed out of existence. My curves are being flattened. And you’re probably wondering: this must be the end of the month, and I must have exhausted Google’s billion blog hits to end up here, on this very strange(ly likeable) page www.antipodeanadrift.wordpress.com.
Anyway, new blog, new beginnings. What should I write really? The trend of fashion blogging is cementing into an unvanquishable reality. And I am myself heavily obsessed with what’s vogue and what’s on me that’s superficial and fabric. Then again, I’m pretty into, how should I put this… my inner person? I’m not schizophrenic (I’m darned sure!…). It has more to do with the goings. You know, the usual narcissist’s pool of narcissistic thoughts. Also, if my creaking neck would permit, I need to finish this post asap (that means ‘as soon as possible’ little brother, if you’re reading this).
The Opening Ceremony of the London Olympics Games would start in about six hours and the Good Gods know that I really need my sleep, given that I have had barely any these days (I have sacrificed everything for sleepovers; it’s only reasonable!). To top it off, my good old friend has returned from his la belle France and the Land of Many Spaghettis. Naturally, it means any hope of making pacts and peace treaties with the boiling pustules of my sleep-deprived face is slim to none.
My purpose if there be one for the asexual creation of this blog, is to sow the stale seeds of productive procrastination. And also, to amass a halfhearted readership before I move to France next year in which I’ll have highly-bloggable things worthy of my failing pen nibs, to blog about.
Alors bonne nuit, my cherries! … oops, I think this is too accidentally euphemistic for my liking.