SECOND THE BEST
THIRD THE GOLDEN PRINCESS

Dear lord, how childish of me. But, who knows, perhaps this first post WILL be the worst on this little blog thing, and, inversly, the next one I produce will be the best.

About the Golden Princess however, I don’t know.

Hum.

Yes.

I suppose I need to introduce myself to the phantomesque little faces lit by the whitish-blue gazes of their LCD screens.

See that. That’s poetry. I jest, of course. I myself try to keep my prose as simply worded as possible. But that can be hard. It’s just sooooo easly to go off on a long spiel, using impossible, pretty-sounding words to make yourself sound distinguished, intelligent. The Victorians were brilliant at talking absolute crapola in that manner.

Aaaand, I’ve gone off the beaten track again. Brilliant.

To be honest, I don’t know what I can actually SAY about myself which is overtly interesting. I could gab on about how I’m one of those poor souls languishing in their parents small-town house in a small-town town over the summer, but that isn’t interesting. I could babble for hours about how much I want to be a writer, how I spend most of my time either writing, or thinking about what I’m going to be writing next, and my head is like this tiny little cave which somehow manages to hold thousands of bats and they’re frequently shaken up and start fluttering about the place and screeching so loud I don’t know what I should be focusing on. I could coo on about my kinds-long-term relationship which is still in it’s sort of new beginning-stage where you’re fascinated with the other person and cling to them like moss but it’s been eleven months (and one day) now and nothing’s died down. I could also bitch about my job as an underpaid, overworked (how overused is that phrase? I’m terribly sorry for being so cliched. I’m trying to avoid that) and technically illegal checkout worker at Pak N Save Supermarket.

Is my train of though too hard to follow? I’m kind of just writing things as they come to the forefront of my batcave.

Batcave. Heh. I sound like Batman.

Being Batman would be terrible. I’m sorry, but that comic book character has just endured too much mental turmoil to have a desirable life. Despite the dizzying wealth and social status. Interestingly, are there ANY comic book characters who don’t have a deep dark past?

And I’ve gone off on a tangent again. This is what makes writing hard. See, here I am, attempting to introduce myself to my unsuspecting little intarwebz audience out there, and I immediately go off and question the fact whether most of the characters in the multivers(i?) of DC and Marvel should be committed with severe PTSD (Answer? Yes). But it’s not that far removed from my own personal psyche, I suppose.

Not that I suffer from PTSD – I’m just wearing a T-Shirt emblazoned with the Heroes (and Magneto) of Marvel at this current moment. No Watchmen characters, however. This upsets and saddens me.

Hell, there’s a proverbial can of moral worms.

Anyways. Introductions. Let’s go this as a quick, short succession of sentences. Get it over with.

I am nineteen. I live in New Zealand. I have two cats which I love dearly. I am about to begin my second year of university. In Literature and Linguistics. Yes, I know I won’t get a job. But I don’t give a shit. I’ve always been on a different mental wavelength. But I’m not completley removed from reality. I eat MacDonalds and Burger King. I’m a full-out consumerist. I guess. My credit card is approaching it’s limit. So yes I am a full-blown consumerist. My personal library spans nearly 1300 years. I have no siblings. My parents never really saw a child as hindering their live-fast-party-hard lifestyle. I am afraid of cockroaches. But not spiders. I’m an Athiest. With an interest in physics. I’m waiting for string theory to be proven. I’m dating an engineer. Student. Yes I know about /b/. Who fucking doesn’t. I like video games. Perhaps too much. I’m a picky movie watcher. Pseudo-intellectuals make me want to commit unspeakable acts of evil. But I know later on in life they will be my only friends. I still like Pokemon. I don’t like sleeping. My addiction to coffee could be a reason for this. Apparently I’m weird. Don Brash for Prime Minister. American politics both fascinates and repels me. My favourite all-time Author is Shakespeare. My favourite Modern auther is Atwood. But I dislike radical feminists. I don’t smoke. I have reproduction Italian Renaissance tiles on my walls. For some fucking reason. I have a Toshiba Satellite from ‘94. I know you are jealous. I wore Trilby hates before they were cool. Does this make me an elitist faggot? Possibly. I believe in Aliens. But we’ll never ever see them.

If I think of anything interesting and noteworthy about myself I’ll post it later. Or something.

For now, however, I think I’m going to push the little blue ‘publish’ button. It’s not LATE, but I’m astonishingly tired. Although in my defense I woke up ridiculously early and spent five hours on a bus, where I tried to read “Orlando” by Virginia Woolf.

Maybe I need to give it another try. Put it down and pick it up in a week or so. It just wasn’t clicking for me, if that makes sense. Happens sometimes. Although it might have been the environment I’m in. Buses filled with headphones screeching at top-tinny volume, screaming children, people murmuring on phones, and the bus driver barking over the speaker because he forgot to turn it off and he’s bitching at his HQ about a cock-up in a booking, whilst lurching all about the place, plowing at a respectable speed through the disgustingly windy road of the NZ countryside are just not the greatest reading environments.

Funny that, eh?