I was tempted to post a photo of me in my emo-child phase but then I remembered that I shouldn’t actively embarrass myself and decided against it. This hand thingy with the feelings paper will have to suffice.
For about two or three years of my childhood, I could have been described as an emo child. Dark rooms? I sat in them. Tantrums, I had the beginnings of them frequently (until my parents would turn the patented Nigerian Eye of Warning on me and I froze with fear.) I cried because it was raining. I cried because I couldn’t tie my laces (the young overachiever’s nightmare) and I cried because I broke our landlady’s decorative wall plate and the fear of retribution was too much to bear. If there was black lipstick to be had, I probably would have got my hands on it.
Last night I had popcorn, peppermint tea and a Milka Daim for dinner because I was too tired and phlegmy to cook anything. This morning, the sun woke me up and that is the only reason I came to work. My boss made me some Lemsip and even that hurt to drink. I had strep throat not too long ago and it was so bad that I now live in abject terror of getting it again. Worry, thy name is Stereo.
And yes, I do know that it is Monday.
The following happened to me last Thursday:
- I woke up and paused for a moment. I rolled over onto my side and said to myself “I feel like something terrible is going to happen today.”
This past weekend, I took advantage of Bank Holiday Monday and a Friday off work and visited my good friend Nanna and her boyfriend, Rasmus in Copenhagen.
Just before she flew off to her fabulous new life in New York (miss you, T!), my friend discovered my blog and asked me about it. And as I do when someone from “real” life finds this little slice of the internet, I baulked a little and did a mental rundown of the things I have written here, trying to remember if there is anything of which I should be ashamed.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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