Gather round young trolls, for good news must be shared. People on this fine planet have granted financial stability and an extraordinary opportunity my way, so a (possibly brief) portion of my life is set to be staged in the manic hubbub of London. Will I survive? Who knows. Is Kanye headlining Glastonbury? Of course he is. How will Britain fair under Osborne’s budget proposal? Oh, come on. Can you ask why I’ve embedded a Disney classic in this blog post? Please? Just let me… oh okay, you want to know why now? You seated? Tango Ice Blast? Right basically, it’s because…
QUASI IS OUT OF THE DAME BITCHES.
So I’ve actually been living here for about a week now. My plan was to release this blog post as I descended upon the capital; utilising my excited drive and nervous energy into a folly to tickle every humour gland in your possession. Unfortunately, this plan was swiftly dropped once I realised the amount of organisation which comes from moving to another city and starting a new job. Heck, I even bought sandwich bags. What kind of domesticated creature does that?
I did however write a preliminary paragraph on what I was feeling at the time. So here’s a flavour of my mindset roughly a week ago:
“My main message is of excitement, nervous trepidation and insanity’s loosening grip. Tides are coming in, covering the relatively drab past six months under a comforting blanket. It feels amazing and frankly, I wish I could bottle this feeling and shove my face in it whenever life decides to throw up its next bag of shite.”
In prickish italic speak: I felt pretty good, basically.
Nothing’s really changed either. Except I’m now slightly adjusted to my new routine and ready to stride into the festival of fools just like Quasimodo with boundless hope. Hopefully, unlike him, I won’t come out of the experience locked into docks and splattered with a barrage of fruit from my fellow man. But who knows? London’s a wild place. I’ve already seen one guy barking dog noises down his phone.
So to round-off this skittish piece, I’d just like to thank anyone who’s ever graced kind affection towards my words. You’ve helped push me to this point, and frankly, I wouldn’t be currently sat in a room, drinking swedish beer and watching Paddington after a week’s work in the offices of the Telegraph without them. Even writing that seems obscene. What the fuck is going on?
Quasi?
DirtyScribbles 