has it only been a year

Can you believe that it has been exactly one year since the commencement of this blog. I’ve saved this date for about two weeks so that I can basically say, happy one year anniversary.

I think that is all that I was waiting to say, yet I’m sure I can find more words in my brain to talk about. Hm, let me think.

In my First Official Blog Post, I said that I wanted to spit my thoughts at you which, I feel I have done successfully? Maybe not a literal spit, but I feel as though I could spit if I wanted to…maybe this metaphor has gone a little too far. Don’t mind me, I’m just trying compose myself in a half-hearted manner.

Now, would there be any way better to commemorate the Paper Anniversary of the blog than with a story? Come on, gather round the fire place, under blankets in the cold January weather, and get ready for a love like no other read to you from a screen.


Two people, one year, one memory.

A love story is not only a cliché, not only a platitude, but it is realism. A realistic account of a couple together, for a year, where the Paper can be ripped in wait for the Tin at Ten, and for the China at Twenty.

It cannot be expressed enough that paper is just simply the shreds of a tree. You can write on paper, fold up paper, cut paper to make a beautiful snowflake. The one-year anniversary of your child’s first sight of snow. The one-year anniversary of when they began to walk, even if it was slow. And, most of all, the celebration is nigh, so that you can preach to the world, I feel like I can fly forever. If you last a year, you can last a lifetime – let this stand as a quote for the love story cliché of the year.

Two people walk down a street. Hand in hand. They are going back to where they met. Their first meeting was at a store, a clothes store for sure, where they were both looking for the same dress. Of course, the man was not shopping for himself – he was shopping for his girlfriend at the time, who was, in his words, just another white girl. He said this to his wife – although, she was just a stranger at the time – when she reached for the dress, as just another white girl. The man apologised, and apologised, and they really started to get along! But then, at that moment…his girlfriend came, coincidentally of course.

His girlfriend began to shout, shout to the heavens, as one would if enraged:

‘I can’t believe you would do this!’ said she, like she was caught in a cage. It was as though she was trying to struggle out between bars, but her head got so stuck she was not going anywhere for a while.

When she finally escaped, the old couple were over. But the new couple – the papery couple, now – were suddenly the clichéd, oversensitive, unglamorous couple that anyone could detect anywhere in the world.


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my rendition of Why Love Stories Should Never Be Told. And, the reason why they should be trapped inside boxes is, and if you were reading really closely, you will find that no couple ever meets in an interesting way, and trying to make it interesting makes it become even more tedious.

Happy Paper, everybody. My blog and I met under the conditions that if I pay whatever-I-pay a month I can type these words that you read. That is the extent of our relationship agreement.

Good day!


Try not to Cry, but it’s only just beginning.

…and the world was just one, huge confusion.

I know that it has been a while, and I’m sure it is purely down to the fact that 2017 has dawned and life is just completely bemused about everything. Everything down to the last, minuscule blog post that happens to be forgotten about.

Here are some details that I think may be needed to be addressed for the commencement of 2017:

Donald Trump is going to begin leading the United States on January 20th. The office will get painted in fake tan, as his little-girl cheerleading minions will sing his praises as if he was the omnipotence of the world. His red tie and blue blazer will again be incongruous to his disgustingly bright blonde hair as he takes the chair in the White House. And if this is not enough – Donald Trump just simply being himself – the citizens of the United States of America will be persecuted for being themselves: the women will become Barbie dolls, the disabled will become talking wheelchairs, the Mexicans will all have scraped knees from trying to climb that wall that Trump so anxiously  wanted to build – the Mexicans will also have their money flowing from their pockets with each step up the wall, as, of course, they will be paying for their barricade.

And, apologies for being brief, but nothing else is going to happen this year due to Trump’s inevitable assassination of the world, where it will implode and explode at the same time – did anyone else think that was impossible? Well, we didn’t think Donald Trump would ever get elected, but we were wrong there.  If the world did not end in 2012, it is because it was just begging the population of the world to wait another five years so that Trump can end it for us.

Who else can wait thirteen miserable days for his seat in office? I know I will be sitting with a sea in between Trump and I, but I think – no, I know – I will be able to smell the stench of his freshly-applied fake tan on January 20th as he waltzes into the White House like one giant Cheese Puff.

The world was NOT designed for this kind of trauma. Did God not intend for the world to be beautiful with seas and skies and natural formations that did not make skin orange and hair yellow? Oh dear, did we believe that the world was supposed to be pleasant? I should’ve washed my hair of that view a long time ago so that I could be a source of unnatural chemicals being pumped into my body, nightly.

I know that Trump’s appearance is iconic. The hair, the skin, the fact that he darkens a room when he walks into it; but what right does he have to be the leader of a continent when he cannot even avoid looking like an Oompa Loompa? I cannot even begin to understand why more than 50% of the United States’ population thought that being led by an orange man would be a good thing?

Now, with a farewell to the disastrous 2016 – with the avoidance to be the cliché ‘I want a clean slate’ imbecile – I am delighted to welcome in the murky fog that January always brings, the lack of snow, and the fact that I am going to turn into a Barbie doll when Trump takes office in the unlucky number of THIRTEEN DAYS.

I have just recently bought my bleach, blonde hair dye, fake tan that TOWIE famously use, and a gorgeous red tie (or, as some people call it, a noose) for Trump’s glorious disaster. Have you claimed your essentials yet, for the next four years? Unlimited supplies, and everything? I forebode the next four years to either make the world a sea of mini Trumps, or we will watch from hell the Earth will just be smashed into smithereens on the floor of all flaws.

Happy New Year, you lucky, bound-to-become, Oompa Loompas.