Being young is supposed to be so easy, lurching from one triumph to another with nary a moment’s pause. The ravages of time are yet to meaningfully impact on my life, even if I do get faintly annoyed by music blaring out of mobile phones at the back of the bus. I am twenty-two years old now, approaching (more like stumbling blindly) towards my physical peak, knowing that I will be incapacitated in later years, either by biology or impotent rage at the state of the nation.
I guess I am here to show that youthdom need not entail sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, even if many of my fruitless endeavours are in headlong pursuit of two of them (I’ll let you guess which). This blog, brimming with 900-word ripostes which read like modern society bleeding profusely into a napkin, analyses the whimsy, the wonderful and the woeful of human life. A grand design and one which rarely pays off. But it’s a hobby.