I was struck with the universal question that most Gen Y teens face in their life: "What/Why am I blogging for?" Many an aspirant have fallen into the cesspit of incertitude and gave up on blogging. After all, they ask themselves - what is so amazing about MY life to cause interest in others? (Ok, maybe we all like to gossip and know, but...) I want to be different, deviant, oogamous, more! And therein lies my depression.

I am mundane.

Unlike Suzumiya Haruhi, Koizumi, Yuki.... Mikuru, I am a Kyon. If you don't understand that soliloquy, nevermind. Suffice to say, I do not have the umm... umm... "Everybody's reading it" of Xiaxue nor the provocativeness of Ms. Sizzy.

But, hey! Wait! I am a writer. Surely I can cook up something. Let's say, I start blogging about sex since it's so universal.

"Sunshine," said I, laying a hand on her bosom. "Lie with me." I dimmed the tablelamp light to a deep wine purple and gently pressed her down. She hesitated; resisted. "There is a gap in the curtain," she said.

I strode across to the embrasure and dashed the velvet veils open. Silver moonbeams peered into the room and framed me with a nimbus like the halo around the edges of a moon.
"This is Geylang!" I cried exuberantly. "The district of red light. Patronaged by lusty men and patsy women. Let's show them what real raging amor is!"

Sunshine withdrew into the cover of the bedspread. "You frighten me sometimes."

I smiled, shook my head ruefully, closed the curtain, and like a lion hunting its prey in the savannah, bounded across the thick carpet to sit myself next to her. "It's alright now." I coaxed the sheet out of her hands and crossed atop her. She was a timid Aphrodite beneath me.

I licked her areola. "Merde, you are my one and only true love." She moaned and yielded to my touch. I dovetailed my philtre into her. She was warm; hot. Our tummies, touched.

"Ah. Not, there," she sighed as I sought her soft spot. My tights slapped against her small rump.
Eternity. Night. Passion. Pleasure. We fucked till dawn.

Okie. You'd think I'm a sex-crazed maniac by now. Probably true - not so. For the observant/imaginative/experienced reader, you might note that the Gräfenberg spot is usually located at the frontal wall of the vagina. And how could my tights have slapped her rump (unless I was holding her up by the legs) when she's prostrate? Granted, these are minor details, and the reader might forgive them in the pleasure of reading, but I've got a reputation to keep. And repetition brings ennui as well.

Which leads me to consider other alternatives...

Such as peddling paedophilia paraphernalia:
Yup, all those paedophiles will flock to me, I'll just open a credit card line and reap in the money. Problem is, the police will be on me faster then you can say: SEX- (Yes, that fast), and I do not know where to find child porno, nor want to. (The above portion was only to shock you, dear readers. Please don't call the CIA.)

Hmm... I think I'll steer this blog in the direction of the expository, maybe littered with a few rants here and there.
Ah, I see you now, leaning back and muttering. "Again! Angst! I have had enough of these seething teens. No more. Goooodbye." Wait! This will be a journey of socratic dialectic. (Ok, I see some people falling asleep now) A discovery of external vistas, spoken in a teenage voice. I am not sure if I can make the mark, seeing that my PSLE score sucks. And I predict my O levels wouldn't be much either. But I'll try.

What am I kidding myself for! *Kick myself. I'll just blog on as per my thoughts.

Posted by AikiChaos on Thursday, December 14, 2006 at 5:18 PM | Permalink