I’ve managed to break away from the shackles of blogspot.
And I duly swear to myself to establish a ‘blogging routine’ as I chronicle my life from the age of 22.
22 is the perfect age to be. It isn’t like turning 21 and legal and officially entering adulthood. Its the year after all the excitement of flashing real ID cards to bouncers and buying alcohol yourself fades away and you comfortably settle down into an older and wiser 22.
I figured 23 would be that thin line where you cross over into pre-middle-age. 23 is being the youngest in a martini bar and the oldest at an undergrad party. Chewing on olives and making conversation about Democrats and Bill Gates is 23.
24 is finding a job.
25 is finding sex.
26 is finding a husband.
27 is finding a house.
28 is finding an ob-gyn.
29 is finding a school for the unborn kid.
And if all goes well, 30 is hitting middle age happily.
And if all fucks up, 30 is hitting mid-life crisis early and finding an 18 year old boy-toy.
I’m 22.I dont know jack shit. But I love to think I do. I talk like I do. But you can see through it all. 
That’s the best part about growing up isn’t it.
Bohemian Rhapsody is playing on repeat.I named the blog after The Boy who was youtubing ‘Bohemian Rapcity’ when I asked him to play the song making sure Freddie Mercury turned in his grave and the rest of Queen dig their own.
I love The Boy nevertheless.
