tourner autour du pot

My blog is edible; of that I'm utterly convinced. And in case you're wondering what internet predator gnaws at it, there isn't any. What eats this wordy chaos that was my blog is none other than Time itself. No, not the magazine I'm so crazy about. I wrote it in capital "T" to make it seem like an actual creature. A proper noun, so to speak. Granted, this dinky thing would weather out at the mercy of—surprise!—Time.

An understatement: no one wants to read an outdated blog written by a teenager trying to fiddle with her own heartstrings.



I don't wanna bore you with reasons why I didn't update. But surely I owe you an explanation. You deserve one. I am, after all, at fault.

I didn't post—and was not intending to until my friends demanded me to—because I had been a wreck this past few days. I couldn't write, couldn't even code a proper layout. I'm not certain when Rainy will emerge. She's still hung over. Talk about martinis. She's cool like that.



Okay I'm not saying I'm cool. Word to the wise: never expect a scarcely acceptable read when I'm bonkers. Like tonight. Wtf. It isn't even night yet. 2:14 PM +08:00 GMT. Told you so, I'm bonkers. I've no face to show.

This could be the last time you'll ever read my posts in this kind of point of view. I dunno, Rainy Martini is just a pseudonym I invented in lieu of my fascination of the word "martini". Maybe in the next post I'll talk about her. Like she isn't even me. That's better, don't you think?

PS, I know I know my hair is tragic.