Don't look at me weird for the post title PLEASE. I am normal. Very highly so, in fact. Things like these just happen to pass through my fingers... Or something.
BEFORE, I launch into a story/ode/elegy/soliloquy that has nothing to do with my post, I shall just post the video and be on my way... It's amazing. I'm finally at home, and without a doubt, my mother is ecstatic. I mean, come on, who can pass up living with the 'coolie' that I am?
Exactly what I thought. NO ONE! (This is a joke, by the by)
Every time. EVERY TIME, I fall for the seductive lure of going back home as a form of escapism from the Durrrty South that is the region of the Londoners, to coming back to home cooked food, CHICKEN IN ABUNDANCE, and lazy days of nothingness...
But alas, it's only been day ONE, and my mother has already put me to work. 'Clean this, Oluwaseyi!', 'You see how the house was in pristine condition before you came in and scattered it all ehn' (despite the fact that all the laundry was strewn all over the sofas BEFORE I CAME IN), and 'Ahh, is this how those blogs you read say you should take care of your hair? Not combing it at all? Hmm.' After which she lunges a litany of Yoruba (The Nigerian Language I soooo proudly speak in public... 'cos it's cool to watch people's faces when that happens) about how she never fails to understand my 'style'. Like anyone does?
All onomatopoeic and whatnot. You gotta love Nigerian parents and their love for the melodramatic tone. But I love me some of that woman yo. She's just too cool for school; something I only realised last year. Blame it on the oh - so - important teenage years where NO ONE ON PLANET EARTH is as cool as yourself. I know. Isn't it funny how suddenly, they begin to make SO MUCH SENSE?
The joys of puberty and adolescence, aye?
*covers face* I did not really plan to come on here to speak about my enslavement today; really, I didn't. But I do not control my fingers, you have to believe me. My brain does. Or shall I call it my subconscious? Or as Freud puts it, my Super Ego?
NANCY SINATRA for the world, friendies. Is she not soo cool? Isn't this, like, the perfect song to listen to when you have home work to hand in, or maths revision, or about the nuclear magnetic resonance of the structure of dinitrophenolpentamate (THAT chemical does not exist beyond this blog... Even weirder ones do, however)? The 'bang bang' and 'my baby shot me down' bits... Classy stuff.
Or something. Well, guys, I just wanted you to appreciate good ole' Nancy, her beautiful pink flapper dress, and the bouffant hairdo. 60s coolness is where it's at... And yes, I am aware flapper dresses are soo 20s, but...
... Yeah. I am happy to be HOME!
P.S, Welcome, all you beautiful people who have come to join the cool gang of quirkyanything! I hope you are not disappointed! Comment, drop an e-mail, send me free gifts, or maybe not? I like hearing all your thoughts!!!
Au revoir mi amigos! (Nothing says goodbye better than Franish, ayye?)
Okay. Goodbye guys.