Clumpy Mascara.


I know.

Another blog. Another writer striving to be recognised, whilst the proverbial dangling carrot of worldwide acclamation taunts and teases a tired and old donkey. Ok, perhaps not that old – 27 years, to be exact. The Lucky 27’s Club. Imminence of mortality- too- dangles before me. Morbid? Nah. Superstitious? Quite likely. I do tend to touch a lot of wood.


I don’t claim to be an exceptional writer. But I can claim authenticity. I have a chameleon soul, and through this kaleidoscope of personalities, I have vast and varied passions. Too many, honestly. I am constantly torn into different directions, depending on what colour of mood I wake up in. This morning, particularly, I woke up in an orange frenzy, with an energy that is causing the nerves in my fingers to pulsate.

I am a writer: by nature; by intrinsic passion; by default.

Thus, I do hope that you, appreciated reader, enjoy whatever <oft convoluted> sentences sprout from this psychedelically-inclined mind of mine.




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