WELCOME TO DON’T TELL MAMA!
Take a seat! Pull up a chair! Pour a martini. Help yourself to a complimentary quiche. Whip out your onesie. Dim the lights. Why, unbutton your pants if you feel so inclined (not really, that’s somewhat antisocial). Basically, all I’m trying to say is…
I’m Phoebe- just your average 23-year-old law student/ sangria enthusiast who possesses an unhealthy obsession with words and an unhealthier obsession with The Bachelor. My hobbies include stalking attractive members of society on Facebook, and devising strategies to manoeuvre a life transplant with Beyonce. If this blog description were a seedy Internet dating profile, I’d probably post a photo like this:
But as it’s not (… yet), this is a more accurate representation of what my facial region usually looks like:
Just kidding. Although I do own a very similar grey hoodie.
While I could claim that this blog will be a soapbox for hardcore political commentary about mining taxes and miscellaneous economic woes, sadly that would be an extremely misleading assertion. So, disclaimer: if you don’t like ranting and raving and white-wine fuelled objections to the media’s portrayal of Lena Dunham, click away NOW! Quick! Before my irresistible charm sucks you in!
If you do, HEY, YOU SOUND FABULOUS, we should become best friends (or at least pen pals or something). If you just want a hazy idea of what my writing and opinions are like, you could probably roll around in a Brunswick gutter for a few hours, eat a cheap souvlaki, then throw up in a taxi- but I advise against that. Instead, spare a good souvlaki and stay tuned for my highly intellectual observations on Honey Boo Boo Child.
PS- If you are actually looking for tips on how to not tell your mother something; ugh just be honest with the woman, she birthed and bowl-cutted you, for God’s sake.