Secondyly.

The month’s issue came out, and I have it at home with me. I’ve made a couple of mistakes and by golly, there’s so much room for improvement, I better start buying a new mop and brush, plus robotic limbs to help me through.

For the most part, all I see are mistakes, mistakes, mistakes (by me).

Secondyly was one of them.

Time to buck up, baby.

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I wish I’m better looking. That way, that mug of me over the Ominous Grey Column would be of a handsome, well proportioned face. Instead, you’ll be looking at an eggplant with acne.

Now, I hope I get feedback. Someone to tell me that I’m sucking very badly so that I can get better and start making sense. Or to tell me that I’m better off quitting the industry. Either way, it’s so I can stop assuming things. Worse things. Better to get the slap firsthand than to realise an obscured knife between the shoulder blades several years earlier.

At any rate, I’m still kind of irrepressibly happy.

Like Fred Astaire in a certain gym, the weighs don’t matter once you hear the rhythm and the music.