Je m'appelle Minge. J'ai 33 ans. J'ai les yeux brun, les cheveaux brun. J'habite a Edinburgh en Ecosse.
Une verre de limonade, s'il vous plaît.
Bon après-midi. Est-ce qu'il y a un homme près d'ici?
Shit, see what happens when you don't use a language for almost twenty years? You end up reciting stuff from your first ever French lesson.
And I expect the spelling is totally fucked.
Oops, I just swore. I'm such a rebel.
To cut to the chase. I am not Spock. I am Minge. I am not Roy. I am not Roysie. I am not Bender. I am not Royston. I am not Taps. I am Minge.
However, I don't want to be Minge.
I want to be something else.
I'd like to be a chrysalis, but I'm not even that. I don't know if I even feel like a caterpillar. I think I'm still an egg. But a thirty three year old egg.
Time's marching on. It looks like it's not only Phyllis who's having a mid-life crisis.
When do I get to be a butterfly?