I am 22 years old. I have 22 cats. I have $22 to my name. I live on a 22 mile long Greek island with a population of 22 thousand. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22.
My best friends are nature, mass surveillance, coffee and cigarettes. They always look out for me. Money is no friend of mine but we do exchange the odd greeting from time to time.
I am the village wizard and my wand fixes all tablets brought before me. My price is fish or garden weeds and for the more difficult jobs, I advise consultation with the local priest. The priest takes money.
I like my women how I like my software: open source, bug free and well maintained. I haven’t found one yet but all roads lead to Rome eventually. If you’re in Italy, I’ll be stopping by.
Shoes suck and socks are redundant, but I’ll give a year of my life for a good pair of boots. Upstairs doesn’t seem to listen. I’ll try asking downstairs.
There’s a red 1962 MG convertible in my driveway. A bench for drying gypsy Garlic and storing chair cushions when it rains. Previously owned by Aristotle Onassis, the guy who brought water down from the mountains and removed mosquitoes from the swamp. Jackie O sat as navigator.
I come from down under but I’m now up and over. Boy that was some climb. Singapore’s swelter sucked the sweat from my skull and second toe. At least my cockles will be warm forever after.
I have a tattoo of hairdressing scissors, a grim reminder never to go near one again. They are vile creatures. You have been warned.
I once festooned an all girls Korean dorm room with regurgitated Korean culture. Still waiting on the cleaning bill. Traveller’s tip: local alcohol should only be consumed by locals.
Do as I say, not as I do.