Flo Rida, Why Kiki and Concrete Jungles

I suspect this post is going to be another pointless meandering journey through the disturbing reaches of my psyche.  Sucks to be you. Freud would pee his pants with excitement if he were alive in the era of the blogosphere.

It’s totally bollocks being the last person to know information. It doesn't happy very often, due to my incessant need to stick my nose into everything, mainly specialising in matters that are absolutely none of my beeswax. Nevertheless, I learnt something today that I did not know, and now I feel cheated, indignant, hoodwinked, a fool, and comparatively old in a youthful-looking type of way.

So, here it is. Pay attention. Apparently the rapper Flo Rida named himself after Florida, the place, where he’s from, down in the hood. Am I the only person in the whole entire human race of the planet of earth who did not know this? Now it's just going to be awkward when I go there because I can’t help but call it Flo Rida.

Great. There’s probably a popstar out there in popworld called Ha Why as well. And a songstress temptress called Why KiKi. I wish I could understand Flo Rida’s lyrics, but I guess I’m not conversant enough in Renaissance rap literature. Plus I didn’t grow up in Flo Rida.

I’ve been doing lots of sit-ups and so forth in preparation for my American adventures on the sandy, white beaches of Waikiki and Manhattan. I’ve never been to New York, so if you have something to disclose about that can you please keep it to yourself because concrete jungles are where dreams are made, apparently, and if they don’t have a beach amongst all that concrete then I’m going to be totes CAPSLOCK SAD FACE.

And I imagine the streets won’t make me feel brand new because they are made of fucking cement and it’s going to be a tad hot and humid so you do the math. Those streets will cause hydrogen fusion before they make me feel brand new.

And contrary to all the terrifically constructive / destructive advice in fashion and beauty magazines, doing a couple of sit-ups doesn’t equal a flat stomach. At least not when you’re my age (um, let’s call it 25 and leave it alone).

Back in the day I could do about 100 sit-ups every night for a week and come out all washboardy, flat as an ironing board, flat as a tack, flat as a floorboard, flat like numerous other flat type surfaces. Now it’s just hard work, for months and months and months and nothing changes. I hate getting old. It totally sucks.