I write thousands of brilliant words a day. My writing is so brilliant it takes you an hour to understand a post I churn out in a minute.
I am secretly writing a book. I throw down chapters easier than Jamie Oliver cooks a meal. My novel will stun and awe, arouse and inspire, and I will earn more prizes than you earn Shona dollars in a year.
I have a life far more exciting than yours. I find humour and inspiration in what to you are mundane, everyday occurences. More exciting shit happens to me on the average day than will happen in your entire lifetime.
I am your role model – you wish you were me, and that a single event in my full and exciting life could be replicated in your dull, monotonously sedentary existence. If none of the stuff on my blog happens to you by the end of the year, you shall kill yourself.
I am in the ZIMSEC syllabus. Chaucer and Shimmer are nothing compared to my blog, and English teachers often fail to even understand what I’m saying. My writing keeps children in school, and teachers in jobs. I should be in Cabinet.
I am irresistible to females. Women read my blog and become instantly aroused, masturbating furiously over my latest blog post. Ladies pull me off the street to give me head in sanitary lanes, hoping to absorb just an iota of my talent. I never decline.
I have babies named after me, in the vain hope that sharing my name will bless the spawn with my ability to make presidents cry and popes faint with my brilliant wit, unconventional humour and majestic personality.
I rule the world, because I have a fucking blog my friend, and you don’t.
Who cares that you bought a Mercedes?