We have liftoff!

Ah, my first post on my first blog. Sort of like losing my virginity, except without the restraining order. Welcome, all, to what will be less an insightful journey into the day-to-day life of a small-town prairie boy trying to make it big in Southern Ontario (the "armpit" of Canada) than a cathartic release of the vitriolic hatred I feel for my new home. With lots of ten-dollar words thrown in.

So, let's begin.

Though commonly known as Ontario's "Forest City", London is no mere provincial backwater. It possesses celebrity and mystique, aura and fantasy, stifling humidity and foot-long houseflies. Known for its skanky undergraduates, its epic basement floods, and a complete dearth of anything remotely approaching culture or nightlife, London, Ontario will serve as my personal hell-on-earth for the next eight months, two days, and five hours.

Not that I'm counting.

I'll admit, London does have its upside. For one, the campus is quite nice, even if the omnipresence of purple does get a bit much at times. The city's urban design has been so planned that no resident is ever more than three-point-seven metres from a Tim Horton's; Londoners have been known to order double-doubles simply by bellowing for one while sitting on the john. And, as far as I can tell, the city has gone at least six whole years without being attacked by giant radioactive three-headed locusts.

Perhaps I'll take some photos of this urban paradise in the near future, at which you may all recoil in horror. Or perhaps I'll just let your imaginations run amok, though you have to promise that they won't run into rush-hour traffic without first looking both ways. Either way, trust me when I say this - if you're planning a holiday in the near future, consider strongly the one on the other side of the Atlantic. I hear it's got a queen and a giant clock and WCs and the world's most ancient monument, Keith Richards.

(Ho ho, jokes about Keith Richards' age are so edgy! Next up, Michael Jackson's surgically-reconstructed face! And then a few witticisms about the Boer War! I kill me.)

Anyways, enjoy the trip, don't drag mud across my nice new Persian carpets, you young whippersnapper (I just had them cleaned) and drop me a line or emergency rations - ginger snaps work exceedingly well - when you can.

Oh, and here's a stylish and sexy photo of me, so you can all drool agonizingly over that which you can no longer have. ;)

-T.