Blob. The violin playing rock princess, with mysterious telekinetic powers, caught between being an illustrator and writer. Holds patent to the ‘bring your stories to life’ machine. Currently, she lives on a cliff by the ocean and runs a shelter for homeless puppies.
Blob’s real name is Treasa. Born and raised in….well… I would love to add something to that space but I’ve never been one to settle down! I’m a restless gypsy spirit (tempted to insert pretentious stuff about me here… HEE HEE), often accused of having attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (Which I don’t! pfft…) been devouring books since the age of five, inventor of whimsical make-believe games and stories, huge fan of DIY projects which always tend to fail.
DIFFERENT! CRAZY! IRRATIONAL NITWITS! LOUDMOUTHS!!…
The list of colourful words that “normal” people often use to tag us with is quite endless. Meaningless labels? Harsh judgement? Uncalled for criticism? NO SIREEEE!! We embrace the weirdness!! [Yea,we’re that type.]
As kids we were the annoying restless kind, wandering off into the big unknown, our imagination often running faster than our chubby legs could carry us (yea! I was a fat baby!! -_-), those were the days of messy play dough and make believe friends [and pooping all over], but the baby fat soon melted away. [No ways, she’s still fat! xP]
Enter the ABC’s and lessons on not hogging things selfishly (Glob slept through those ones on sharing… Yes! I made a dig at his six year old self, so what? He was annoying then and hasn’t changed since). Those were the lazy laidback days, when no one knew any better, there were no stereotypes, and no one knew what normal was, for all they knew the weird kid eating glue out of the jar was a pretty okay kid as far as kids go.
Scabby knees and spitty handshakes, secret codes and cooties… sudden zits and squeaky voices, hairy vajajays and pits (Yea I said vajayjay!! I’m not low-key about these things, consider yourself warned!!), hormones on fire,crushes on that person who is your soulmate and who you’ll get married to and live happily ever after [Yea, that was me] only to learn that he’s an immature freakazoid who’s flirting with your BFF [or that she’s a slimy flirtatious slut!] It was an awkward struggle, a war of sorts, you against your parents, against your bratty sibling whom you keep stealing stuff from [or against your stoopid sibling who stole it in the first place!], against teachers who didn’t understand teen-angst and kept on piling homework, against aunts that kept records of which neighbours son did what.