cheyelle omar

Luvly Jubilee!

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sat, 02 Jun 2012 08:34:00 +0000

–Bunting, Bangers and Boats

The inauguration of Liverpool's Cruise Terminal (props to anyone who signed the e-petition I placed in the sidebar) took place on Wednesday, on Thursday I discovered a shop – here in France – that sells my favourite brand of vegetarian sausages and today marks the start of celebrations for the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. It's been a good week.

Sixty years on the throne is no mean feat. And I know I say tit, fuck, wank a lot but I'm extremely grateful to Her Majesty for being a constant in my life. I've got mad respect for her (click here to send a message to The Queen).

I'm particularly looking forward to the Thames Jubilee Pageant at 2.40pm (GMT) tomorrow, when the Queen, in a Royal Barge, will join 1,000 other vessels travelling down the Thames and I'll defo be doffing my baseball cap to her.

Luvly Jubileeeeeee!

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Disabled Dog: Before & After Wheelchair

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Tue, 29 May 2012 16:45:00 +0000

–Parapuglegic

For your enjoyment!

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Free Flicks #1

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Mon, 28 May 2012 23:51:00 +0000

–'Blind' (2011)

What with the recession, I've had to place austerity measures on my entertainment budget. So it's goodbye iTunes and hello iTubes. Yep, the YT has a slew of full length flicks pour gratis (for free).

Tonight, with a €2 microwave meal and a tub of sliced pineapple, I watched Blind. Totally enjoyed the experience. Click here for the trailer, or below for the main feature.

The Omar Roadshow: Aix-en-Provence

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 27 May 2012 23:04:00 +0000

–A Pound of Flash

For your enjoyment…

Train Ticket: 1 Adult, 4 Pets (chien).

Astronauts & Juggernauts

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Thu, 03 May 2012 20:14:00 +0000

–The Omar Roadshow: Cactus Falls

My happiness is not a weapon. Some people, especially celebrities, on Twitter and Facebook et al. seem to use their happiness as a weapon. They only post pictures of holidays, new shoes, celebrations and the such. It's one of the reasons I rarely use social networks–happiness is not a weapon.

The post I wrote when I left France needs to be amended, I didn't tell the whole story and by failing to do that, my words created an unacceptable lie. I'll revise the post, I promise.

***

It was meant to be Sicily. But I'd read an article about a region in Spain that had voted to outlaw bullfighting, so I decided upon Catalonia.

A meal with Joan and family

The little fishing village just outside Barcelona had a flat-roofed train station that wouldn't look out of place in one of them ole black-and-white westerns. The town is Caldetas and I was the tumbleweed that rolled into town. Man, I was truly happy there.

I don't know if it was the kindness my landlord Joan (pronounced: wan) and his family showed me, the sea air or the spirit of the bulls [past and present] but Caldetas made me strong.

Caldetas

my yard, on the left

The town has many virtues: bucolic little parks, sandy beaches, rows of spice-coloured houses and a picturesque tree-lined high street, but it is also bisected by a huge fly-over, below which runs the coastal main line to Barcelona. Caldetas is the kind of place where both sides of the tracks are the "right side".

Despite the town's aforementioned attributes, I often put my dog in his little basket on the back of my bike and cycled to a patch of waste ground (pic above) at the edge of town. We hungout between the trains and the juggernauts. I like it up there; no one bothers and the flowers have an amaranthine quality (pic, left). I set the dog free and sat on the wall, just thinking 'bouts how lucky I am. The lorries wailing as they pass, like ghosts that can't cross over. And me on the wall at the foot of cactus falls, happy.

Remember when you was a kid and folks would always ask: what are you going to do when you grow up? And you'd say: lawyer, writer, singer, actor, arcitect (sic), astronaut etc. etc.. Well here, in a Catalonian pit stop, I realized I'm probably not going to make it in any of those fields. Thing is, I suspect the question is often misinterpreted, cos the answer should ALWAYS be: I'm going to survive.

My dad was a lorry driver.

–Cheyelle

Ps. Remember about a year ago when I spent a night in Aix-en-Provence and loved it so much that I pledged to return? Well, on Monday I left my magical, little, Catalonian fishing village and rolled into "Aces" – thus making good on my promise.

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

One for the Books

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 12:44:00 +0000

–Return of the Mac

Some of you may remember my old iBook, Delores. Yeah, you remember - I wrote a post about her when I retired her to make way for my MacBook Pro, Millicent?

Anyways, last week Millicent died. God knows what happened to her? All I know is the bitch got riga mortis, so I suspect the problem may have been with her hard drive. I'm disappointed in Apple cos she was only 2.5 years old. SMDH!!!

Truth be told, me and Millie never really hit it off; my heart always belonged to Delores. Remember how I made a pledge to Dolores to make her: Honorary Lifetime Director of Archives? Well, true to my word, all these years post retirement she has remained by my side. Matter of fact, sometimes I'd fire her up and we'd just kick it. Often behind Millie's back. Perhaps that's what killed Millicent, perhaps she died of a broken heart?

As displayed in the picture in the top right-hand corner Dolly – true to form – has come to my rescue. Note: If you're wondering why there's a big black lady next to a little silver box on Dolly's display, I'm currently watching 'The Wire' box set.

I won't be posting much or making any vids due to Dolly's lack of camera, her age, fire-up time and dementia. Sometimes she just won't wake and other times her keyboard locks in Caps or Greek Symbol. If this happens, don't worry I'm not shouting or speaking in tongues.

Despite Dolores being, as illustrated above, literally held together with tape, me and old girl are doing just fine. We been reminiscing and shit - bouts the old dayz.

***

In other news, Monday here in Catalonia was La Diada de Sant Jordi (St. George's day). The tradition here is that women buy their partner a book and men, their partner a rose (God knows what the gays do?).

It was a bloody lovely occasion. The streets were lined with book stalls and children sold roses and cookies up and down the avenues (pictured, below). I cycled up the coast to a picturesque town called Arenys de Mar and, because I'm single, purchased myself a rose plus TWO books (what else am I gonna do come nightfall?): Robert Louis Stevenson 'The Isle of Voices' and Oscar Wilde 'The Canterville Ghost' (pictured below, left).

The brilliant day was all the more significant because I had read a headline in the MailOnline lamenting the lack of national pride in St. George. I didn't actually read the article cos I find whingers incredibly dull.

But I gots to thinking about the hoopla that they make over here for La Diada de Sant Jordi, and I wondered if the English have missed a trick?

Perhaps what the Anglo-Saxons need is a gimmick? Maybe what the English should do is replicate the Catalonian tradition of exchanging gifts? You know, celebrate the day by exchanging with their loved ones something quintessentially English: I thought maybe a pasty and a magic mushroom might make a good pairing.

Just imagine all the little English cherubs on estates up and down the country making a killing knocking out them mushrooms. And who doesn't love a Ginsters?

Thought we could call it Spores Gorge's Day and the anthem could be set to the theme tune of the Magic Roundabout – in Estuary English, of course. Just an idea.

–Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

iRemember

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 09:43:00 +0000

–The Anniversary

In memory of the victims of the Hillsborough disaster.

"…love, survives."

Titanic: One Hundred Years

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 09:54:00 +0000

–On the Eve

Monetise on YouTube: A Moral Dilemma

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 16:23:00 +0000

–Addcents

Yeah, so what happened was, today, YouTubes (click on image to enlarge) sent me the following email…

…and now I have somewhat of a moral dilemma.

Enjoy!

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Günter Grass: "Persona Non Grata"

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 08 Apr 2012 13:30:00 +0000

–The Singing Sod

What must be said

Why have I kept silent, held back so long,

on something openly practiced in

war games, at the end of which those of us

who survive will at best be footnotes?

It's the alleged right to a first strike

that could destroy an Iranian people

subjugated by a loudmouth

and gathered in organized rallies,

because an atom bomb may be being

developed within his arc of power.

Yet why do I hesitate to name

that other land in which

for years—although kept secret—

a growing nuclear power has existed

beyond supervision or verification,

subject to no inspection of any kind?

This general silence on the facts,

before which my own silence has bowed,

seems to me a troubling lie, and compels

me toward a likely punishment

the moment it's flouted:

the verdict "Anti-semitism" falls easily.

But now that my own country,

brought in time after time

for questioning about its own crimes,

profound and beyond compare,

is said to be the departure point,

(on what is merely business,

though easily declared an act of reparation)

for yet another submarine equipped

to transport nuclear warheads

to Israel, where not a single atom bomb

has yet been proved to exist, with fear alone

the only evidence, I'll say what must be said.

But why have I kept silent till now?

Because I thought my own origins,

Tarnished by a stain that can never be removed,

meant I could not expect Israel, a land

to which I am, and always will be, attached,

to accept this open declaration of the truth.

Why only now, grown old,

and with what ink remains, do I say:

Israel's atomic power endangers

an already fragile world peace?

Because what must be said

may be too late tomorrow;

and because—burdend enough as Germans—

we may be providing material for a crime

that is foreseeable, so that our complicity

wil not be expunged by any

of the usual excuses.

And granted: I've broken my silence

because I'm sick of the West's hypocrisy;

and I hope too that many may be freed

from their silence, may demand

that those responsible for the open danger

we face renounce the use of force,

may insist that the governments of

both Iran and Israel allow an international authority

free and open inspection of

the nuclear potential and capability of both.

No other course offers help

to Israelis and Palestinians alike,

to all those living side by side in emnity

in this region occupied by illusions,

and ultimately, to all of us.

-Günter Grass

Click here and here for full story.

† Translated by Breon Mitchell

Easter: The Resurrection of Caves

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 12:51:00 +0000

–Redemption

Enjoy…

Samantha Brick: Vanity Flair

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 19:23:00 +0000

–In defence of Samantha Brick

Enjoy…

The Sunday Service: 'Honors'

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 21:58:00 +0000

–#82

Bearing in mind the number of people who would rubberneck the entrails of a dead lamb on the M4, I'm not really sure how much of an accolade this is. However, today, YouTube (my new bestie) anointed my channel with the 'honor' of being the 82nd most viewed in the UK (click on image to enlarge).

I couldn't have done it without you.

Innit thou!

–Cheyelle

Regarding Death Threat & Hate Comments

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 14:42:00 +0000

–Snap!

Enjoy…

My Take on Tulisa Talks

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 15:55:00 +0000

–It's The Real Thing!

Enjoy…

Baby Mama Drama

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 21:06:00 +0000

–Fallopian YouTubes

Listen, today I had every intention of bringing you something deep, meaningful and profound…then I logged onto YouTube.

The rest is a blur of videos, vitriols and couponing tutorials. I've Googled, Bing-ed and DuckDuckGoGo-ed to the point of being boggled, bonged and fuckfuck gonzo-ed. I AM SPENT!

With Eastender's Ben killing off Heather with a picture fame (WTF…a picture frame??!), and British X Factor judge Tulisa Costasuckalot confessing it WAS indeed her videoed slapping herself in the face with a black man's cock in a leaked-online sex tape – you'd think we'd get some drama respite. But no, YouTube was on fire today, and it all centers around four babies and a popular YouTube advice guru…

Basically, the "guru" had been, for the past year-or-so, giving advice to her THOUSANDS of subscribers. Having previously announced to her followers she was expecting triplets, she uploaded a hospital-bedside video (below) featuring the babies, which turned out to be quadruplets (yes, they found an extra one during labour – like you do).

In the meantime, another YouTuber decided – after hearing the celebratory news – to make a video wishing the guru well and asking her OWN subscribers to head over to the guru's channel and "show love" and perhaps help out with some baby accessories/supplies.

And all was fine…until one or two eagle-eyed viewers noticed that the babies featured bore an uncanny resemblance to plastic dolls. Some viewers were so incensed by the perceived dupe, they produced exposé videos. In response, the guru released an extremely vociferous video (below) denouncing her doubters as "haters". But her predicament was compounded when another YouTuber discovered what he/she claims is the guru's Ebay page, which seemed to confirm the guru had indeed purchased two biracial Reborn dolls. Cue: the perfect YouTube shit storm.

Now, as anyone who knows me knows, I am about as maternal as a Jimmy Choo shoe in Oprah Winfrey's closet. It doesn't matter how cute, sweet or goo-gooey your newborn is, eventually I'm gonna turn the conversation around to my puppy. That's just how I'm wired. That said, despite a large amount of certainty amongst the YouTube community, I genuinely can't tell if the babies are real or not. To me they look like Mimi's Moroccan and Monroe, but with ginger barnets. I've Googled the heck out of the subject, and I'm still not 100%.

What do you fink?

Holla

–Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Podigal Daughter' Vlogs #2

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 21:43:00 +0000

–A Puppy's Tale: The Endgame

Enjoy…

The Procession

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 02:07:00 +0000

–"A God of Second Chances"

As you know, I've been lamenting the passing of Whitney Houston (I promise I'll stop talking about her…in a month or six). Today was her funeral. I got a Toblerone in, special.

It struck me, halfway through the uplifting service and long after the demise of the Toblerone, Whitney had played us all - she had got us all to go to church.

Kevin Costner's eulogy was touching and insightful, and Tyler Perry preached. Bebe Winans made us laugh with his "Crazy Whitney" yarn, and Stevie and Cece sang. Dionne was composed, Alicia cried, R. Kelly faltered, Aretha was a no-show and Clive Davis's speech made for a perfect toilet break. It was epic…and yet intimate. Plus, there was a couple of black Nurse Ratched lookalikies wandering round the place.

I crooned, I swayed and I clapped. I said out loud, just as the pastor instructed: "prioritise" and "I stand". I amen-ed, I laughed and yeah, I cried.

The service finished at around 10pm Spanish time; the coffin carried up the aisle to Whitney's I Will Always Love You interspersed with the sound of sobbing from those in the congregation who returned the sentiment and lacked the resolve of a stiff upper lip.

I logged off Livestream and closed my laptop. The dogs were in the yard so the house was quiet. It was light when the service started and now it was dark. I went to the kitchen. Trust Whitney to have such a sensational funeral, I thought to myself as I loitered by the fridge. I felt a little deflated. Spent. Lonely. Afraid?

But then came the magic. Music – as if orchestrated specially for me by Denzel Washington's character in The Preacher's Wife. A wall of sound breached the shutters on the windows, echoed in the hollow of the unoccupied bedrooms, gushed down the hall and overflowed in my ears and heart. The sound filled the empty house and washed over the back garden, making the dogs bark like mad.

I grabbed my keys and opened the front door. A night procession (pictured below) was making its way through town; through the one-way streets of my little fishing village and past my temporary home. The floats, which were decorated in gaudy fabrics and flashing lights, rocked like little fishing boats in a moonlit harbour, as kids onboard danced to the beats. As the carnival convoy – its source, destination and raison d'être unknown to me – passed by, the costumed-children waved and threw handfuls of glitter and confetti.

That was the exact moment I exhaled. I smiled, grabbed my camera and, not for the first time that day, waved my heart out.

–Cheyelle Omar

Podigal Daughter Vlodcast (new for 2012!)

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 18:59:00 +0000

–The Whitney Edition

I've decided to extend my hugely successful podcast The Podigal Daughter™ into the realm of vlogging or, as I like to call it: vlodcasting.

Enjoy…

The Voice

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 13:16:00 +0000

–Sunday's Song

Her's was the first album I ever bought; a cassette purchased from a branch of Woolworth's on Albany Road, Cardiff. The album was called Whitney Houston.

I don't have any tears for her, but I do feel that inexplicable and irrational sense of loss that one feels when someone turns off the radio before the great song is played out to the very end.

For previous Whitney articles click here and here.

2012 New Yr's Fireworks: Sydney v London

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 17:57:00 +0000

–The Big Vote-off

The film Annie musta had a real profound effect on me because to this day, wheneva I orgasm, I see my name scrawled across the night sky – just like in the closing credits of Annie – in red twinkling sparks, surrounded by an unrelenting cacophony of exploding, multicolored, fireworks. Such is the intensity of this recurring, lucid, visualisation, sometimes it is all I can do NOT to scream out: YAS, DADDY WARBUCKS! YASSSS!

Yes, I know, that was waaaaaaaaaaay too much information. But, it does illustrate just why I look forward to the New Year’s Eve displays so much, and tend to replay them on YouTube well into the new year.

I love it. It’s that uncontainable flash of brilliance, which can only be lived-out in darkness, and occurs in those fragile seconds between the kindled powder’s return to ash that gets me every time. Never once have I, on hearing the explosion’s final cadence, not wished for just one more. Just one more…

The BBC’s live coverage of the fireworks didn’t disappoint (although I preferred last year's soundtrack), and neither did Sydney’s six-million-dollar display, which I watched on YouTube.

As discussed in last year’s New Year's Day' post: Sydney used to be, in my opinion, the gold standard in pyrotechnical excellence. But these days, that’s a title I’m increasingly inclined to award to London.

As a bona fide "whinging pom" (that's Australian for: British person), it’s hard to tell if London’s [fireworks] really are better than Australia’s – or if I am a tad bias.

Of course, I'm being extremely pyro-nickety (that’s a homemade mash-up of the words ‘pyrotechnic’ and ‘pernickety’); after all, both displays were absolutely dazzling. But just for fun, and in honour of Daddy Warbucks, I've decided to post both videos and add a little poll (in the sidebar, right) to the old blogaroonie, where YOU can cast your own vote. Cos, as the old adage goes, “If you want flame, you gotta sparkle”…or was it “sweat”?

Anyhoo, I’ll leave the poll up for a month and the city with the most votes, if anyone votes, will receive a cameo in my next big orgasm.

Thanks for stopping by and feel free to leave your thoughts – or links to your favourite firework displays – below.

Have a great 2012!

–Cheyelle

Update!
Well, the result of the poll was 4 votes apiece (see below). Therefore it looks like both London's big dong and Australia's golden showers will both feature in my NBO (Next Big Orgasm). My thanks to anyone who took the time to vote, comment or read the post.

New Year…

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 20:36:00 +0000

…Same old problems

"Crimbo's done and anova new year's about to begun."

– Cheyelle Omar

That's poetry from a professional. Don't say I don't never give you nuffin.

***

Here's a snapshot I took of my one-testicled, epileptic, paraplegic, 12-year-old pug smiling through the pain, on the beach today.

Boycie

I've got a feeling we'll all be doing a bit of that in 2012 – smiling through the pain. But with any luck there'll be warmth, grit, and blue skies. And kindness to carry us when the going gets tough.

Be…lucky!

–Cheyelle. x.

COPYRIGHT ©2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Shells…

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 11:37:00 +0000

…with holes in them

Last year, I found my Christmas tree. This Christmas, I found my adornment.

The tree was purchased for €1.25 at the Euro Store (that's the Spanish equivalent of a Pound Shop/Dollar Store – the Chinese get about, don't they?). With the exception of a little woollen fairy (to sit atop), which cost €1, I had no intention of buying decorations cos I'm on the road. So, I decided to make them. I resolved – because I walk my dogs along the beach more or less every day – to decorate my tree with shells.

There was a time, in my youth, when I'd comb the beach for the most beautiful shells I could find. But in this year of my life, I combed the shoreline for the imperfect, the wounded, the worn down; shells with holes in them. It's amazing, if you take the time to look, just how many shells there are with precise little holes in them. It's like there's a production line of mermaids somewhere under the ocean, doing it with drill bits.

It was whilst in pursuit of my quarry that I had thought: I am a shell with a hole in it. What if we're all shells with holes in them and we don't know it – we can only feel it, in the fragile hours? And supposing that were true, then wouldn't it also be true that despite all the coveted, beautiful, most perfect shells that wash up on the shoreline – there must be others, like me, looking for the one with a hole in it?

To my readers: I'm glad I found you, and you me.

Merry Christmas!

my dogs, this morning (L-R: Wilberforce, Boycie, Harpo)

The Rock River Files | File 3 | Pt. 2

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 19:09:00 +0000

–Potamolgy 101

Roundabouts

Despite the staggeringly beautiful views the house afforded me, I decided to stop and sit by the big roundabout at the edge of town. I can’t swim and can’t drive, so rivers and roundabouts are more or less the same to me; they both ebb and flow, they both have the potential to take you somewhere great (if you judge them right), and they both can kill you. But most importantly, roundabouts and rivers often have nice banks to stop, sit and think at.

I was sat on the gabions, watching tributaries of cars flow around the island, thinking: It’s over. And I’ll probably never come back. But that don’t mean fuck you. It’s just the way it is, the way it should be. I remembered it all, all at once, so I’d never forget: the most beautiful greengrocers I’ve ever seen (pictured below), my elderly neighbour Madame Francine (she hugged so hard I could hardly breathe, and helped me when my electricity cut out), the shortcut – through the field of purple flowers – between the supermarket and square (pictured left), my hamlet and its little winding streets (pictured three below, right), the sun, the light, the warmth, the smell of jasmine and freshly baked bread, the figs, the olive tree and the lazy cat by the drinking fountain. I smiled on the inside (where it really counts), then I didn’t think of nothing much, I just enjoyed sitting there knowing I was leaving…not knowing where the Disco Rollers would take me next.

As I watched the drivers going round, shadows of scudding clouds in the October sky made the distant mountain look as though it was bleeding, and the autumn leaves in the carbon monoxide slipstream flashed by like undiscovered gold. Yes, I thought to myself, this place is definitely a woman… a woman who knows a thing or two about Liberté. I thanked her for letting me in and letting me go. Adieu, Châteauneuf-Grasse. Goodbye, Michael's Castle. Au revoir, France.

***

My friend from Glasgow asked, whilst we were sat at the dining room table, six weeks earlier: “How do you do it, all by yourself? I kinda envy you.” She was referring to the way I travel alone (I think). I thought about it for a while, and then said something like: You’ve got to really like yourself, like your own company. As soon as I said it I regretted it. It was such a crude Dr. Phil-esque thing to say and she deserved better. What I should of said is…

Don’t expect too much from humanity. There are some parts of humanity I/you will never get to experience, and that’s just how it should be – how nature intended. I think the expectation on humanity is what makes folks feel so empty…on the inside (where it really counts). It’s like the dining room table, the one we’re sat at; I ain’t got enough time or space to fill it with all the food and drink I’d like to taste, but that don’t mean I ain’t gonna gorge myself on what’s there. That’s how I do it. I gorge myself on what’s there.

Sometimes you’re waiting on a river, sometimes you’re rolling on a river, and sometimes you’re drowning in a river. But if you’re really, really, really lucky – sometimes you get to live in the mother-fucking French Riviera. Go with it.

***

I left France at the beginning of November. My dogs and I currently reside in a petite, flat-roofed, single story house, which, funnily enough, is situated beside a little roundabout in the heart of a small fishing village just outside Barcelona (or as I like to call it: BarcelOmar), Spain. And you, my friends, are rollin' with me.

Olé!

–Cheyelle

Gone Fishing

noreply@blogger.com (Cheyelle Omar) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 19:23:00 +0000

–Back to Back

Sometimes just the mere thought of a comma turns my stomach. I'll be back when I'm done enjoying the sun on my back.

me and boycie – today