Welcome to the blog of Matt Armstrong!
I hate talking about myself. Actually, scratch that. If we were in the same room together, I could talk for hours, boring you about the inanities of my life. I do it to my family and coworkers constantly. But ask me to sit and write down my thoughts, my own thoughts, and I panic.
I can give you Lloyd’s thoughts, any time, anywhere, any place. But Lloyd isn’t me. (He wishes—my life is far quieter.)
So, what can be said about me? I’m officially classified as “middle-aged”, a term I used to throw around every time I saw someone old, and now that I’m a part of that demographic, I simultaneously embrace it and hate it. I may be 40, but I still look 39, and that’s what counts. I’m of the millennial varieties, the elder class, and if a psychological disorder could sum up my entire people, it would be “Arrested Development.” What do they call us? The Peter Pan generation. Adulting sucks, we’re aging better than Gen X, and we constantly dream about fighting pirates. The latter may not be Millennial-exclusive.
Basically, on the inside, I’m a child running around trapped in a middle-aged body, wondering why his knees don’t work so good anymore. What’s your favourite dinosaur? Mine is the Dilophosaurus. I liked them before they were cool. (Also, it’s appearance in Jurassic Park was my first ‘geek out’ moment.)
Anyway.
I grew up in Calgary, spending my childhood running through the streets of Riverbend. If you were the woman living around the corner of Riverbrook Rd and Riverbend Dr, circa ’95, frowning in horror at the 12-year-old boy who stopped outside your house to light a cigarette, that was me. You should have said something—it took me 25 years to kick that habit. It’s kind of your fault, if you think about it.
Fast forward to my twenties, I met the cutest Australian chick on an online forum for a mutually enjoyed book series. In 2011, she showed up at my doorstep. In 2012, I put a ring on her finger and followed her home like a little lost puppy. Now I live Down Under, dodging spiders, snakes, and the occasional Drop Bear. (Always keep a travel tube of vegemite in your pocket! You never know when you need to smear it behind your ears to keep those bastards away.)
We’ve been married for going on 11 years now. My 30s were the best decade of my life, and fingers crossed, my 40s are even better.
I work predominantly in retail settings, mostly receiving, and I am, in fact, forklift certified. (Sorry ladies, as previously stated, I’m married.) My talents are utterly wasted and do not align with my chosen profession, which I am actively working on correcting. It’s never too late to get back to your dreams, and make them a reality.
So, I’ve rambled long enough for one post. Check back soon, and I’ll discuss how I came up with Lloyd Gibson, and all the excitement and pitfalls that came with it. Beyond that, we’ll see. I’ve never blogged before, so I’ll either heavily neglect this (to my absolute detriment) or you’ll see me discuss the most random shit I can think of. Hopefully the latter.
I hope you enjoyed reading In Like Lloyd and his continued adventures! His journey is far from over, and I promise to keep you on the edge of your seat. You will not see what’s coming next.
To anyone reading this blog who hasn’t read my book yet, well… What’s the hold up? Get to it.
Go on. Do it.
Read it.
I dare you.
I double dog dare you, and by playground rules, you now have to read it.
Enjoy!
Sincerely, best regards and wishes, a raised glass and a cheers,
Matt Armstrong