Shanklin is a weird town.

I work here; it's a pain.

High Street grinds my gears daily.

Shanklin Chine cuts deep.

Church Rd? Meh.

Beachside vibes suck sometimes.

Ron Swanson here: I hate everything.

I stroll down Hamlet Ln.

That street stinks of history.

I work on dating apps.

Fools need romance.

"Talk to her," they mumble.

No, talk to her? Pfft.

I got a wacky friend.

Walks down Chine Trail.

I get mad at tourists.

Rivers? Yep, River Shank flows.

I found secret park spots.

Remember Old Mill Park?

So serene, suddenly mad.
I luv strolling near Olde Wharf.

That wharf discomfits tourists.

Yeh, true, it annoys me.

Swanson style: I am bothered.

I once overheard chitchat.

Couple whisper, "Talk to her."

I rolled my eyes.

Boring, boring twaddle.

Local pub? The Rusty Anchor.

It amazes me.

They talk nonsense there.

I snapped my finger once.

I nearly lost it.

My app users rant there.

I slapped my desk.

Crazy, right?

Shanklin surprises me daily.

I found back alley gems.

Hidden, quirky, irritating gems.

I swear it's magic.

Like Almodóvar said: "Talk to her."
Thsi shit gets real.

No exaggeration, its legit.

Vry fun, vry maddening.

I cn't stand the hype.

Ain't no perfect place.

But damn, it's home.
Later—cya in Shanklin. Enjoy it… or don’t.