08 August, 2013

'Life Update'- my dad just texted me.

Stand down everyone. Bethy is no longer lonely.


What do I have to do to spark a healthy debate around here?! My blog is as flat and lifeless as my fringe was in Year Seven. Seriously, the summer seems to have reduced everyone to listless bumblebee corpses!!!! I'm bored and I'm lonely and I'm too hot for this weather and too pale and too lazy to do anything about any of those things as, 9/10 times it means going outside. How gay.

06 August, 2013

Abortion- some light evening reading

Hello! What better way to ease myself back into the creative flow than to talk about a huge, huge issue at the moment; not for any particular reason, other than having read Caitlin Moran's extremely provocative, yet endearingly funny book, How To Be a Woman. In it, she talks with honesty, surprisingly and yet not, in favour of aborting pregnancies. Surprising because she's a Guardian columnist; not, because she writes about her own, personal experiences. This lead me to ponder my own choice regarding the sitch; I've come to the infeasibly quick decision that I don't mind abortions. Really, I don't.
Now let's get down to WHY.

Obviously, I have never (thank almighty God) been in this position, and thus everything I'm about to say (as with everything ELSE I say on this blog) has to be taken with a pinch of salt the size of the horse on the White Horse Hill (which incidentally is NOT a horse, thanks; any of them, just a blur of abstract, dancing lines. But that's a different story).

Firstly, the whole argument that, like 'Good AIDS and Bad AIDS', there are also 'Good' and 'Bad' abortions. This, is nonsense. At the end of the day, you're either (depending on what you believe) killing an innocent, potentially lovely-smelling future leader of the world, OR you're righting a mistake that was made. Whether you are a stay-at-home, middle class, South Ken-dwelling Earth Mother, or a distraught, psychologically damaged rape victim, abortion is the same. This is like saying, incidentally, that rapists come in good and bad forms; a drunken stranger is a good, accidental rapist, whereas a completely sober, calculating and well-known abuser is a bad rapist. It's ALL THE SAME. Sorry, but it is.

Next, what kind of God would compel you to conceive, and ultimately share your life, love, body and spirit with an unwanted child. What kind of God would be happiest for you to see, every day, the child borne of a rape? If this innocent child came into the world, why punish it for absolutely no crime, by being unable to offer it even the bottom layer of the pyramid of human needs; food, shelter and water? That's not fair. I don't want to believe in a God who thinks that this should happen.

And finally, the big one: murder. You're killing a child. You are ending a human life. For one, that'd be illegal. Very illegal. So very illegal, in fact, that there would NOT be any facilities to accommodate such a wish in the UK. But we have these facilities, and just because an issue is skirted around awkwardly at a dinner party, does not make said issue illegal. Yes, of course I have my reservations about a termination carried out towards the very tale-end of the 24-week 'deadline', as this is testing Fate to the very best of its ability, which I do believe is morally wrong. However, if needed, if borne of necessity, then so be it.

What I suppose I'm trying to do is remove the stigma, clear away the terror associated with the word, in order to make everyone just feel that little bit calmer.

29 July, 2013

Useful things I've done with my summer so far

(not in chronological order):
Dyed my hair blue (it's now a rather fetching silvery-green as pictured)
Watched half of American Psycho (I now know half the dillio)
Pimped out my room
Made some actual plans
Got a job
Got an interview for another job
Went to a few parties
Got through prom
Can now cycle fiveish miles in twenty minutes
Survived a night in my house without my parents
Developed my knowledge of LOTR
Learnt how to cook chips muy perfectly
Congratulations to Bethy, hooray for me

27 July, 2013

Full circle

I always think back to the beginning of my secondary school edumication, when I was a little Year Seven. I always play the, 'What if?' game, like what if I'd listened to some, ignored others, made different friends, listened more, listened less...I wonder how much different my experience, and my place now, would be.
I like to think it wouldn't be any different to my current situation; I like to think a lot of things, mainly that I'm immoveable, and that everything that has happened to me has happened for a reason. Not all that 'Faith' nonsense, more about the fact that the kind of person I am has lead me up to this point. I don't want to change for anyone, or anything but of course it's only natural. Basic principle of Evolution: you adapt to fit your climate. Sad as that may seem, it's a necessity. If you want to survive, you will do whatever it takes. 

That's why I look at Facebook, I look at girls who hated girls, girls who loved boys, boys who chased girls, and boys that time forgot. To be left behind is a reality in this world, and sometimes I envy it.

23 July, 2013

Hashtag summer plans

Why am I writing this at quarter past one on a Tuesday morning? Guaranteed this post will be even less coherent than normal (sorryyyyy...). I'm sat in the computer room of Boy's house and we're aiming to pull an all-nighter, with plans not to sleep until we say our goodbyes and I head for home tomorrow EVENING (he deprives me of napping...sadist).
Perfect way to say goodbye in preparation for two long, long weeks apart. Aw.
WHICH IS WHY I HAD TO MAKE PLANS. I have to do something when my main source of entertainment (and sanity) is suddenly, shockingly absent from my life. For example, my room got a top-to-toe revamp when he was finishing off his last exams. In one week, with Boy locked in his ivory tower of Mathsy bidnizz, I enlisted the help of Peachy to paint, rearrange, clean and sort my hovel of a room. I jest, it wasn't that bad. How can a room with a double bed and a canopy be so bad? Well, unfortunately, having a double bed means I have to relinquish at LEAST half of the floor space in my room. On the up side, though, I can hide things (VERY NEATLY, NEVER FEAR) underneath said double bed. Also, I have a double bed. That's a plus, too.
Consequently, with Peachy Keen now breathing down my neck, and after two hard days of slogging away, my room is pin-neat. Which is good.

But this brings me to the rather thorny issue of WHAT NOW. How will I fill these long, empty and ACHINGLY HOT summer days without the company of Boy? River swimming is no fun unless I have someone floating in the rapids below the brick bride, (unsuccessfully) coercing me to jump into the (freezing cold, murky) water. Oh, you may be wondering whatever happened to the days of sassy, feminine independence. Well, I'm not a complete loss without him.
On the contrary. PK and I drafted a comprehensive list of 'Summer Plans' yesterday, with the intention of getting at least one item on the list TICKED RIGHT OFF.
This is dependant on her getting a job rather soon, as things like vintage clothes shopping and day tripping to the Tate don't come cheap. But little things, like going camping in her fancy, girly new tepee. Gathering a load of friends for a pickernick. Cycling to nearby Hungerford ('nearby' crow my aching, traitorous thighs, oh how they scream), to go strawberry picking at a farm shop.


13 July, 2013

Yet again, Year Eleven

I went to prom the other week and I wish I hadn't. Yeah, my dress rocked, my boyfriend looked good and most likely I'd have been driving myself crazy wondering what people were saying about me and looking like, had I not been there.
And yet.
It was SO PREDICTABLE. Cliched, boring girls in ridiculous tans, guys getting drunk in dinner jackets from not-so-stealthily-hidden hip-flasks, teachers fairly tipsy, dancing the night away on the cheap, dusty parquet dance mat (I hesitate to call it a 'floor') to a trashy-sounding array of 'club hits' from the desperately bored, underpaid DJ.
Lukewarm food, the air heavy with expectation and bad perfume as well as crafty joints and fags. The smell of the rain being carried in from the smokers' base, static, prickly carpet under foot.

The worst thing, though? The worst thing is that once again, Year 11 have failed to surpass the shockingly low expectations I set for them; to hell with your preconceived notions, I've known this sorry lot for five years and not once have I been impressed with anything they have dredged up for me.
Call it dissatisfaction with my age group, call it a teenage crisis; but don't call it a surprise. I don't know why I keep so pointlessly flogging this poor dead horse: these people have no imagination. No desire to be anything different than tired, bored and boring; their satisfaction dredged from other people's misfortune.
Case in point: not content with being samey and disinteresting enough at prom, these people had to organise voting for various, rubbishy titles like 'Prom King and Queen'. Of course, it's FAR too bourgeois to take anything seriously nowadays, so the titles that MATTERED ('Best Dressed') were awarded, quite predictably, to the inner circle. King was also taken seriously, as the winner was deemed a good enough all-rounder (physically fit, attractive and popular...with the personality of a spoon) to win an actual award. But prom Queen? Awarded to a, yes, irritating, but not harmfully so, girl in a big, poofy pink dress. The dress was the subject of much...discussion, throughout the course of prom; rich really, considering the source of the discussion issued forth from the overly-made-up mouths of mahogany-skinned girls.

I am guilty of sarcasm, Christ knows; but how horrible is it that she didn't even know? Not one member of Year Eleven wanted to tell her...most because that would have been the end of the hilarious joke at her expense. I didn't tell her because it isn't in my nature to spread bad news. I complimented her dress sincerely as I could because to be honest, it wasn't half as bad as some of the pretentious, over-stuffed meringues in that godforsaken dining room.

So congratulations, to all of you guys. How wonderful of you, how poignant and touching an ending to five years I never want to repeat. I can't stand the vast majority of you, so I shan't be making polite conversation next year.