26 December, 2010

Old things.

I've just been re-reading my blog whilst listening to Sub Focus and Last Planet on Spotify. It's pretty good, but the post I picked at random just happened to be the one on October the 26th, excactly two months before this very date. I just thought I would stop, take stock and reassess my situation.
OK. So, I'm now slightly older, slightly more mature (mmm, believe it if you want to), and two months further in my relationship. I was still at the old school, hating the new school and looking forward to Bonfire Night and my Birthday. Now, Christmas has just passed and I'm looking towards the Cottage- Warming party that I'm going to with Dad and Brother on the 29th (Theme- old 70's sitcom), and New Year's Eve.
Speaking of which, my New Year's resolution is to run every day, starting New Year's Day, no matter how awful I feel, or whether I'm doing something 'important'. I want to run the cross-country at Sport's Day, you see; and I want to come in places 1-4, out of eight of us. I must've mentioned before the ridiculous sporting hierarchy implemented by the ludicrous female P.E staff. This will give me a chance to prove myself, someone from the bottom group (gasp!) might actually, possibly, maybe perhaps win it. And to prove to myself that I'm going to STICK to this pledge, I'm posting it on my blog. So you guys will have to remind me, support me and cheer me on...or not.

Some day, I will be good at something. Not just something academic, I will be good at something; I will be fit, and sporty, and I will have chosen a sport, or an active hobby that I will be good at. I might enter competitions, I might win competitions, who knows?
I decided this when I was watching BBC Sports' Personality of the Year a week ago; beforehand, I'd never had much interest in most sports. I'm not saying I've snapped overnight and I'm suddenly a fitness fanatic (shudder. Oh God, NO), but I'm saying that I wish I could be good at something and show it. And not just use my vastly superior intellect and killing wit to get to where I want to be in life. I don't HAVE to be good at sports, but I'm sick of complaining about being mistreated for not being good at sports; complaining never did any good (to my knowledge. But then, what I know could be written on the back of one eighth of a postage stamp to be fair), and I quite fancy the idea of being good and sporty-fresh.
Ahh well.
A girl can try.


First of all, Merry Christmas to you all; I hope you had a nice day, and hopefully are still having a good time!
Being the ridiculously spoilt girl that I am, I did get quite a few presents, most of which I centrainly don't deserve to be honest; but then again, I'm not saying take them back! So here we go, I shall now write a list of everything that I got :)
Chocolate & Vanilla Bath Salt and Hand Cream from Esme.
A dark green satchel with 'Soviet' on it from Kiera.
Bright red lipgloss from Kiera.
Chocolate box thingy from Charles' parents.
Percy Pig piggy bank and Percy Pigs from Charles.
Dove shower gel gift set from Charles.
Strawberry lip balm from Charles.
Silver heart keyring from Charles.
Silver photoframe from Charles.
Fluffy pink socks from Charles.
Blink-182 greatest hits from Charles.
Blink-182 ticket for the O2 from the Blundy clan.
A beautiful Jack Wills dress from my Auntie and...Uncle?
Spotty leggings and a hat box (?) from Auntie Bernard.
A gorgeous hand-knitted scarf from my godmother.
WHSmiths giftcard from Auntie Morsey and Uncle Jerrsey (pronounced J-air-see).
Roxy T-Shirt from the Lambourn clan.
Hideously sour and addictive sweets from the Lambourn clan.
Reese's Pieces nail polish that smells like peanut butter when it dries.
A Snuggie (technically a Slanket) from my brother :)
A full length mirror from my Parents :)
Clinique 'happy' perfume and moisturiser from my Parents :)
A Ducti bag from my Parents :)
An epic Pussycat dress from my Parents :)
A Day To Remember- What Separates You From Me CD from my Parents :)
Just Listen and The Truth About Forever books by Sarah Dessen from my Parents :)
Blink-182 Greatest Hits CD from my Parents :)
LOADS of Body Shop stuff from my Parents :)
Three pairs of knee-high socks from my Parents :)
Lovely makeup from my Parents :)
Lee Trafford 'Violent Violet' hair colour from my Parents :)
Terry's Chocolate Orange from my Parents :)
Golden coins from my Parents :)
A BIG Hazlenut Quality Street from my Parents :)
Cadbury's Selection Box from my Parents :)
A Gumball machine from my Parents :)
I think I've probably missed lots of stuff out, but those are the only things I can think of for now; I'm so ridiculously spoilt, yes, I know :D
But I'm also worth it ;)
Now, I'm going to go and enjoy my post-Christmas glow. Thank you, and goodday.

23 December, 2010

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I attempt to define ''Love''.

Right-o, love. Well, if you're reading this, don't get mad at my potentially pathetic and very, very wrong definition; but in my humble opinion (or, IMHO if you will), love is something totally different to each person. I mean, some people see it as life-changing, some see it as painful, and others...well, others see it as cash, but let's not go down that road for now. Or ever.

But, even though I'm a cynical old bag, I believe in love; I'm also quite old-fashioned at heart, in that I think 'saving yourself until marriage' is quite a respectable thing to do. I'm not saying everyone should do it, and I myself don't even want to think about whether I will or not, not at this age, but I'd cheer anyone on that managed it. Celibacy is very underrated, sometimes it is nice to save yourself and your body for the person that you're sure will fill your heart and feel your pain; it's like giving them the last little piece of you that no-one else has and no-one will again. But lets stear away from these waters, shall we?

If I had an unlimited amount of words at my disposal to describe love, it would go something like this: Look at every emotion and adjective in the dictionary.
Love is big and tall and wide; it fills your mind, heart, body and soul if the person you think about is the one special enough to minorly possess your body.
Love can be small, thin and short; to fit in a corner of your mind anywhere you go, because someone really special that got away will have a habit of doing that, you know.
It's beautiful, sparkling, captivating, amazing, dazzling, blinding, and fuzzy; because every single person in the world has a heart (honestly, I swear...), and each of the 6.6bill (average) people involved will, at some point, feel all of these things at once. It swells up inside your head, relentlessly pounding on your temples until you feel like you'er about to burst with the sheer amount of feeling that's going on. But you don't, believe me. Your body decides to stick in there and subject you to this lot.
It can be ugly, dull, difficult, painful, boring or even scary; it makes you do or think stupid stuff, makes you a lot more sensitive and a lot more paranoid, but all the same, it's worth it.

If you've ever been in love, and you disagree with this, don't go telling me I'm wrong. I'm not wrong; to me, love is everything. Love can be nothing, and every time I think of the person concerned (an awful lot), my heart will start some form of dancing. Whether it chooses an upbeat 'boogie' or opts for a more sombre Charleston depends purely upon the circumstance.
But anyway.

So, just think about love. To me, love and my boyfriend are everything at the moment; I'm only fourteen (oh joy), but you don't have tob e a grown-up to know what love is. I'd happily stake my life on the fact that whatever I feel towards said boyfriend is pretty real. It tears me up at the worst of times, but other than that, it makes the moon eclipse and circle round my heart :)

To my boyfriend: I love you. Those three words make up nine months' memories, arguements, tears and laughs. Just know that I'd never swap you for the world. You are my world, after all.

That's all, folks!

20 December, 2010

And so, it is Christmas.

In the past year, a lot of stuff has happened to seemingly make the year itsself feel more like ten. But it's almost the end of the 2011th year since Jesus' birthday on this Earth, and promises of a New Year lie in tantaziling distance. What I've never understood is why the year ends at December and starts again at January...surely if Jesus' gang made his birthday Christmas (which must SUCK, you only get half the presents; good for the parents though, make a couple of cheeky cutbacks, oioi) then you'd want the year to start on the 26th, or Boxing Day. And WHY is it called Boxing day? We don't box! Are we breaking tradition? We just sit around and watch repeats of things on the televison with a biiiiiig glow of satisfaction and stockings to open. Wheeee!! But yeah, anyway. OMG Bobby Davro (?) is on Come Dine With Me, but I digress (I'm digressing meaninglessly all over the shop wearing a Christmas hat; suck on that!).
So, Christmas this year; it will be different, and because we've had so much snow, I feel like I'm in a Hallywood romcom, which is never a good thing; prolonged exposure to box-office mush turns your brain to grey soup, much like reality TV, smoking and being a teacher. Personality transplants do exist, just ask my tutor, if you can get hold of her. I wouldn't recommend it to be honest, she sucks my soul out with a simple greeting. Although that's probably because she's also my PE teacher, and the sound of her voice transports me back to numerous PE lessons, being yelled at for not catching a stupid plastic ball or missing an 'easy pass'. Cuhh! What is an 'easy pass' when it's at home, anyway? I wouldn't know what one was if it jumped onto my lap, bellydanced for England and started talking Welsh. Oh, hey, Cerys Matthews. *cue Tumbleweed*.

11 December, 2010

For once, I'm speechless.

I have no idea what to say. I fancied the idea of typing whilst pounding away on my keyboard whilst listening to Blink through big headphones, but I don't know what to write. So I won't; goodbye.

10 December, 2010

Stuff I like.

Wahey, here we are once again, on this dilapadted excuse for an online diary; in the grand words of Wikipedia, did you know that a blog is usually maintained by an individual with regular entries of commentary (PAHA!), descriptions of events (mmmyeah...), or other material such as graphics or video. Right, moving on...Wikipedia can't tell me what to do!

Stuff I quite like:

My iPod- it carries so much music, which, as I've already posted, carries memories for me. It's like a small, purple, shiny, fifth-generation memory bank with a built-in camera :)
Spotify- iTunes doesn't work on my laptop (megaultrasuper fail), so I'm using the knockoff version, of which I get twenty hours a week. Crazy Town just came on, wheee!
Eyeliner- it makes me look like a cat, apparently, or an Egyptian, depending on how much or little I put on. Yes, I make it too thick, and I probably wear too much, enough to feed a family in poverty in Zambia for a week, but that's just me.
Hoodies- they're so comfortable and warm; if worn properly, they look immensely cool and not tatty, scruffy, chavvy or a combination thereof (Heaven forbid).
Random smiling at people- at the risk of sounding like an Earth-whisperer, I do like walking along the street and glancing up at a greying, focused old stranger huddled against the brutal winds (hang on...I'm sounding a little bit Soviet now. Woadka...), then I just shoot them a third-degree charm-watt SPARKLER. Yep, I grin, roll my eyes slightly as if to say, 'Tsk. Mischeivous England, making us feel Russian, eh?, and continue along the way, my heart feeling slightly lighter with every step I take.
Random compliments- I love getting them as much as I love giving them; it does make someone's day, or at least stick in their mind to be told their hair looks lovely, or whatever they're wearing really suits them.
Changes in the routine- I love it when something unexpected happens, and things are slightly different to the boring monotony of school/sleep/school/sleep :)
Waking up positive- it's a rare phenomenon, but it does occasionally happen. I'll swing my legs out of bed, stride across my bedroom as fast as my sleep-weakened body will allow, grab my hair and tooth brushes (not the same for both, don't be stupid. Pfft) and bounce into the bathroom. Sometimes, it's only to walk out of the door and see the sky fading ever so gently from deepest blue, to piercing azure, through a beautiful orange, to whitish-yellow ablaze on the horizon. I can make shapes with my Dragon Breath, and that strangely does pass quite a few boring minutes waiting for the bus, another highlight on a cold day.
Drinking orange juice from the carton- it tastes so much better grabbing it from the fridge and having a couple of cheeky sips before depositing it back in the same position, then it does to drink it through the faff-enduced phrase of crossing the kitchen, getting a glass, walking back to the fridge, opening the fridge etc. etc. It's killing my buzz just thinking about it really.
Waking up deliciously warm- my feet will be stretched out and pointed, half my face will be hanging gracefully off the bed, one arm will be gripping the black bars of my bed (no, it isn't a cell.) and yet all that concerns me is the fact that my duvet is so soft, light and snuggly-warm against my immobilised body, and that I ahve another three and a half hours with which to enjoy its company.
Tidy bedroom! I know it sounds wierd but there really is nothing like coming home after a long day of education, tramping up the stairs, and throwing your bag into the corner of your own private oasis. Especially if you can see the floor and the bed is made. I also love going to bed with a tidy room, a much better waking view than discarded shoes and various bags etc.
Texts early in the morning- through force of habit, I've taken to checking my phone each morning before I go to the bathroom; this is so that I feel safe in the knowledge that (ususally) no-one has attemtped to contact me, and all is well in the Social world. But sometimes, very occasionally (and I like it best that way; totally unexpected every time :D), I'll wake up to a random text, telling me that I'm missed, loved or pretty. Of course, it's lovely to hear those things in their own right; but before you've even spoken a word, before you've had a chance to clear your mind entirely of sleep-fuzz, before you've broken the silence of the night and chased your dreams away, there is someone out there who thought enough to drop you a line, maybe carelessly, or unconsidered, but nonetheless, a line, telling you something positive.

I know I come across as extremely pessimistic, shockingly scathing and unbelieveably sarcastic for someone so young, but sometimes, these positive little gems in my grey shaded world make it worth living. I suppose I'm just like that; for every lovely thing I can think of, it's placed under seige by ten horrible, bitter thoughts. But you know, sometimes those lovely thoughts wrestle free and dazzle everyone, punch them in the face, and dance off in a cloud of niceness.
Now is the time to urge you pointlessly to come back to me with stuff you like (five points preferably, even more if you're feeling especially flush...), and I'll collect them next week. That's all for now, I'll see you people on the flipside, dudemeisters. Woo!


Smile, or I'll get the callipers.

First things first, before I get inundated with non-existant comments about how calipers are devices used to measure the two opposing sides of an object and have no relation whatsoever to any facial feature, be it one expressing happiness or a positive emotion, or the opposite. No, I don't care, it just sounded good, and I felt like using the word. OK? So ssshhhh...
This blog has lapsed (through no fault of your own, so don't go blaming yourselves...) into a state of abandonment and is saturated with self-pity, so I think we need a pick-up. Well, I certainly do, to remind myself why I am actually sticking around to watch my life get run into the ground by a talking hippo with a magic, psychic machine-gun than can blast the Delta galaxies around the furthest realms of the Universe (I am right, it is a capital U, right? Like it's God...?). But yes, I digress (and that was intentional, Miss, so you can shut it as well) yet again, and I shall drag your wandering, minute (I always misread that word) attention back to the topic of the blog post of which I've wasted eleven-and-a-bit lines on already. Pfft. Yes, you may or may not (either way, it makes no difference to me) remember that a while back, I made a post entitled 'Stuff I hate' or something similar, followed a week later (or probably even later than that, I'm bad at time-keeping. It's currently fifteen-past-eighty-one on a Sunday twilight. Come live in my world!) by 'Stuff we hate', in which I had a week to collect the opinions of everyone else around me, and ask what they hated. So, I thought I'd attempt the same thing (for some reason, that last phrase took me an age and a half to type, I kept typing my 's' words as 'th' words. God help me, I've developed a computeral (?) lisp! Stick that, Bill Gates. Yeah.) in my next blog post, which I'm sure you can click on once i've done it in that informative side-bar thingy down heeeeeeerreee....---------------------------------------------------------------------------|>
Have fun, friends!

Indulgent self-pity.

Yeah, I know; I haven't updated this thing for a few days, probably more than a week. Sorry. Just another thing to be bad at. Yup, yet another moan about how not-good I am at everything; it's pathetic, but once again, prithee indulge me? It's not like everything in my life is such a massive fail, it's just that the fails are so massive. They eclipse the fact that it's almost Christmas, they eclipse the fact that there's only a week of blessed school left. It's really quite stupid; I HATE BEING A TEENAGER. Most of us don't have the luxury of an online ranting weapon to direct our angst and venom at the innocent, unchallenigng victims of our life; so I feel unjust using it. But it just ISN'T FAIR. I have to fit theis Godawful, ridiculous stereotype of being moody, and hormonal, and annoyed with the world. The only things that give my life some colour are the public holidays, my laptop, and my boyfriend. I lead such a thrilling life, but what riles me most is that while I seem to have to suffer all of this rubbish, the only thing that might make it bearable isn't occuring! I mean, if everyone else felt the same, it would be fine. Like, if they all felt challenged and worn out with the pointlessness and futility (yep, they are the same things. But one's a bigger word thatn the other) on their teenage years, we could all be miserable and angst-ridden togetther, and happy about our unhappiness. But no, you perfect people, the ones who've been blessed with the ability to GET OVER STUFF, to whizz through life uncaring, you've all got it good. Wheras I'm stuck at the back, struggling along against this endless battle with everything; and for what? So that I can come out of the other end, at nineteen or twenty years old, and look back fondly on my teenage years with rose-tinted glasses about five miles thick, and proclaim, like every other smug, sanctimonious human being on this planet, that they were the 'best years of my life'. Yep. If these are supposed to be the best years of my life, then I dread to think what adulthood will be like. For God's sake, just leave me alone to be miserable, all of you. Go on, go.

04 December, 2010

Taxes and other nonsense.

I don't know much about politics, just enough to know that Labour and Lib Dem are WRONG. Yeah, a lot of you might disagree but then again, no-one ever TWEETS AT ME, so I will neither know, nor care. At this current moment, I'm sat on the sofa, leaning sideways for some reason unbeknownst to me. In the background, Channel 4 News is on TV. There's just been a piece on students who are labouring under the illusion that the manager of Topshop (ooh. Original) is a tex evader. Somehow, this linked to the popular topic of richer people having to pay more tax. Let me just take a moment to let that sink in. Richer...people...need...to...pay...higher...taxes? Sorry, I think I must be a bit slow; you see, I don't understand how that works. If, for example, one of these studenty-types got rich suddenly and miraculously, they wouldn't think it was very fair. Hypocritical has a new meaning with these people. Rich people, OK, yes, most of them (the intelligent ones) WANTED to get rich. To be rich. It's hardly a chore, is it? To quote my infamous Fatha(aaaaa)r, I don't begrudge anyone their money, because the grass is always greener, and one day, hopefully you'll be in that position you so begrudge. But just because you're rich, doesn't make it fair to have to pay more money. If you are careful, if you pay attention, if you are wise, then it will make it a damn sight easier to become rich. Go on, you scruffy no-gooders, go and get clever, get some money, and stitch up that Godawful 'artfully' ripped clothing. Tsk.

Selective anti-socialism.

Everybody nowadays is maintaining that us Merrie Teens are nothing but moody, rude and impolite. Hey, hang on! Woah there, chill! Wooooaaaahhhhh...no. Were not. So SHURRAAAP. I am a teenager [as I hope you will have known by now]...and I'm writing a blog. Not just a private, for-my-eyes-only major whinge-fest, but a public blog. That means it's public. For you lot, the Public, to read. And, judging by my blog stats [yeah baby, yeah], you seem to like it. So...I'll continue. Yes, everyone seems to think that we do nothing but hole up in our rooms, moaning at the walls. It's not true! I'm not anti-social at all, I'm writing a public blog, in case that didn't sink in the first time; I also text incessantly (if I have credit, that is), and I have MSN, Twitter and Hotmail. These aren't just for my friends, either, I do talk to strangers, I do, I do! No, thats a lie, I don't; that would be slightly wrong and more than slightly stupid. And anyway, anti-social just means you don't talk to people; lecturing us on the ways that we do talk to people is slightly pedantic. It was my Mum texting at the table this morning at breakfast, and it was my Dad walking around in a trance with his 'Crack'Berry last weekend in Reading. So you see, I'm not entirely at fault here. It's not fair that, just because I happen to be fourteen years old, and prone to sarcasm and moodiness maybe a little more often that is strictly necessary, I'm pinpointed when I dare to text just once more after I've been told not to; disappearing and not giving the people I'm talking to any warning...now THAT is being anti-social.

29 November, 2010

The 1000-watt guilt trip, and the 1000-mile bus trip.

Everytime I neglect my blog(s), the guilt ends up chipping away at me, like a gaudy chisel against smooth, solid marble. Yep, that's right; I'm marble. Yes, it's not the best feeling in the world, marble and chisel. Anyway, pressing on, even though this guilt within me sparks out, igniting my life and burning away at my heart...yes, I'm going to dissect the bus service today. Wooopdedoo, let's go.

I get the bus to school every single morning; I know, I know. So brave, yet so young :'] yeah, it's pretty eventful most days, and I have been getting it regularly for the past two and a bit years; this is my third gruelling, British, early-morning Winter. I get a ten-minute walk to the first bus top from my house, a fifteen-minute wait for said bus (the reliability of which will be called into question at a later date), a deliciously warm, comfortable twenty to twenty five-minute journey on a packed, sweaty, B.O-fragranced bus. What is it with public transport?! Is it a prerequisite that you have to have avoided cleanliness and basic human hygiene for at least three days before being allowed on? Because, and I say this with a startling amount of pride as well, I do not adhere to that quality. Sorry, digressing once more (that's me, baby). After said aromatic journey, I then have a twenty-minute walk (on a good day) up to school. This is all a rather straightforward routine, and one that I have been a mostly successful participant for the past two years. Being an innocent, naive country-bumpkin-type girl as I am made to feel, I can't help but wonder why said routine becomes infinately more difficult when the weather sets to extremes. To blessed little me, extreme weather is not a freak blizzard, or a horrendous tornado. Nope, give me anything below -5 and anyting about 20oc and I will start to FREAK. OUT. In Merrie Olde Englande, the weather is very much like the old-fashioned, stereotypical people that I still long to have in Britain...hot and cold. Fickle. Feckless. You get my drift. But yeah, anyway; it's not like I don;t know why it gets so cold, but what irritates me is that as soon as you slip into a routine, confortable and suitable enough to even make the Baltic Winters more bearable, the ridiculous Newbury Bus Service will go and change your bus route, time of arrival/departure at both ends and bus number. Apparently they need to achieve a perfect bus route to cover as much of the distance as possible, whilst fitting in with the daily Reading commute...(because of course, to little old Newbury, the big city of Reading is something to be looking upon in awe). I cannot believe that they needed to change it yet again. It's like, in Year Seven, every morning I took a certian bus route until it changed. This bus route, being the first one I ever took, was relatively easy to adapt to, but it really threw me when they changed it. Eventually, I managed to get used to it, and the next three times that they changed it, I got better. However, very recently (today in fact. Psshh), the wretched bus service changed MY morning bus, YET AGAIN. To the exact same one that I'd started getting at the beginning of Year Seven! They've coped without it for two years, TWO YEARS. And for some bizarre, ludicrous, pointless reason, they decide to change it back. I cannot comprehend the stupidity of these people. Please, if there is a God up there, grant everyone Common Sense. Before I hijack that godforsaken (whoops! Sorry...) bus, one fateful morning.

That's all; I think.

17 November, 2010

Behold! The blog of a traitor...and The Wave

I feel so guilty for what I'm about to say, but I think that the unforgiveable has happened...I'm warming to the new school! Scarecly two weeks into the new routine (albeit feeling like two years...) and I'm already streetwise (Hub wise?) and finding the new routine easier. It's because, I keep telling myself, I'm able to walk to each place with ease, and the routine makes each day seem shorter. But as I pass the old, dilapadated (or is it just me?) buildings each day, I can't help thinking that my soul has been taken by the clinical, sterile, gleaming school. I don't feel the same gutting remorse, the acute, burning injustice, looking towards Luker now, as I did then. After only two weeks, I'm settled. The teachers are still the same, the lessons are still the same...only, now it holds more allure because there are shiny new classrooms to attend and there's the added thrill of finding out that someone you know or like is having a lesson just across the hall from you, so you can wave discreetly to each other from both sets of thick glass doors, and the big industrial carpeted breakout space. Oh god, what's happening to me? I should go and lie on the glorious, grass-roofed panels and let my traitorous tears cascade romantically down the glass walls.

Now! In other news, next Wednesday, I've decided to become a member of the Hitler Youth for a day. To any of you who may be reading this and feel offended, please accept my apologies as I compell you to read on; hands up who has ever heard of The Wave? Right. That makes...no-one. At all. Phew, OK. Right, in 1961, there was a teacher from CA who decided it would be a good idea to teach his senior History class just how powerful the Nazi party could be; he made an organisation called The Wave, which came with a salute, and mottoes (''Strength Through Disipline, Strength Through Community''), which the members had to perform every time they saw the teacher. This also included exemplary unifrom, impeccable behaviour and respect for all the teachers, at all times. In my English class, we've just finished reading a Book Based On..., which today we finished (of course, I'd read ahead and finished it myself the second lesson in. Oh yeah, high-five for intellect). Our teacher gave us the task of coming up with a few creative ideas of which to assess our knowledge of the book and it's characters at the end of the unit. There were such suggestions as makinga short film, writing a newspaper article, making a dramatisation, hotseating the characters and doing quotation hunts in the book. My suggestion? Become a Nazi for the day. Which, I hasten to add, I'm allowed to do BUT none of my other teachers know, or any of my fellow students (aside from those in my English class). For one day, and one day only, (Next Wednesday, 24-11-10) I have to wear my uniform absolutely spotlessly, stand up and give short, concise answers in every lesson and enounciate clearly and sharply to everyone I happen to come across. Tally-ho, this should be fun. So NOW, I'm going to become a member of the Hitler Youth (not really...) for one day, in order to develop my understanding and empathy with the characters in the book. I shall then proceed to write a report at the end of the day, on teacer's reactions and how much it would've surprised them. I'll also post updates on this old thing, because this experiment is going to be rather interesting...

I shall speak to you merry lot in a few days' time. Goodnight, my friends! :)

11 November, 2010

Stuff WE hate.

This past week, I have been very hard at work, collecting people's pet hates and gathering them all, like a mystical elf gathering dew drops...without the pointy ears and curly shoes (not my bag). So here it is, what YOU all said you hated...

Racists- this is a paticular favourite, a lot of you said that you hated their attitude and their frame of mind, and to be honest, I can't really blame you...

Abusers- people who loash out and take out whatever negative moods they happen to be enduring.

Cheaters- it's the dishonesty and the feeling of loosing out, and the injustice that I think got you lot riled.

Two-faced people- can you trust them? Yes, every second Tuesday of the alternative months, and Feburary the 29th.

People who judge based on something they know nothing about- otherwise known as ignorance, or discrimination which admittedly is annoying.

Bad grammar/spelling- surely if you've taken the time to communicate with me in such a way other than talking, you can summon the energy to spell properly? Misspelling is not 'faster', you were taught the correct spelling at school, it should be instantaneous to your brain.

Liars- again, you can't trust them. It's pathetic, really.

Being labelled- it's a lot nicer to just...be. Rather than have a label that you have to adhere to darkening your horizon, just be what you want, when you want. Be something different everyday if you like :)

Boring, mainstream people- OK, these people you will find are usually very insecure and are scared of thinking for themselves in case they get it wrong, so they find that they can skip along with the herd and not have to think.

Closure work- we got loads on the days we missed from school. The teachers set us work 'accurate to an hour's lesson'. We never do that much work in a lesson! Wtf?

School- the monotony grinds you down into little, tiny pieces...

MFL teachers- a race of human beings whot hink that whatever rules apply to the rest of society, do not coincide with their lives. Pfft...

Tiredness- there's nothing worse than being so tired you can't properly function.

Hangovers- personally, I've never experienced such a thing, but I've always known them to be rough, horrid things :D

Fake people- underneath all that makeup and plastic clothing is a very lovely person, I'm sure.

Cheese- urgh! The taste is disgusting, so bitter.

Socks and sandals- so, you're cold enough to wear socks, but warm enough so you can wear sandals? What? Sandals let your feet 'breathe', which they fail to do through the middleman that is a sock.

Show-offs- you can do 30 whatever in under a minute? Good for you! I don't care...and neither does the general public, so toddle off home.

Whoever asked this dumbass question- oh, haha, very witty.

Never Shout Never- ah, they're not to everyone's tastes. But then again, everyone is WRONG.

Guitar strings/drum sticks breaking- I'm sure it would disrupt (at the very least) a practice or a gig you were partaking in, which could get annoying.

Drinking apple juice straight after brushing your teeth- ooooh. It tastes strange, and unfamiliar. Brain meltdown!! The same goes for Orange Juice, Coffee, and most food....

Being ill- although you get a day or two away from die schule (see School), it hampers pretty much whatever you want to do.

Being away from my girlfriend- ahhhhh! This is sweet! I feel the same, sometimes...when my heart works.

Spiders- they're just so...menacing! They dart everywhere, they don't do a slow, organised stroll so's to give you more time to catch the little so-and-so's. Meanies...

Vegetables- oh, to be five again...

Cold/rainy/windy weather- I'm skipping this one because to be honest, I like the aforementioned weather.

GSCE's- at the moment, a mere inky stain on the horizon of my life, soon to eclipse everything I do.

Small spaces- people tend to panic when they are confined, granted. We do take freedom for granted an awful lot.

The Tube in rush hour- so you're deep Underground, packed inside a rickety, speeding train, squashed in a hot, smelly, BO-fragrenced carriage. What's not to like?

The dark- so many things could be lurking out of your sight, ready to GET YOU.

Marmite- Ew ew ew. Sorry to be so juvenile but it really is skin-crawlingly disgusting.

Flees- they hope onto your skin and suck your blood. Mmm. Yummy.

Coriander- unnessecarily bitter. Maybe it got jilted harshly?

Curry- they either make it too spicy, or use the stringiest, oldest, mankiest bits of meat that it's possible to legally use in an eating establishment.

Lamb- meat is not supposed to taste of mint.

Roast beef- I agree that it is a lot stringier and fattier than chicken.

Heights- I think that it's the fear of falling into oblivion for about a minute before you hit the ground with your final sickening crunch.

Scarlett Johansson- look at her lips! Silly lips.

People that shop at Westfields- or, my own personal elaboration, many London shopping centres. The people seem to take off their manners, fold them up and place them delicately, like little cling-film sheets, by the sliding automatic (or revolving, depending on how far you've come in life) doors.

Rush hour people- ahh! I'm a loose cannon who's boss is going to string me up by the corners of my eyelids if I don't shove past you, steal your space on the Tube with reckless abandon and talk very loudly into my plastic little headset.

Strange, unidentified noises when you're trying to get to sleep- really? Do you really require expansion?

People who leave trolleys in awkward places- allow me to explain with a story. A few years ago, my Mum and I braved the hellish, milirtary-trained Saturday Shoppers (with CAPITALS) at a local Tesco's. Halfway down the bread aisle (and fighting tooth and nail every inch of the way), we can across a trolley parked at such an angle as to cause maximum upset and aisle gridlock. My Mum, a recipent of Trolley Rage, spat ''Who let that trolley in such a flaming stupid place?''. Who indeed...but the woman behind her. Woo! We insulted a stranger!

Maz pulling her nails- my cat has learnt a trick that she does only when my Mother enters the room (probably deilberately, she's a horrible cat really :L don't listen to my parents, she really is the Spawn of Satan. I swear), when she roughly pulls- with her teeth- the skin between each of her claws on the front paws, making a delightful snapping sound. OMNOMNOM.

Driving in the snow- we're your tires. Today, in lieu of the recent snowfall, we've decided that NO! We will not take the conventional (and some may say, safer) route, but instead pick the Black Ice road. The only road in the entire country, probably, with no natural light.

Snow and Ice- It looks pretty, but hurts like hell.

Spots- there is no point to them, they are completely unnessecary, and what's more they make you look about seven.

Working on the weekend- weekends are freedom! They spell lie-ins, no office politics, and no FOCUS required. Working on the weekends is probably against the Geneva Convention or something.

MillHill- a place where my poor auntie is working flat out currently, she says she can never go there again. Ever.

People who follow fashion religiously- the magazine is a Bible. Kate Moss is Jesus. Victoria Beckham is God. My, what a dull way to live your life.

Abbie Titmuss- what's she good for? Really?

Hollyoaks- on a par with The Jeremy Kyle Show, pointless, mind-numbing mush.

XFactor- see Hollyoaks.

Jedward- see Abbie Titmuss.

Go Compare adverts- it does not make me want to go onto your cleverly devised comparison website. It makes me want to shoot the ''Opera Singer'', then bleach my mind.

Cooked carrots- don't ask me, ask my auntie.

Parsnips- see Cooked carrots.

People who friend-dump you for no reason- it starts with a blanking, then a few missed phonecalls, then escalates dramatically from there. It's stupid, and annoying.

Children who steal my socks- this, a paticularly poignant controibution from my dear Mother, who hates my brother and I stealing her socks, and positively explodes when we give the standard excuse, radiating innocence, "Well, they were in my washing pile, so there".

Unnessecary swearing- it really isn't big or clevver, it just makes you sound uneducated.

People who own MacBooks or iBooks- this, my friends, is just pithy jealousy, I'm afraid. Still, can't be without it!

This is what you lot hate, so please go on to feel significantly enlightened. Also, why will no-one TwitterStalk me? I have loads of pageviews, yet only 12 followers :/

WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth. WisdomOfBeth.

THAT is my Twitter ID. ADD ME and give me feedback!! Please!

07 November, 2010

You can take my pride; but you cannae take my freedom!

I have school tomorrow! No! It's all very well going there for a couple of hours on Friday to slag it off to my parents and friends, but the prospect of almost an entire week is too daunting to fully contemplate. I hate it. I hate this school with all the passion, hatred and total emotion in my body. By the end of this week, I will be brainwashed and I will not know the meaning of freedom. You may think I'm being dramatic, but you just try and get a good look at the school :'| it's awful. It really is. I'm praying that the harsh English weather kicks in pretty soon because it looks like a gust of wind could blow the blessed thing away. This is awful, I don't know how my school swept so low. Sometimes this breaks my heart, because I remember how homely and welcoming the olds chool was, in comparison to this cold, unforgiving stucco excuse for a learning establishment. I'll have to work extra hard tomorrow to make my uniform stay in place- I understand that the faculty want to make a fresh start, that they need to set a predecent, to send a clear message; but they're going overboard on some of the proposed punishments.

05 November, 2010

Backwards and downwards.

Today, I went to visit my New School. I say New School with two capital letters, because that is all it has been referred to as by the (probably coked-up, judging by the state of it) teachers for the last year or so. As I mentioned in my post a couple of weeks back, I'm really going to miss the old buildings. I was only there for two and a bit years, so I feel like I have no right to miss it, but I do. Most of these overpaid, underused teachers spend most of their time ranting on about how much history our school represents and carries forward with each generation. Yeah? No. Not really. It makes me so ANGRY when our ''headteacher'' moans on sanctimoniously about what St. Barts stands for. How much more contradictory can you get, when you're stood at the front of the cream, clapboard Luker Hall in the new 'school' (mental asylum to those clued in), telling the students about the very first generation to walk those halls. The halls I'm still supposed to be walking in! It's not fair, along with this cheap glass-and-chrome excuse for a school comes a new set of rules reminiscent of those applied to the Hitler Youth. Everywhere, teachers lurk venimously with their beady eyes, pouncing on any poor unwitting student with the sheer cheek to walk along with their shirt untucked. Cor. Bearing in mind that today, I went to school with my iPod in, black-red nail polish on, black eyemakeup, untucked shirt and lollipop, I'm surprised they didn't throw me off the balcony into the 'Hub Space'. Yeah, that's another thing! What on God's Earth is a HUB SPACE?! It sounds like something from 28 Days Later. Take us to your plasterboard leader. Jaysus...

The story of my life (literally).

Once upon a time...no, wait. That's too cliche. OK. Um...on a dark, dark day...no, already been done. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. No, no, no! Urgh. Hang on.

Once, on a really quite dark, seasonally rainy night in early November, a baby girl was born. She was rather ordinary. Certainly, there was nothng abnormal about her. She was born in Shrewsbury, in Shropshire (the Midlands). At the time, both of her parents were still quite young, although they had always wanted a baby girl. Everyone said the normal, prerequisite baby stuff (oh, isn't she cute?! She has her Mum's eyes...). But, to be quite honest, she wasn't cute. Most of the time, she had a face like Jamie Oliver's Crushed Tomato Salsa, all scrunched up and red. Her toddlerhood and early childhood passed, both faily unremarkable, punctuated only with the birth of her little brother, almost two years on from her own. Over time, her family did move to a lot of places, and she went to several new schools. Subsequently, far from being emotionally damaged, she is in fact reluctantly social; meaning, she doesn't want to be. She just can't help being so damned popular (HEAVY IRONY HEAVY IRONY HEAVY IRONY). Eventually, the family settled down in a place called Burghfield, for three or so years. In that time, they made a few friends, got back in touch with old ones, and went to a nice school. Wahoo! No. Not really. They moved to Thatcham, which admittedly looks pretty at Christmas. And besides, it's not that bad once you get used to the smell of cigarette smoke. No, it really isn't that bad. Unfortunately, not many of the family's friends live close to Thatcham, so they're pretty lonely. But it's cool, because both of the children are the epitome of antisocial anyway, so it's fine. The son just loves the PS3, and the daughter is quite happy just hanging around with her boyfriend mostly. So it's all fine. And they go to a nice-ish school too. To conclude, wahoo!

04 November, 2010

Stuff I hate.

I don't know why, but lying in my lonesome bed last night, pondering the myths of the universe, I somehow ended up compiling a mental list of things thst really rile me. You know, there are just some things that cause you to clench your jaw and narrow your eyes, both at once if it's especially bad. So I thought I'd make a list of what causes ME to do the aforementioned actions. The ones I REALLY hate will be in bold (because I'm just that efficient, you see), and I'm going to do what I sometimes do and encourage you to tweet at me (WisdomOfBeth on Twitter, remember!) with what YOU hate. I'll give you a week, and then I'll put up a revised post of what everyone else hates too. Thank you! Let's begin...
I hate:

Backstabbing people- they'll pretend to be your friend and either use you or at the last minute spread some horrible gossip about you that you've been stupid enough to confide in with them.

Gossiping people- they bounce up to you all gleeful and say, 'Oh! Guess what so and so did last week/night/month/year'. It's just not right. We have Facebook for that.

People who want you to change- they make it clear that they don't like you for you, and they want you to be more like them. It's a shame really, that they're the ones who need to change if they don't like you for you.

Teachers- some of them are the diamonds in the rough, they're shining strars. Most of them let the side down and are horrible, mean, pedantic, patronising, and uniform-Nazi's.

Fake people- they're so unreal they aren't even human. All this fake, fake, fake. And for what?! So people will fall in love with the make-up, and the slutty clothes? No. No way.

School- it's unrelentless! Everyday you are forced into cruel seven-hour periods with people you hate. It's not the learning, that I'm good at. It's the people I have to learn WITH.





Bonfire Toffee (Cinder Toffee)


Really, really dark chocolate

Greasy hair


Too many piercings

Really untidy places

When it's just finished raining and the Sun comes out, because it's really warm but the ground is soaking wet


Being ill

People I love dying

Or being ill

Or hurting me

Or hurting themselves

Or lying

Or repeatedly having their hearts broken

Hurting myself

Embarassing myself


Cheap flowers

Fake tears

Bad poetry

Bad novels

People who describe themselves as 'mental'

People who feel the need to labour a point into submission (putting a drawing pin in with a sledgehammer)

I can't really think of anything else at the moment. Please, please, please Tweet me, because I want to know what you guys hate as well. It can be anything; clothing, types of people, social situations, food, anything! But please, no racism. It's not big, or clever. Not cool!

03 November, 2010

More blog feedback, and more pontification.

Right, well. It's been a few days (I think. I can't keep up nowadays, I just post when I feel like it, which is admittedly often) since my last post, and in that time I've also been checking my Stats (woohoo!) and spreading the word; I want as many people as possible to read my thoughts and meaningless chirping. Oh I do enjoy making you lot think. Thinking is so underrated these days, there's not very much to think about really. We've got machines to think for us nowadays, so we don't overexert ourselves. Waha! Anyway.

I love it when I check my stats (every morning, religiously. About the only thing I am meticulous about, really.) because I'm able to see how many people have checked out which posts, at whatever time. Which means that I am in turn able to see what the most popualr topics are, that you guys like. Which in turn in turn means that hopefully I'll pull in more pageviews :)
I have vaguely asked around friends, telling them to go on my blog, and then getting feedback, all of which has been surprisingly positive. Some of them have even spread it round- my hopes are that it becomes viral, I have a lot to teach the human race, and you have a lot to learn from me.

Ahhhhhh. Another thing I love is thinking. I don't do it very much, only when I'm back in my humble wooden chair pounding mercilessly away at my keyboard. Wahoo. No, that does mean I don't think in school either. Most of the teachers don't notice, bless their little cottons.
Pfft. I've been thinking that recently, for whatever reason, I've been noticing more and more people protesting that they dislike their lifestyle/are dissatisfied with some aspect of themselves etc. and I can't help but think, from an outsider's perspective, why don't you do something then> That comment was obviously just vanity, because I do not believe for a second that you really despise yourself enough to change. In fact, I think that you only do it to vouch sympathy. Do you (yes, you. Yes, YOU) dislike yourself? Are you plagued with unexpected wishes to be somebody else? Really? I don't think so. Because if you were really that fed up, you'd be crying. In a ditch. Near Leeds. You would not have a laptop with internet connection, you would probably not even know this blog adress. You most CERTAINLY not would be reading it, probably crying into the dirt.

Don't take your life and yourself in vain. You like you just the way you are. Face it. And once you do, half the battle's won. Goodnight.

01 November, 2010

Utopia? Now THERE'S an idea.

Without wanting to sound maudlin (oh, who am I kidding? I thrive on it) I'm sick of arguing. I do it all the time nowadays, so it seems. With my boyfriend, with my ''friends'', God knows with my family. I know it's all part and parcel of growing up, it's just hormonal imbalance and about a million and one other cliches that make me sick to my stomach. It doesn't make it any easier! It's not fair how I'm expected to always UNDERSTAND. If someone (one of the aforementioned people most likely. They invade my LIFE) says something I don't agree with, (you probably know what's coming next. All together now...) I say so. That doesn't make me rude, or stupid or insolent. It makes me brave and honest. If someone was enver honest to you, you would hardly know each-other, each one being as wrapped up in lies as a freaking onion. I'm just sick of all of this. And if my parents are reading this right now, they're going to call me downstairs to comment on what I'm about to write, so here goes nothing; I know I'm selfish, lazy and a pain sometimes. But surely, as you two have been through all of this, you knew it was coming? I'm flattered that you thought enough of me to assume that I would surely bypass this phase, but clearly I haven't, and I know you don't like it. Sometimes, you can be a bit hypocritical, a bit annoying. I know it's all for the greater good, but when I show ''attitude'', it's always because I'm insolent, never because I have a justified reason, isn't it? And I'm too- well, not afraid, because I know that you'd iunderstand- I'm too...apprehensive, I think is the word. Yes, I like that, let's go with apprehensive. I'm too apprehensive to say something about it, and my combined distress at this and getting (in my humble opinion) an unjust lecture for whatever the occurance is, is normally (and unfortunately) characterised by sighing, eye-rolling and cold-shouldering. It's my fault, I know, for being less approachable, I suppose. But then again, it's not fair on me to have to sufer it every single time. You two (my parents, still) are the traditional, (and might I add very successful and kind? It might lessen my grounding) firm-but-fair followers, so surely you should demonstrate this ability? Urgh. This isn't coming out right, so I'll move on. My little brother! We (you and I) were put on this planet to wind up and confilct with, each-other. But sometimes (and especially of late) you have been commenting on stuff I do or say, knowing full well that I can't retaliate for fear of getting into trouble. Why do you do it? I admit I wind you up to a gold standard, and sometimes I go too far. But I always apologise. You just shut yourself in your room with Escape The Fate and continue to act blameless. Just stop, OK? Because it's not fair. And tell me, if I've done something to deserve this, tell me! Because I'm sorry. OK? I really am.
I don't think you (my friends and my boyfriend), no matter how lovely you all are, comprehend my moodiness sometimes. Charles, you just use the 'shut up and get out; technique, which admittedly is the most diplomatic, and I do understand. But you play it cool so often I'm starting to think you just don't care. And, if this makes any sense, you probably don't care that I think you don't care. But you know how much we love each-other (excuse us a moment, my dear readers), and soemtimes i just don't see any of that shine through. You are an explicably amazing boy, and the best friend and boyfriend I hvae ever known; you're kind, funny, intelligent, witty, loyal, caring and gorgeous! You're damn near perfect to someone like me, but that just makies me even more determined to stay closer to you. When I say forever, no matter whetehr you know this or not, I mean it. Things could change as I get older, and indeed as you too grow more mature, but right now, on the 1st November, 2010, at aprox. 21:35 GMT, I love you more than anything in the world, and I cannot phsyically imagine my life in the future without your beaming, purple-topped head grinning back at me. You really have no idea, do you babe? Nope. And as for my friends, forgive me if I find it difficult to trust you. As I've previously said, I've never been beaten up, nothing serious-serious have ever happened (i.e meriting the involvement of the Police, senior authority figures and the like), but I'm used to the bitching. I'm used to the rumours, the catcalls. I'm used to the whispers, and the backstabbing. And sometimes I wish I didn't have uch an extensive knowledge of that, I can scarcely trust any of you, truth be told; some of you have openly admitted to me that none of your other friends like me, which in turn puts pressure on me. I want to keep you as my friend, but I don't want you to end up being hated the same as myself. Others of you just get too carried away with it all, and end up being too easily moulded into the perfect shape of someone else. It's a shame, because you just tear evermore holes in the little trust I still have.

Of course, I love all of you. I do, but sometimes, I just...AAAAARGH.

I appreciate that a lot of you have got bigger, bigger problems, which I know you have. I understand, whole-heartenedly, especially as I know some or omst of these problems, but I'm just trying to get off my chest something which wears me down. It's not funny anymore, I can't just brush this off. As I said, I love you all, but I can't help feeling like this. It's natural, and I'm nowhere near perfect. Sorry.

26 October, 2010

Big City Dreams.

I went to London today! I actually went out and did something! It feels good; public transport ftw! Phew. But it made me think, as purely random and strange things often do. London is such a historical, thriving, alive kind of a place. I can understand why people love it, you never feel alone, and there's a constant hive of activity that no other city, certainly not in the UK to my knowledge, really possesses. The thing is, by stark contrast, Newbury is a glum, stick-in-the-mud-type town in the middle of nowhere and it gets tiring after a while because everyone knows everyone and ''they don't like trespassers''. (NB: That last sentence has to be said with a Somerset infliction. As does the word 'Somerset'). Newbury starts to gt on my nerves after a few minutes spent in it's centre, and god, the history teachers in my school? Every single lesson, they find some way to relate whatever the topic was to Newbury and its ever long history which just sucks all the life and fun out of History to be frank. Oh sorry, did I just said 'sucks all the life and fun out of History'? I must be mistaken. Sorry- it saps whatever minimal interest I may have possessed in the first place (debatable really) completely out of it. Sucked straight out of the window in a long stream, glittering with potential. For the love of Amsterdam, I now sound like a PSHE teacher; everyone has the power to be different, but some people choose *insert meaningful glance at poor, random student here* not to use that power.

Urgh. This post, I have just realised, probably like a lot of my other posts, (deja-vu), does not make any sense whatsoever. Never mind, have I told you how many page views I have?!

As I have probably mentioned, I went to London today, and once we (we being my Dad, my little Brother and I) had got off at Paddington, we took the tube to Oxford Street. Yes, the big street with the old-fashioned houses holding new-fashioned shops. It's amazing to be perfectly honest, the way it all just seems to fit. One thing I was paticularly transfixed by was, indeed, the Apple Store in Regent Street. Woohoo! I think we (the three of us) all knew as soon as we went in there what we had to do. I had to track down all the available MacBooks (and any variations upon the theme), and subtly and discreetly broadcast my Daddy's blog over all of them. If any of you want it, it is http://www.thepropertyspeculator.co.uk, and it's really rather good. My Dad, on the other hand, was men tally princing up an Apple Lifestyle, whilst my brother (blog= http://thepowerofthecrimp.blogspot.com in case you haven't already got it. Encourage him to continue with it! Please) hankered over the ridiculously expensive but admittedly very, very shiny laptops. I posted photos of the day on Twitter, and we went to some really brilliant places; The City (in which I aspire to work someday. Please, God, please!), St. Paul's Cathedral, Regent and Oxford Street, and not to mention Berkeley Square, which was beyond epic. I saw the Gherkin, and the Bank of England, as well as numerous shops and gorgeous, gorgeous townhouses.

I think London is, quite frankly, a wonderful and inspiring place, unlike Newbury and Thatcham which suck all of your life/ambition/hope/potential steadily. But I am too powerful to do that. I shall fight against the masses and become great, then someday I shall live in London. Ahhh, BigCityDreams.

24 October, 2010


Some people say I rely on music far too much. Don't be silly, I'd reply, Apple earphones in hand, ready to be used as nunchucks at any given moment. I do rely on music, and I'm not ashamed of that. To be perfectly honest, almost every song I love holds a memory for me, whether good or bad. Some of my favourite music (artists) include (and bear with me here, this could take a while)...

Blink-182, Foo Fighters, Angels and Airwaves, Wheatus, Go:Audio, Enter Shikari, Hey Monday, Kids in Glass Houses, Escape The Fate, +44, Tegan And Sara, New Found Glory, Paramore, Fall Out Boy, A Day To Remember, Bon Jovi, Plain White T's, Bowling For Soup, Simple Plan, My Morning Jacket, Faith No More, Guns'n'Roses, AC/DC, Velvet Revolver, Queens Of The Stone Age, Them Crooked Vultures, Kosheen, Paul Van Dyk, Paul Oakenfold, N.E.R.D, Pharrell Williams, Bjork, Linkin Park, Good Charlotte, Jay-Z, Chicane, Duffy, Paloma Faith, Underworld, The Prodigy, Princess Superstar, David Guetta, Led Zeppelin, Funkerman, Freefall, Gorillaz, Gnarls Barkley, Outwork, Fragma, The Friday Night Boys, Sophie Ellis-Bextor, The Freemasons, The Pretty Reckless, Splitting Hours, Beasie Boys, Smosh, The Lonely Island, Green Day, The Moulin Rouge Soundtrack, The Chicago Soundtrack, Cass Fox, Rui Da Silver,Yves La Rock, Brandon. M. Dennis, Chakra, The Chemical Brothers, The Italio Brothers, Chocolate Puma, Oasis, Delirium, Da Hool, Crowded House, Deadmau5, Kaskade, Swedish House Mafia, DHT, DJ Hose, DJ Delicious, DT8 Project, Lumidee, Electric Six, Energy 52, Faithless, Eric Prydz, The Feeling, Emma Bunton, Florence + The Machine, Pink Floyd, Ferry Corsten, Fatboy Slim, Fedde Le Grand, THe Gossip, Goldfrapp, Groove Armada, Gwen Stefani, Herve, Hi-Tack, Guru Josh Project, Jakatta, I Monster, Junior Jack and probably a lot, lot more but I can't think of any at this precise moment in time.

Some songs just mean the world to me because of what they make me think of, and I know that sounds misplaced coming from someone as solid and cynical as me (ooh! Alliteration!), but I think it holds true for everyone who likes music to be perfectly honest. What music do YOU (yes, you) like? Twitter it!!!!

I love you all. Today has been a busy day, what with five posts. I guess I'm just bored, making up for lost time. Have fun, my friends. Goodnight!

Freedom of speech.

As I sit here, pounding away at my keyboard like a monkey being told to write the full works of Shakespear in Mongolian on a typewriter, I can't help but think; why am I so brave on my blog? And on MSN? And MyFace, FriendFace, TwitFace, BookSpace etc. Is it because no-one can see my face? Because once the words are out there, hopefully their deep philosophical (ha. Not really, philosophy is overrated. You don't have to think to be clever...no, actually, that's a lie) messages will make whoever I'm insulting this time reconsider before twisting my face off at the ears? I don't know, but I wish I did. Actually, I wish I could conveniently loose the power of speech whenever it mattered, and instead have whiteboards for hands and marker pens for fingers. Hmm, that would actually be slightly strange. And also, I couldn't type then, could I? Ahh...silly Beth. Pah. But I wish I could be braver in real life, and say the things that I need to say. I'd feel so much better. On the downside, I couldn't continue with this blog really. Try to imagine yourself saying any of the things you really, powerfully wanted to to whoever you wanted to say it to...if that made any sense. I wish I could, it's just so much easier. I hate being so wary of what 'might/could/possibly/maybe' happen, I should practice as I preach and be able to (without the risk of sounding like a Northerner- oops, more racism? No. It isn't, because they aren't a different race. Technically, we're all human) ''speak as I find''. By that, I mean that if someone annoys me, or says something I strongly disagree with, I would like to find the courage to speak up and tell them so. I have a lot of principles, many of which (as I'm sure you've probably guessed) I feel very strongly about, and by not presenting them when challenged, it feels like a sell-out. I hate feeling like I'm selling out my beliefs. This bizarre, ludicrous, odd notion that people who are truly worth your time should be able to guess what you're thinking and go from there...well, it doesn't have much basis. I could have no fingers and still be able to count on them right now all of the people I know who know that I have something to say to them, or that I ever have. It annoys me when other people do this; it breaks me right down when I do it. I'm setting myself (and therefore you lot; I think of you as my brainchildren; you read the ramblings, you are One Of...well, I can't really say 'Us', can I? Grr. By reading this insane blog, you are One Of Me. Mwahahahaha...and so on, and so forth...) a challenge. If someone says something I disagree with, or says or does something that irritates me, I shall speak up and let them know so. Please, please follow suit. And besides, you've always got a back-up plan! If that person is tempted to shove an iron bar through your head, spearing both your temples cleanly through the middle, show them this blog. And then I can just deny, and run. Two of my hobbies nowadays. Good luck!


I do apologise for the slightly disjointed and rambling posts down there (again with the lack of the down arrow! I can't violate the V in that way. I know some things are better when used in odd ways but not a letter. Never in it's whole career as a letter has V ever even been considered to become a down arrow option. No, I can't do it.), but I thought that I'd treat you to a little bit of history of Me. It's a good subject, I can tell you almost everything you need to know. In fact, my next post shall be an ''All About Me'' post, slightly overdue. Oh well, never mind. Better late than never at all, and Never too late for something that matters and other such cliches. Ooh, I do love a good cliche, don't you? Right, three posts done. Off to see Despicable Me, may include a review later, if it's really bad. I love ripping into bad things, good tihngs are no fun. You can't comment on anything. Damn. FML. Goodbye!

Reasons why.

In my last post (down there-ish, somewhere. I don't know how to gesture it accurately! There's no DOWN arrow! There's an up (^) and there's a left and right (<> respectively) but there's no down. oh, I suppose there's a V. But it's just not the same!) I had said that I had had (woo! Double word!) to move schools from my ''best friend''. This is because when I was born, my Dad was in the RAF. Ikr! It's very exciting. For the better part of my life since then (if you halve almost fourteen I guess), I've been what is colloquially referred to as an 'RAF Kid'. I am not a goat...let me explain. For example, my boyfriend's Dad drives Lorries, and the family go to Truck fests. This make my boyfriend and his little brothers 'Truck Kids', I suppose. Oh, I don't know. BUT ANYWAY, moving on before I get a headache. Yeah, I was an RAF Kid, which meant I got to live wherever my Dad was posted. This happened more in the earlier years rather than more recently. I was born in the Midlands, in Shrewsbury, Shropshire. One month later, we moved to Wiltshire (Calne), and seven months after we moved to Benson in Oxfordshire. After that, we moved back to Wiltshire (Lyneham). Eight months later we moved to Burghfield for three years, and then onto Thatcham in Newbury, which is where I am now. All of these places aside from the last one were RAF Bases. RAF Benson, RAF Lyneham and the RAF Estate in Burghfield which I didn't mind. The houses were largely were nice, (with the notable exception of Lyneham. Google-Map it, it was traumatic) and the community was lovely as well. Me and me brother made friends with the children, my Mum made friends with the women (and men, as well. See?! Check on my PC-ness), my Dad made friends (usually whilst he was away) with the other guys in the RAF. It was nice. But then when we were in Burghfield, my Dad came out of the RAF and went into Property Surveying. This subsequently meant our move to a 'proper' house, where we are now. It was nice. But in all that time, I had been going to school obviously, and most of the children in the area we lived went to the same school as me, so of course we made friends. We moved to Thatcham, because it was the easiest way to get to school, because my parents really didn't want to uproot us again. I didn't mind the longer commute, but when the time came for me to move to 'Big School', I couldn't go on to the one in Burghfield, the one where everyone else was going. It was too difficult to get me there and back everyday, and we already relied largely on the Before-and-After school clubs provided. The Big School in Burghfield had no such provisions, to onto NewburySchool it was! We looked around St. Bart's, and Park House (I had a lucky escape) and ended up going for the better option, but that still meant I had to leave all my friends behind. This is a shame, and of course I have MSN and I can text them, but it isn't the same. A lot of them have lost interest now, especially HER. So onwards and upwards. Besides, the friends I have here are MUCH better.

Is stupidity an illness?

In Year 5 and 6, I had a best friend. No, really, I honestly did. Her name was (is??) Emily, and she lives in Burghfield. I'm resisting the temptation to broadcast her address to anyone who cares tbh, she deserves it. When we were in Year 6, Emily got diagnosed with an illness, because stuff in her body wasn't working right. Then, she was moved to the JR (John Radcliffe for those of you who are unaware) Hospital in Oxfordshire, and stayed there for a few weeks. Me and two other friends went up to visit her one evening after school, and it was nice, if very sad. I mean, it was lovely to see her but Emily was always the feisty one (ooh! Feisty one you are!) out of the two of us, and we were inseparable. We used to do a lot of things together, and when Emily finally made it back to school, she didn't go out at break times and lunchtimes very much. I think the transition Summer Holiday (as I like to call it), the big, worrying one between Junior and ''Big'' School, was quite a miserable one for Emily. Beforehand, she was asthmatic, and had a lot of eczema, and also she was quite small, not a big fan of sports. After, she just didn't like doing anything. During that time, I like to think I was quite a help; I mean, I stayed over there a lot so I could cheer her up, and I made sure she'd take her medicine every day (although she often refused; but I made her.), and I also tried to get her to drink enough so's her liver could get better again. But, (I can't rememer if I ever mentioned this on my blog), I had to go to a different Secondary School to all of my Junior and Primary School friends. This I will explain more in a later post, but anyway. After I changed schools to Emily, I still kept in touch with her a lot, we rang each other and texted, and had frequent sleepovers. But as the year went by, and the year after that, the friendship dwindled, which I also accept responsibility for. But sometimes, I regret letting it happen. If it hadn't happened, I'd still have my 'best friend'. But now I don't. No, the reason she didn't get in touch with me was because she'd found a new best friend. Someone, allegedly, with excactly the same illness as her (the chances of this being one in about 1000, but whatever), and so therefore could have a better 'understanding' of her illness. For God's sake! The thing that really kicks me is the fact that yes, I admit I could've got in touch with Emily. I was busy during the week OK, but I was normally free on the weekends, and it would've been so easy just to pick up the damn phoine. But she is quite happy to apportion all blame on me, because she doesn't need me anymore. So, as long as she's quite a safe distance away, and she has the added shelter of the 'new best friend', with all the 'understanding' she possesses, it's perfectly acceptable to burn her goddamned bridges. Well, that's just fantastic Emily, thank you. I spent my last year of Junior School mostly with you, checking that you were OK, that you had everything you needed and that you weren't being selfish enough to fake taking your medicine which you often did. I had to make sure you were trying to help yourself, like everyone was trying to help you; yeah, I minded a bit. Not much. But a bit. Because I was terrifeid that you'd relapse. You seemed so fragile to me, and I'm clearly no doctor but I was scared that one day you'd collapse again, and it would be ten times worse. When you were first diagnosed, you have no idea how scared I was. This seems very selfish, I know, but I was scared Emily. Ten/Eleven years old and told that your best friend was very ill but no-one knew for certain what was wrong with her is a SCARY THING. I hope you realise what I did for you. And I hope your new best friend is worth it.

22 October, 2010

The prettiest thing in the whole blue sea.

I am tired, my friends. Tired of having to try all the time, especially in school and with friends. That's a thing- surely if they were friends I wouldn't have to try? Don't get me wrong, I have friends who accept me, wierdness and all, but then again, I have what some people would refer to as ''fairweather friends'', who's minds and opinions change like the seasons. And therefore to keep my place as Flavour of the Month, so do I. I don't like feeling like I need to change, it makes me sad that people don't lke me for what I really am. It's so easy to brush it off and walk away, but day after day after everloving day, it just grates on me. Sometimes, it's not even worth it. This entire battle to be accepted or at least tolerated in the mindfield of adolescence is so beneath me. I just lack the time, the inclination and the effort. Who knows where I may be and what I amy think in, say, three years' time? I could be totally different- the most popular, pretty girl in the entire school. But- and here's the kick- I don't want to be. I love being different, but at the same time I stive, mostly unconsciously, for acceptance. Surely being different is all about not caring what other peple think? Oh god, I don't KNOW!! For god's sake, there's no manual to being a teenager. My schooldays are not scripted, I do not have appropriate comebacks texted to me every hour on the hour. I hate feeling like everything is so beyond my control that I'm expected to just forget about it and live with it. I don't want to live my teenage years (supposedly some of the best I'll ever have) worrying about other people's opinions. But that's the kind of person I am. I've never been beaten up. I have never had death threats, or entire school hate campaigns staged against me, and so I don't think that I have any cause to be as fed-up with my situation. I am a living, breathing, eating, walking and dancing contradiction. I want to be different, I want to be accepted. I feel fed-up with the whole lame situation, then feel guilty for feeling so. I am so totally over this whole thing.

20 October, 2010

Onwards and upwards...

My school (St. Bartholomew's, in Newbury. The BEST school in West Berkshire, at least), got given a government grant two years ago, for a new, purpose-built school just for us. This, for almost any other school (with the exception of possibly Douai (?) Abbey and St. Gabriel's) would be unquestionably a momentous occasion. I mean, It is a privilege to have been chosen to get this grant, and therefore an opportunity for a better school- but I don't like it. The new school, I mean. I know, I know, the process has not been stopped purely for my piece of mind, but there you go; life just is not fair. But anyway, I digress (should I rename this entire blog and theme my posts around something similar to this idea? Pah! I laugh, I joke. This is why I have no friends...). The new school, as it's rapidly becoming known now- it isn't St. Bart's (check out me and my colloquialisms), it's ''The New School''- looks, set among probably one of the only nice parts of Newbury, horribly out of place. Oh yes, of course it's very grand, but it's a horrendous glass and chrome structure with two massive white circus-tent domes for the inside ''hub space''. For goodness' sake, it's a learning environment, not NASA. The other, probably more crucial reason I harbour for disliking this monstrosity is that I have been going to this bizarre, contradictory school for over two years now. In that two years, I have met some stupid, idiotic people that blind me with their sheer ignorance. I have also met the brightest, kindest, funniest friends and one totally amazing boyfriend, none of whom I want to give up anytime soon. Obviously, just having a new school doesn't change any of these relationships, but I feel as if we're leaving a big part of whatever started it behind. If we're going to step forwards into the welcoming, probably silicone arms of ''The New School'' (if I don't say it with such heavy irony, I find that I may cry.) then what is to become of the much-loved Luker and Wormestall sites? At this point, I feel I should elaborate- Luker and Wormestall were originally separate school, the latter being erected earlier. Henry Wormestall, the headmaster of the boys' school, and Miss Luker (first name unknown...at least, by me anyway.) finally died (not at the same time; although that would be rather cool, in a sort of latter day Romeo-and-Juliet fashion, both hearts throbbing with unrequited and forbidden love. But then, hey, I'm a romantic.), and both schools (Newbury School for Boys and Newbury Girl's Grammar School) merged in 1979. Both buildings have seen tons of history over the years, and despite it only being forty years since the merger that made Newburian history (which, admittedly is not hard. I spoke ill of the town the other day, they're planning a martyred ceremony in which they plan to strap me to a post, much like Joan of Arc. No, just kidding- they're only taking away my library privileges. PHEW. I swear, it's going to make headlines for months), both sites now feel like they've been there forever. They feel so lived in, so utterly homely. It's so easy to slip into a routine, and the school does seem daunting at first, but what with it's resplendent staircase, enormous glass windows with rose-stained patterns and old, old tiles on the walls, you feel like you're inside a communal museum...albeit one of education...eeeeuuuurgh, as my brother would say. By moving into the new school, we loose all of this precious history, and all of the memories that accompany the school. With the new school, generations of memories are going to be wiped out in one fell swoop by the cold, merciless wrecking ball. This is a matter I didn't even know I felt so strongly about until the subject was broached. But I do; I'm actually an incredibly sentimental person...well, I like to think so...well, I don't really think so but hey. I don't abide by the saying ''out with the old, in with the new'' because we can't progress without the knowledge we have collected over the years. It's just a shame really. And tomorrow is my last ever day in the Luker site, which I do find rather sad. I'll post some pictures of it by and by, in all it's classic Newbury glory.

17 October, 2010

Useless things; mainly advertising.

Why do people invent, produce and then proceed to endorse such useless pieces of rubbish? For example, there I was, sitting quite contentedly with my CarcassInABun when all of a sudden, godawful Muzak (it wasn't even Music; I mean, come on!) started oozing through the speakers of the TV like a monstrous, noxious gas. It clouded my senses and made me think I was going to die somewhat; eventually, I recovered and turned my attention back to the ''advert'' on the television. There, I found a dancing, badly animated PIGEON. All of of God's creatures, the advertising company HAD to pick a PIGEON?! For the love of Amsterdam. to those of you who are blessedly unfamiliar with he concept of a dancing pigeon and Muzak, let me explain the purpose. This advert was for http://www.funkypigeon.com which is basically a cheap rip-off of Moon Pig, only with a rubbish name. The Muzak by now had lyrics, namely ''Funky Pigeon dot commmmm...'' until you could stand no more but to throw something, like your cat at the television (ha, see what I did there? Cats?? And pigeons?! No? Never mind.) before crying with a pillow taped to your nose. Yes, this is the effect the advert had on me. Never watch it, unless you do not cherish your brain in a such a manner as to not want to see it ooze out of your face in such a manner reminiscent of primeval slime. Anyway, moving on before I cry. The other nail-bitingly pointless examples include; that old favourite, Go Compare! with the fat, evil-looking Welshman singing in a cringeworthy opera voice; also, We Buy Any Car (dot com). Surely this advert must be banned on account of flashing images, unsavoury content and provoking of intent to kill? An advert that is exempt from this would be Compare The Market...none of my family can do the meerkat noise but we all love it, because it is funny and original. These two concepts are something that I fear the others have failed to consider, dare I say it, possibly overlooked completely. To digress slightly (woohoo!), did you know that the Geordie guy from Alan Partridge (character name: Michael) voices Aleksander? Oh how I want to be that meerket. And live in wonderful little meerkat land.

YES. Anyway, the point is that all who make these adverts must be shot. Dead.

10 October, 2010

People. And vegetarians.

Ugh. They're like vermin, aren't they? They come in all shapes and sizes, trundling at a murderous 30mph pace down the A4...bumping into you in the street, lacking common decency to apologise or excuse themselves...convincing themselves that of course they know best, and so rule your life, very much like what I assume to be ''The Man'' did, back in the day. But I'm not a freedom fighter. I wish I was; then I wouldn't have to wash and I could grow a beard, but hey. I'm not complaining, but it would be nice to have that option. Oh well, life goes on.
Yes! People. So, they've become somewhat of a hindrance in my daily life. I practically have to lock myself in the comfort of my own home to get away from them. Vegetarians and vegans! I respect you, I do; you have enough courage to say what you think is wrong and then actually do something about it, right? So, thank you. But please, please (and I cannot stress this enough) do NOT drag your beliefs, kicking and screaming into my routine. I'm perfectly happy with putting chopped up carcass into my mouth on pretty much a daily basis. I like meat, I'm partial to fish as well. The only thing I draw the line at is eating something with a face still attached to it, although I must concede I can rather see the appeal some days; you always win the staring competitions, you can eat the eyes first. This must look remarkably like a paragraph of expletives to any of the audience that it is directed at, I suppose. But the point I was trying to come to before I got distracted by eyes and faces and such was the fact that everywhere you go, there's always a protest, a guilt-inducing billboard or a sanctimonious advert, and I'm sick of it! For heaven's sake, what's wrong with everyone? If I want to enjoy my cow carcass in a bun, don't deny me that privilege! And as for all the brain-dead individuals that insist that EATING MEAT IS MURDER and that we should put ourselves into that situation, well no; because that's cannibalism, the practice of which IS illegal, so I wouldn't hold your breath. Fine, to any of you who disagree with my rather eloquent point of view, fine. But remember that I am always right, and that all of the animals you supposedly ''saved'' have just gone to America now, so you didn't really do very much but deny yourself the fundamental need of protein in a faintly martyred fashion, didn't you? Now go and have a shave.

06 October, 2010

Amateur dramatics. Pfft.

Crying is what teenage girls seem to do for a living. Extra-curricular activities? Sobbing. Hobbies? Wailing. Career preference? Manic depressive. I guarantee you that every day one girl in twelve (the number of girls in my tutor group of course, not just any old number that I happened to choose at random...due to how numbers ''make me feel''...) will come drifting into the tutor room, much like that of a ghost who is retained from drifting into the Afterlife by the sheer amount of foundation weighing her down. She will proceed to sling her (probably Primark, definitely tacky) bag onto the desk (heavily graffiti'd (?), despite the feeble warning, in the shape of a piece of grubby white paper tacked pathetically on the door, reminding us that as of February 2006, these desks have been extensively cleaned and anyone caught in the act of vandalism shall be severely punished. I mean, for heaven's sake, surely even these fails of teachers are forced to face the truth; a very out of date warning bears no MEANING. For God's sake), before sighing loudly, actively looking around as if to say, ''Why, oh why am I not being noticed?''. I mean, at this point, it's all I can do not to fling myself over their desk (avoiding the graffiti, mind you) and throw my hand to my fevered brow with a look of anguish stapled upon my face. But I don't. Because that would be instigating another fight. But again, I digress (cor, look at me, digressing all over the shop), because the point I am trying to make is that we Britons (did I get that right? Or am I now racist?) are not a nation open to subtlety and hints. We need information, and we need it now if we want to make any progress. Please, next time something is wrong, don't tell me! I don't care. But maybe you wouldn't mind printing it on the whiteboard in BLOCK CAPITALS LIKE THIS? Or perhaps producing a billboard with excactly what is wrong printed on it in swirly, girlish, faux-handwriting, like this? Either way, just stp with the pathetic whimpers and anorexic-model poses. PLEASE. It does not make you any more endearing to anyone you know, like or are trying to impress. On the contrary, it just makes you seem a little bit slow. And not in the attractive way, my dears, in the way that suggests your Mum dropped you on the head when you were a baby. For goodness' sake, have some self-respect. Men seldom make passes at girl who wear glasses adittedly, but they just bypass the writing mass of fake tan and mascara with a look of horror embedded on their faces.

05 October, 2010

There's nothing quite like a good cliche.

When you find out something totally momentous, totally and utterly life-changing, does it not make you slow down? And sometimes, even get a little bit freaked out? Like, when I heard everything about 9/11 for the very first time, or when the Haiti Earthquake Death Toll and Richter Scale measurements were released? It made me stop, and stare; not to sound like a song, but I'm sure you know what I mean. Everything gets momentarily shut off from my mind, and I realise that everything is so fragile. I love everything in my world, from the idiotic teachers to the blissfully unsuspecting slags :) I wouldn't change anything, because it wouldn't feel right. Everything happens for a reason, and I understand that I'm just spouting numerous cliches unashamedly for the world to read, and yet I can't help but see some truth in it. If you lived every moment as your last, you would be running around, saying daft, spur-of-the-moment, guilt-induced manic thoughts to everyone that you hate and Great Auntie Paula whom you haven't seen for sixteen years. THAT would be a waste of a good day! When you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Make sure that it's something worth watching. It's too late to go back and change anything that you regret, but surely these events have shaped your character just a little bit more? I understand that horrible, life-changing occurrences can swipe down from the blue and not just tilt, or even push, but kick, grab, pummel, break, and forcefully evict your world away from its axis; and yet, these things mean that whatever happens in the past is paltry and pathetic in comparison, making it easier to deal with. Surf through life, because it's the biggest, craziest, maddest, best(est) wave you'll ever catch.

There's a lot to be said for staying the same.

Hello again; I fear that my blog is becoming something of a stranger to me, which I really don't want to be happening because that would not fit in with my plans of world-domination through educating people. Oh well, one step at a time, starting with posting MORE things.

I was thinking earlier...because that's what I do...about how strange people can become as they get older. This is due to many things- getting older, as I just said, peer pressure (oh how I do detest that sentiment), or just the need to be different. I have begun to slide ever so gradually into the stereotype of a normal teenager- moody, insolent and antisocial. I promised myself it wouldn't happen, but it has. And I regret it. However, all hope is not lost! I have retained some elements from my childhood which keep me more-or-less grounded...the want to wear unnecessary amounts of jewellery at any one time, the habit of talking FAR too fast- which, Mothaaaaar and Fathaaaaar, I can't help! I have so many ideas whirling about my fevered, enthused brain that talking simply isn't sufficient. Be thankful, I'm encasing it all neatly within cyberspace- as well as the old idiosyncrasies of questioning everything put before me (literally and figuratively...oh yeah, check me out right?) and skipping. Oh how I love to skip- both an enjoyable act and an efficient method of travel. Could you possibly want for more?

But I digress. I regret not staying the same, for being too easily moulded into the average shape of a teenager. Wearing makeup, caring about what I wear, minding too much about what other people think? My personality does not, however, comply with that of the average teen, or so I am told. I am quiet, moody, thoughtful and introversial. I'm proud of these labels, they give me a sense of purpose. My goal is to be a girl who is excactly who she wants to be, and I think I'm halfway there. IF, for example, someone approached you in the road, and asked you to change, would you agree? Of course not...but at school, it's much more subtle. Someone does not directly ask you to change, you divulge that information from the hints that they drop. If someone comments falsely on an item of clothing, you know that it does not have their approval. If they laugh at your hair or makeup, then you know what to do next time; apply ONLY foundation to every part of your face, including your hairline, jawline and lips, with a spade.

Just to be absolutely clear, I do NOT condone this level of desperation to fit in. Who wants to be a sheep? I'd rather be a goat, thanks. But I fear I am starting to get white curly fur...no, not literally, use some sense! Metaphorically, for heaven's sake. Yes, I do not want to slip into the massed ranks of the unknown, the production-liners. This would be being dishonest to myself, and to everyone who loves me for me. Me is, as I am sure I have said before, a nice enough person. Honestly...

20 September, 2010

Greetings, salutations, apologies and secrets.

Hello all...six followers who read my blog. I'm incredibly sorry that I have not been able to post more of my Whimsical Ramblings (self-endorsement...gotta love it), but I've been rather busy with homework, coursework, life, food etc. But no matter! We shall plough on relentlessly, and when we get bored, we shall turn to the humble custard cream once more. Anyway, I must stop getting so easily distracted by food. It is my weakness, especially biscuits. And no, I don't even know why either. For heaven's sake, I don't make ANY sense this evening. Terribly sorry; anyway, back to the matter which I hold in my hand. Right now. This very instant. Yes, now. I do mean now...3..2..1..NOW! Aha! Nearly got you. You thought I was going to stop my aimless digressing, did you not? HA! Fools...fools!!! Sorry, sorry...

I've just realised, after looking about my room in a decidedly perplexed manner for several minutes, that the jangling noise I'm hearing to my right is coming from my many bracelets, jiggling upon my Cornwall-tanned-but-faded arm. Oh dear, what am I like?! *camp hand gesture*. Good lord, I do believe I am wasting your time! Heavens to Mergatroid. So sorry!

YES, this matter which is now fighting to get out of my hand and leap up into the cyberworld of which my thoughts are slowly trickling, turning irridescent and sparkly as they float around in the ethreal world of t'Internet. Yes, this sorely neglected matter...secrets! Yay, secrets. I know we all love secrets; whetehr they're ours, or someone else's, there is always a certain sense of smugness that accompanies the holder of a secret, do you not agree? I've found a website (http://sixbillionsecrets.org) which is fantastic, if a little depressing. Go on to this website, and browse a few pages. Some (the glinting, precious jewels which have to be grabbed and clutched close to the heart) are wonderful tales of love, friendship and happiness. This really inspires hope in even te most cynical of readers. These secrets are the ones I covet, to remind myself that no matter how bad it gets, there is always going to be someone worse off than myself, even if I think I do see the end of the world looming on the horizon...sometimes, I don't even need secrets. I just console myself with the fact that if the world were really to end tomorrow, then Australia would've called and let us know. I mean, come on...GMT was not put in place for nothing. Common sense is required here. Anyway, I digress yet again (I could make a living out of this as well! So many pointless career opportunities, so little time...), the vast majority of secrets on this website (http://sixbillionsecrets.org in case you missed it the first time...but I suppoe you could just scroll up. Ah never mind, I'm on a roll here; if I stop, I will SHUT. DOWN.) are sad, sad stories of lonely individuals with nothing else to turn to, other than a website who can offer a brief shoulder to cry on. For the record, I would just like to say that if the user Amber-Michelle is reading this by some miracle, then your post really made me smile :) as long as you can see what's beautiful about yourself, there's no stopping you. Go for the world!

Remember everyone, that even though we can't predict the future, nor control it, Australia will always let us know what's round the corner...they find out a day before us, remember? I shall leave you with that sentiment, and bid you farewell. Good night, my lonesome followers, good night :)

04 September, 2010

Let's get scientifical...tifical...

I'm sat here (yet again; I could make a career out of this.) eating. Again. This time, it's bourbon biscuits, and as everyone knows, the only way to eat such a biscuit (this also goes for Oreos, Custard Creams and- for the most adventurous, Jammy/ie Dodgers) is to take the top of, put it to one side- because a plain old biscuit top merely inspires a sense of depression in the consumer- and lick the filling. No-one knows what this filling is, but it makes the eater happy. Very happy. In fact, when you're eating the filling (not the biscuit; the biscuit becomes obselete by this stage), a thought runs continuously through your head; mm, this is really rather nice. Not too nice, because the healthy part of my brain is talking to me, telling me that it is just sugar, which I know, but all the same does hinder the enjoyment OF said mystical filling, but even so; why don't they make it by the bucketful? Creamy-magical-biscuit-filling (CMBF) is in fact none of these things. It is a nice thing. And nice things make no sense, especially in food terms; for example...cookies? Meh, they're not too high on my list of food-related priorities, but whatever. Raw cookie dough? OMNOMNOMNOMNOM. Chocolate? of course. How you could even ponder such a thing is beyond me; melted chocolate? Oh...my resolve is being weakened by those two words somewhat, forcing me to give an unnessecary commentary on my emotions...YES, it IS better than normal chocolate! And the list goes on. It is scientifically proven that nice things are made better with (believe it or not) unorthodox methods. Whoever thought of melting the chocolate to make it nicer? Who, you ask, was the pioneer of cookie dough? Did they not, at some point during the pioneering process, fear for their lives? Was there at any point a risk of Salmonella? I don't know. Give the boy a bone; he did well. Things always taste better when you know that you aren't eating them thee way they were intended to be eaten. Strawberries dipped in chocolate? Madness! Tasty madness. And cream? Ahhh...cream. The best thing about this world contained in a single, pearlescent (depending on how long you stare at it for) orb of deliciousness. No, I'm not a cream fanatic. In case you didn't know, I'm lactose intolerant. No, I'm just kidding. I hope you got the sarcasm there; I'd hate to think that my time, effort, humour and inclination were being wasted on...*looks round nervously* chavs. Chavs do not get humour. Unless it resides on a lone, dank, probably potentially lethal service-station toilet wall in Clackett Lane Services on the way to Gatwick. I'm sorry, I'm leaping frenzedly from one subject to the other. But as I have often said in the past, never regret a good waste of time. G'night!