08 August, 2013

'Life Update'- my dad just texted me.

Stand down everyone. Bethy is no longer lonely.


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

06 August, 2013

Abortion- some light evening reading

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

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

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

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

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

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

29 July, 2013

Useful things I've done with my summer so far

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

27 July, 2013

Full circle

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

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

23 July, 2013

Hashtag summer plans

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

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


13 July, 2013

Yet again, Year Eleven

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

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

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

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

06 July, 2013

Social commentary

After horsing around and screaming at the tennis (typical Friday night chez Parker), my parents and I flipped over to a music channel, to find a new song done by a couple of artists. The song was quite good, catchy even; I was all set to like it until I realised that the video reflected what was being said, with images of over-consumption and consumerism being flaunted like a cheap whore across my telly-box. Brilliant, I thought, because what this country needs is DEFINITELY more class guilt, more socialism, what I like to call a 'Robin Hood attitude', whereby they think that sending out this 'inspired' (read: tired, done to death) message is somehow alleviating them of any of he guilt associated with their successful, lucrative careers. It's exactly the same with that song, 'Price Tag'; the overall message is just that the world is a power-hungry, greed-driven place and that we should all collectively stop placing so much importance on money...so, Jessie J, how much did you make from that venture? Or did you give it all to charity without even counting it? 

16 June, 2013

Party mentality

I WENT TO A PARTY LAST NIGHT!!!!! That's right, Wisdomers, your queen is social! It was an end-of-exams party (which went really well, thanks so much for asking), and I had a surprising amount of fun, for a person thrown into a house full of strangers! Yes, my friend threw a party and I knew her, her boyfriend and mine. Scary, huh? Whhhooooo...
It was petrifying, actually. Stepping inside, not knowing what to do/say/act. But I did well!! My boyfriend looked after me and I didn't combust at the sight of strangers! Plus there was loud music, strawberries and cream and VANILLA CUPCAKES (definitely my type of party...). All in all, a good night; certainly made better by the fact that I actually made friends!!! As well as a little experiment some of us did halfway through the night. 

Essentially, there were a couple of really drunk people at this party (you know the sort; loud, purloining all the vodka etc.) and they were stumbling round ostentatiously, so we decided to try something, following a discussion we were having about psychosomatic behaviour (that was the overall subject, I don't stand around at parties discussing the psyche of teenagers). One of the empty vodka bottles was replaced with TAP WATER to about midway. The bottle was left there as we stayed in the kitchen chatting. Eventually, both 'drunkards' wandered in, VERY QUICKLY clocked the bottle, in their defence were very polite and asked if they could partake, and started pouring when we demurred. I like to think that they knew all along that they were being duped, and that in an elaborate, plot-twisting double-bluff, we, the tricksters, became the trickstees if you will. But no, I don't think that happened. After a fair measure in either cup, mixed with Fanta and Bucks Fizz, both took a swig...and grimaced. WE SAW THEM, WE SAW THEM WINCE AT WATERED-DOWN FIZZY ORANGE. It gets worse!! They didn't realise, of course, by the time they decided to do a shot, and I think this is probably the best thing I've seen since someone fell over in the canteen a few weeks ago (yes, I'm a cruel child!). Basically what happened was that when these shots were poured, one of the two decided to, very sensibly, mix it with Fanta in order not to get 'too drunk', whilst the other just went for it. Again, wincing all round; followed, BRILLIANTLY, by, 'Oh wow, it doesn't burn as much as usual!!'. 
F. A. N. T. A. S. T. I. C. 

It is interesting that such a basic experiment had such brilliant results I think, and maybe that says a lot about the subjects, maybe just about the amount they had drunk. BUT I'm willing to bet that it'll be the same at almost any future party (ooh, hark at my optimism), and I can't wait to find out. 

02 June, 2013

Simple pleasures

Currently, I'm sat in Costa Coffee, early on a Saturday morning with my family. We're about to have a 'breakfast meeting', and I'm really excited. I'm in my favourite city, Winchester, it's a sunny day and life is good. 
I think it's important to remember, in the midst of my repeated existential crises that I don't have to look far for something that makes me happy. For example, if one of my exams has gone less than well, I'll head to McDonald's before I get my bus, to get a Fruitizz to cheer myself up. If I've had an argument with someone, I'll wrap my canopy around my bed and sit in my den, reading a book. 
That's not to say I dislike expensive clothes or going to theme parks or whatever; but sometimes, the most basic, easiest-to-come-by things are the best, and the most appreciated. 

31 May, 2013


This vibrant array of self-indulgent sludge is just me venting a lot of stuff in my brain that wasn't known to me before I opened the floodgates that are Whimsical Ramblings once more, so sorry for being so me, me, me, but at the moment that's basically all I have to think about.

The type of person I'd like to be...

I wish, wish, wish I could tell you guys that I'm sat here at the moment, with my hair perfectly caught up with a pencil, beautiful, simple clothes on, and a perfectly centred, tidy mind, body, soul, room, life, everything. In reality? I'm in a baggy green top from TopMan, rugby shorts and socks. My room could do with a once-over, I've still got a load on my mind and all I seem to be capable of is blogging, revising (preferably without moving from this chair) and listening to music. And you know what? I'm going to buck this trend, this prepostorous thing we humans call 'pride', and admit it. Sometimes, I wish I were someone else. That's not to say I don't love aspects of my life, because of course, as you all well know, I do. I love my family, my friends, my possessions, my own sense of humour, my eyes...but, that stuff is somehow momentarily eclipsed when I think about things, or people, I want to have, or be. And of course, it gets boring being so full of feeeeeelings. Maybe I should aim for emotional stuntedness like my boyfriend? Repression like my brother? Sporadic like my parents? Instead it seems to be a constant STREAM of the stuff, just clouding my vision, shooting my judgement to pieces and generally bringing me down. Even when I'm happy, I'm TOO happy, and when I stop to catch breath I'll have a bittersweet taste in my mouth, as if even my body is trying to remind me that I'm trying too hard.

"10th December 2011- 'Facebook is a waste of time'. Do you agree?"- 31st May 2013- My response.

Nearly a whole year ago, I deleted my two-year-old Facebook account. No fuss, no drama, no wildly exciting tipping point that spurred me on; just, weariness every time I logged on. Having something of your own volition, owning a Facebook account completely of my own free will should NOT have conjured that panic-churning feeling in my tummy-box, but it did.

Part of the reason was the fact that I had in excess of 500 friends on Facebook. Whilst I knew them all, I only liked about 10% of them, disliked passionately about 35% of them, and the remaining 55% I had no strong feelings towards, in that if THEY deleted their account, I probably wouldn't even notice. The thing is, to delete all of these people is both time-consuming, and very obvious; the predicted backlash following the absence of my profile on their timelines is ALSO time-consuming, and tedious.

Another factor following this was the cropping up of pictures and messages, posted by other people, that I didn't care enough about to see everyday. I hated, actually, being forced to confront people and things that I'd much rather ignore, things that I could get over in my own time, privately, without being forced to look at it every time I went online to check my notifications.

But the main reason I deleted Facebook was because I was spending tooooo much time on it, and I don't think I, or anyone else I told, realised just how much time was spent until I deleted it. The lure of logging in to have my account reinstated so simply doesn't lure like it used to...lure.
*shrug* I just don't care anymore.
I still have Twitter, but I think that's partly because I can't delete it (problems with account, old email account etc. etc.), and I don't actually spend as much time on it as I did Facebook; probably because the interaction between users is limited to 140 characters, even in the Private Messaging bit. I like that idea.

My blog doesn't count as a distraction, because most of my time spent on here is active, I'm writing and checking stats and comments; when that's done, I will walk away from my site until the next time. Not to say that I care about this site any LESS than I cared about Facebook, but beyond writing and looking at my audience figures over the past month, I can't really do much else on here, and any procrastination comes in the form of yet another blog post, which isn't as harmful as three hours spent glued to my phone, oogling two-year old profile pictures of a girl I don't even know...at least my procrastination HERE has some decent results.

What happens when you look 12 when you're really 16

This is something I've had problems with for about half a year now. It seems that, with my baby face and my height, I can't be taken as seriously in the real world as I would like. A few months ago, I went out to try and buy 'The Woman In Black' on DVD. This film is rated a 12. A TWELVE. AS IN, YOU HAVE TO BE TWELVE TO BUY IT. Fine, I unwittingly thought, no problem. I'm four years clear of any awkwardness.


I got IDd. Yes, your esteemed Wisdomer got ASKED FOR ID TO BUY A TWELVE. Seemingly, they didn't like it when, failing to produce the required item of formal identification, I claimed that I WAS in fact 16, quoted my birthday fast and accurately and stood, looking indignant. Nothing. I was embarrassed, and furious.

Another problem I have is the fact that when I get angry at someone, during school or something, I'm very rarely taken seriously. The benchmark for how angry I became, and the point where more (but not many more) people started taking me seriously was on the Ski Trip last year when I punched some guy in the face for touching my legs. The POINT is that it's difficult, apparently, to convey your anger when you stand a good three inches shorter than most of your year, thus most people you want to have an argument with.

This is now why I carry a form of ID with me (my bus pass card with my name, picture and date of birth- rock'n'roll lifestyles), all the time. Weirdly, when I go to the cinema, as I'm always with friends or my boyfriend, we don't get IDd for seeing 15s, but that's only probably because the guys my boyfriend and I hang out with are all at least five foot eight, lanky and well-turned out, looking every inch of their sixteen years, and the idea of a gang of of-age boys chaperoning a preteen girl is just too cringey for the cinema people to contemplate, most probably.

Annoyingly, this problem also extended to my work; over Christmas, I worked briefly in a shop (AND I GOT PAID FOR HAVING JOKES WITH THE CUSTOMERS OH MY GOD), and I was asked questions on the products by customers (naturally), but the thing IS, is that when I came out with my low, drawling, posh 'work voice', at least half of them look startled, with one or two going so far as to question my age, asking was I 'really old enough' to work there? The only thing that kept me biting back the retort of how I'd wonderfully managed to forge a birth certificate and a National Insurance number, thus duping the company, the taxman AND my parents, was the idea of my £6.50-an-hour wage; not too shabby for my first venture in to the world of paid work (more on this later).

30 May, 2013

Beth, stop.

I was perusing this site, looking at some throwback posts; although it's against the flimsy rules of my blog, I was sorely tempted to delete some of them, the ones that make me slide down my seat in anguish, floppy hair covering my eyes as I mutter, over and over again, 'What were you THINKING?!'.
*mucho shudders*
I suppose it's like looking at baby photos, or your Facebook profile from the days of yore, but since I love ANY photo taken of me, and I haven't got the luxury of Facebook any more, my blog is the only mark to go by. I don't like the fact that, and forgive me for sounding cheesy, I've invested a lot of myself in each and every post (even the ones that are three sentences long)- this is why I don't like to delete them; all of them recorded accurately, at some point, the way I was feeling.
And since everything seems to be moving so fast nowadays, I think it's important to keep hold of stuff, to remember things.

But because I've put so much of myself in each one, my style of writing changes. As I get older, as things and situations around me change, so do I, and so does my writing. This goes some way to explaining why I sounded like a gigantic SPONGE back in July of 2011, and for that I apologise profusely.

By gum though, some of those posts were hideous; they made me sit up in my chair and tell myself loudly that I needed to STOP.

How weird is it that I'll be looking at this post in two years' time and telling myself to stop again? When all I want right now is to match the pace around me, to keep moving, to keep shooting forward.

No, Beth. Stop.

Good ole' sass

I'm taking a break from super-exciting Graphics and Geography revision to have a bit of a groove on Spotify, order some American Apparel shorts (in the sale, duh, I'm not rich) and chat to you lovelies! It warms my heart-bits to see that my page views have shot up by nearly 100 in just two days. That's crazy, and it really cements the fact that I SHOULD be writing, and I SHOULD be doing it regularly.
Not that I think I'm any good...
For all I know, you all just feel sorry for me; or, you come on here and 'ave a read when you need a laugh. If so, that's fine. But, go away now.

When I'm a famous writer...**sigh**
No, that's not what I want to do any more. I want to be bossy and have a clipboard and work in Media.

I'm SOOOOO (etc.) excited for Sixth-Form, as I'm sure I've already mentioned about six billion times. Like, actually for the SUBJECTS, as well as all the other perks of being older. LEARNING EXCITES ME. I am doooooing:
English Language
English Literature
Philosophy & Ethics
and my 'core study',
Critical Thinking AS.
Eeeeeeeeeeeee. I'm so excited for them all. I'm going to have FOLDERS and NICE HAIR and COOL CLOTHES and ON TIME COURSEWORK and SASS.
Lots of that.

Beth is back.
And she's super-sassy.

29 May, 2013

Self-preservation (even in my dreams)

I'm not going to get into a habit of doing horribly depressing blog posts, I promise.
But this is a thought that's been buzzing around my head for a long while now.

The worst four-letter word I can think of at the moment. Sure, courtesy of my awesome parents, I have a gorgeous dress, a cool look (Grecian princess-meets-rock chick-meets-seventies-afro) and a handsome date (GAY BOYFRIEND MENTION ALERT) to go with. But I'm terrified, if truth be told. It's all very well casting a huge, awe-inspiring plan to ignore and freeze everyone who made me feel bad about me, and yes, it may even work well to an extent at school (at any rate, it'll be far easier to ignore everyone when I have my glamorous bag and a big ring-binder to hide behind), but at a social event such as this, it's far, far easier to just be swept along. Into the mix of big hair, lots of perfume and intermittent cries of, 'Oh my GOD you look AMAZING' and the dreaded, 'How did your exams go?!'. I can't say it's my favourite thing to spend my time doing.

This being said, I really do think it's a worthwhile cause to at least TRY to ignore them. Really. I mean, I could treat them to a smile if (and it's a big IF) they compliment my look. But I doubt that eventuality will be called into action. Not that I don't think I'll rock prom night; I just think other people will think they rock it harder.

But anyway, back to the matter which here I hold here in my very hand right here; I had a dream a while ago, about being nominated at prom. Sound normal? Oh no.
As I'm sure some of you are vaguely aware you , we have 'prom awards'. I'm not quite sure who votes for 'Pengest', 'Nerdiest' and 'Cutest Couple', but there you go. I'm not actually sure who cares enough to receive their award either, but that's just me. Anyway. I had an anxiety dreams a while ago, one of which was that I was nominated for 'Biggest Bitch' at prom. I then climbed the steps regally to accept my award, and whapped out of the pocket of my very-un-prommy leather jacket a list.

Just a plain, A4 piece of paper. A list. Just that.

With enough information on it to bring all of Year Eleven to it's knees.

On it was at least one secret pertaining to half of the year. A fear? A worry? A deed so terrible that they couldn't stand to look at it printed there, neatly, in size 10 Ariel font.

Of course, this is only my nocturnal musings, and neurotic ones at that.

28 May, 2013

Beth m.k 2

Hello. You guys. Aw. I'm sorry. I really really am, I'm sorry that I missed you all and that I haven't posted substantially for well over...urgh, I don't really want to even think about how long it's been now.
Can I just say? I DETEST this new layout. It's really just...ew.
Oh dear. In my extended sabbatical from this blog my eloquence seems to have deserted me.

I really have been busy for a long time with exams and stuff. Year 11 hit me like a brick wall with exams, retakes, coursework and deadlines. Sounds obvious? I know. Heh.
Don't think that means I haven't missed you all though!! My parents are awesome; there has been talk about getting little ole' me a laptop in the wake of Results Day. I wonder. So I was kinda using that as an excuse in my head, about how as soon as I had my own laptop (my old one has keys missing and limps along; I'd be better off using a typewriter to produce a document delivered by carrier pigeon to someone with severe arthritis and an extreme internet-related phobia to type this up for me. I'm sure you get the point; the gist; the nub), I'd be back to writing to at least the paltry sum of two a week. However, carpe diem as they say. The time is now. Because I have much to sa-a-a-a-a-y.

What now?
NOW is when I aim to start writing again. Not sporadically. Because I'm on study leave at the moment, and I fill my designated breams during my off-days with reading and (joy!) eating, I feel like I need to keep my brain breathing; my capacity to nap currently is something special. I'm a sloth. The other reason is because I really miss the feeling of having something good stored up to say to you guys as soon as my bum hits my desk chair (ooh, that sounds posh; what it really is is a gorgeous, dark-wood and green leather chair which floats around my room to make it look more grown-up). I finally made this long-overdue decision with a book (one of eight picked up on Thursday from the library, wooooo!) called 'Adorkable'. I won't give you a review now (future blog post, eeeee!!!), but suffice to say it gave me the boot I required and I know I need to start writing again.

So. Are you all sitting comfortably? Good. Then I'll begin.
(Another thing I love about having my blog back is that it also provides a useful out with which to exhaust my staggering capacity to talk about, well...me!)
I'm on Study Leave now. Over halfway through my final twelve GCSE exams. Weirdly, it's not so much the revision, and the DOING of the exams that terrifies me; no, it's the fact that I'll have to face up to the results that doing these exams yield. Apparently, it's not enough any more to merely rock up and get an A* for just attending the wretched thing. It's odd to think that in less than three months I'll be a bona fide Sixth-Former, able to wear my own gorgeous clothes to school and to look down (well, technically and physically look up, because I'm only five foot four- well, I can't lie to you, bloggers, I am LESS than five foot four. But only slightly less!!!) on the commoners, straggling off to PE, weighed down nicely with their textbooks for superfluous subjects that I DON'T HAVE TO DO ANY LONGER. I can't wait!!!

Unfortunately, there comes bad with all these good changes in my life. Recently, I haven't been doing very well socially. I'm sure that's no surprise to you lot, you all know how I operate around people (i.e I don't). But recently, it's been getting worse and worse. Now, I've officially reached The End Of My Tether. If I have an issue with someone, they'll know about it. I scream, I cry, I shake in the face of anyone foolish enough to conjure up a problem that they have with me and expect me to take it lying down. I'm constantly dragged down by the weight of my fury; I'm so angry I can taste it, I can see it when I shut my eyes. So consequently, this affects my ability to DO. To GO. To BE. I can't leave my house. No, wait, I can. I have a strong desire not to. Ever again. Because right now, people freak the bobby socks off me. They really do. Strangers are worse than friends- I can go as far as to tolerate an argument with a friend, before breaking down privately. But for a randomer in town to look at me, for the bus driver to try and strike up a conversation? NOOOOOO. I just can't deal with people at the moment.
I know this whole reluctance to leave the house stems mostly from the tension building up surrounding my exams. I'm not worried about myself, it's just a slightly debilitating condition when it renders me panicky in any location excepting mine or my boyfriend's house.
But I decided that, even though this IS stress-related, the fears and tears and panic aren't unfounded at school; essentially, I wouldn't be feeling half as bad if I didn't have a reason to detest the majority of year eleven. So, get this, today I deleted any worthless contacts from my phone, like Strada and Hotel Chocolat. BUT, BUT I kept everyone who makes me feel awful about myself (brings on the bad vibes) and put s (BAD) next to their names. Now, that's pretty sad. I know. BUT bizarrely empowering. It's because I'm a forgetful so-and-so, if they text me I won't think twice before merrily replying to ask them of their identity. No, what I'm planning for them is something much bigger. Childish? Maybe. Healthy? Almost certainly not. But, perfect? Absolutely. Freezing. Total and utter ignorance of them, their words, thoughts, feelings, everything. Any reservations I had about this plan previously (what if their attitudes are justifiable by 'hoatme issues'? What if I'm not being singled out?) have been ruthlessly put paid to by the unquestionable logic that so beautifully dictates that if they don't care enough about MY feelings, MY situations to enquire before they start this merciless campaign of dragging me to my lowest possible ebb, of sucking the life completely out of Beth before moving on like she didn't exist...if they don't care about me, why should I give a damn about ANY of them?

This isn't, let me specify (to give you the full magnitude of my exam-induced-but-completely-justified neurosis) JUST reserved for the ones that texted, called, talked about me. The onesthat sent my stomach into a flat-spin of sickened panic. This is for the ones that stagger drunkenly up to me at parties, promising a glorious reunion of best-friendship, before ignoring the next day, both me and the fresh wounds they've ripped open with their careless, intoxicated words. This is for the people that decided to leave me when I needed them the most, to get their friends in on the secret, to try and make me look stupid in front of everyone else. This is for everyone who wasn't caring enough to make it worth my time, when all I gave to them was friendship, listening and understanding.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm under no illusion that I am faultless here; I am annoying, passionate, pedantic, loud, scary and angry. But I've had enough of taking ALL the blame for being treated the way I have been treated for the last five years of my adolescence. It's a crazily intoxicating thought that, come the first day of a brand-new year, following four glorious, incommunicado months, I will be strong enough to ignore them, strong enough to block out the undoubtedly negative response this will merit.

But the thing is, they don't know about any of my plans yet. And even if they stumbled across a silly little dormant blog in the back end of nowhere, hardly worth registering on their Tumblr-radars (NOT a blog, JUST AN ONLINE MOODBOARD), they'd be far too stupid to realise that my campaign includes them. It's awesome, being able to bank wholeheartedly on someone's stupidity. Knowledge is power, you see.
But the very, very final thing to say, to bring about my comeback, to cement my power and my strength and my independence from now, for the rest of my life, is this: I'm not scared any more. They don't scare me. All this time has been WASTED, fearing the very worst that these idiots could do to me. But really, what's worse than five years of being made to feel like a fourth-class citizen for nothing? I'm not scared of you any more, ladies and gentlemen. I'm over it. Bring it on.

12 April, 2013

Here we go...

Since the death of Baronness Thatcher, the country seems awful divided. I'm sure you all know which side I'm on. The side that screamed abuse at those stupid, stupid people up North, being filmed dancing the day after her death was announced.
How many idiots used the excuse or the jokes that she was not human?
What is so human about laughing at someone's death?
What is so glorious and commendable about lame, old jokes?
Comedians, whose JOB IT IS TO BE FUNNY, astound me on Twitter with their pathetic, stupid little jokes.
I'm being burnt from the inside out with rage, because I know what she did for our country. I know, and that's because we're all living it today.
Never has there been such prosperity for a country as there was in the time of Mrs. Thatcher.
You all label her a 'monster', but aren't you the very same? Screeching about the
Injustices of your times when actually, the world chewed you up and spat you back out again as a pile of dangerously resentful human contradiction.
This is why I hate twitter, because it gives these morons a sounding board, a platform to broadcast their half-minded opinions. Never have I felt more angy and less powerless.
But I'm just a stupid Tory. What do I know?
Enough to change this godforsaken country. That's what.