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.