Introducing Agent S.

  I made her this afternoon after we got let out of school early because it started to snow. Honestly, this country has lost all its backbone since the war… But enough about the weather; meet Agent S., the newest Killjoy to grace my back garden and fight in a zone:

 

                                                           

                                                                   

  After I had frozen most appendages rolling snow, I made cakes with Danger Days playing, helping me keep beat as I battled with sugar. Apart from discovering the flour ran out in August, nothing too bad happened. Well, my plan for blood-red icing got foiled because the food colouring expired in May. And the sprinkles exploded onto the counter so I couldn’t use many of them. But nothing else.

                                                               

Just Your Average Friday

   Visualise this.

 My Physics’ teacher’s classroom, 9:30ish am, Friday morning. Usually a scene of utter pain and confusion on my part. Today, however, we had a cover, and everyone talked rather a lot. So much, in fact, Ruby felt comfortable waving a sheet at me from her bench.

  “You can tell an English person drew this, can’t you?”

  It just goes to show; even before the tectonic plates shifted, we wanted to get as far away from the French as possible.

  Also, my dinner:

  I forgot to ask for ‘small’ as in, ‘small for someone who isn’t obese’ when ordering.

Music Teaches People… I Know What the American National Anthem Sounds Like.

  The steady hum of my laptop ripping Danger Days is incredibly comforting. Almost as much as listening to it in bed at six in the morning is…

  I have a cold, okay, and it’s my alarm.

  There’s no point in reviewing the album, because a) most people reading this already have and love it, and b) everyone else in the universe did when it went on YouTube. Instead, I have some questions for the band:

  • What’s up with the titchy lyrics in the booklet? I have to hold it up to the light when I want to check I’m not mishearing Gerard’s screaming.
  • Is the case supposed to break within a day of owning it? Actually, its record is better than Bullets’, that one fell apart ten minutes after I bought it.
  • Does Bob get royalties for the songs he’s credited as writing?
  • Who decided to sell it for ten quid starting price? Not that anyone’s complaining or anything. Only this is the first time I’ve ever paid full price for a CD and I was pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t £15.99.
  • Can you translate the Japanese on Party Poison for us uneducated people who can only speak English? Please?!

  You know, I remember when Party Poison was called Death Before Disco, when it got put on the Internet after MCR’s shows at The Roxy. I’d try to make that sound all sentimental, but it was summer 2009…

  I also don’t get to reminisce about being one of the 5000 people at the Hammersmith Apollo to hear Planetary (GO!) before everyone else, because it was only a month ago.

  Can I gloat about the irony of wearing a t-shirt that says ‘I ♥ Steve, Righ?’ to the show instead?

 

                                                                               

It’s a Good Thing I Never Expected Anything Better.

  I was going to write about the Teletubbies’ brain stems. Then I went to Sainsbury’s with the idea of buying the edition of NME in which Ray Toro got insulted (lovehandles?! Seriously?!) and bought Kerrang! as well. NME only had a review of Danger Days with all the usual crap about My Chem getting colourful with the hair dye.

  Read. The. Words:

  TELL ME THE COUNTRY ISN’T GOING TO SHIT.

  TELL ME.

Sunday’s Achievement

  Yesterday I made cookies that turned out like this:

  I think it’s safe to say that putting biscuit mix into a greased fairy cake tin, with the idea that the biscuits will emerge from the oven perfectly round, is a bit dim.

  I’ve been doing a lot of dim things lately. The most recent of which was wearing contact lenses for so long my eyes went bloodshot (in my defence, my glasses were being repaired – an arm fell off again – and I had three exams that day and all of them made tears of despair well up). Second most dim thing was forgetting to ask Mum to stock up on paracetamol. In order to stop my brain registering cramps, I’ve been eating large amounts of ice cream and cookie cakes. Chocolate overdose…

  Don’t mention the lack of Geography coursework on my part.

  It’s not all bad though. For example, it’s the weekend in four days. Which means Lauren’s jewelery party, where I get to buy everyone cheap Christmas presents. I’m Lauren’s cousin, she gave me chicken pox, I’m owed a discount.  

  Oh, and I made a new background for my Twitter account, all by myself. Look!

  It is possible that in fact it was me that gave Lauren chicken pox. Thirteen years ago.

What Do You Get if You Cross a Pig Torch, ‘Harry Potter’ and a Makeup Mirror? Punchline: Spotty Vision.

  I just scored nine out of nine on a higher tier BBC Bitesize Biology test, so I  decided to blog in celebration.

  Admittedly, I did cheat by doing the lower tier one first, but hey; you learn from your mistakes.

 In the name of revision and education, this afternoon I performed a very complex experiment incorporating Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, a makeup mirror and a torch shaped like a pig.

 

  How?

 Simple, really. The mirror goes on top of Harry Potter, I sit in front of the contraption and lean forwards, shining light in my eye as I do so. The radial muscles in my iris relax as a result of light exposure, but the circular muscles contract. The black hole that is my pupil gets smaller and less light gets in, damaging the retina (the bit at the back that looks like cracked earth imprinted on your vision after an eye test).

  If you take light away, the radial muscles contract and the circular ones relax, letting in more light so you can see. Rather cool, methinks. At least, I think I now know how to answer questions in the module; in the end-of-years last term we hadn’t covered the eye and I resorted to moving my glasses up and down thinking, ‘I can see, now I can’t… This must mean the answer is B.’

  NB: please don’t try this at home. I don’t want to be sued by angry parents for singed eyebrows (if you use a magnifying glass) and migraines.

  Now I’m off to revise for a Chemistry test in which the teacher will ask us approximately none of what she told us to learn.

“Would you like to be buried, sir, or dissected? Whichever you pick, you’ll get your lungs cut out and photographed.”

  The most difficult thing about having a blog (or website, as it is now known to some) is thinking up what to write about. I’m working on some projects that will hopefully be making an appearance on here in the near future – before 2012, that is – but nothing concrete at the moment. I am forced, then, to fall back on the topic that can make or break a blog: my life.

  I know, right. I’m that interesting.

  Today was an inset day at my dear school, which meant I could get up when I liked, try and fail to make an omlette and watch House before playing with Fred, instead of the usual routine of ‘get up, eat, shower, attempt to fix hair, fail at fixing hair, find lunch, get to the door, realise I’ve forgotten something, retrieve it from overcrowded desk, get to door, fall out of it, somehow get to down the road intact for another day of lecturing by old farts who think that teaching degree = Extreme Power Over All Life’.

  I also went to the cinema with Elizabeth, to see a film about gravediggers who later decided that the back sweat  of shovelling wasn’t worth the pay cheque and murdered people instead. Or something. I’ve been pretty interested in the story of Burke and Hare since they featured on an episode of Blue Peter when I was eight. I remember saying to Mum, “They’re Scottish and that guy has our surname, is he a relation?!” My grandfather on my dad’s side was from Glasgow, see.

  Turns out the actual Burke and Hare were Irish immigrants to Edinburgh, and maybe never (re)dug a grave in their lives, but what the hey. I enjoyed the film. Simon Pegg looks exactly like his character. My favourite bit, apart from the in-jokes featuring every famous Scottish scientist or resident of Edinburgh that ever lived, was Pugsley turning to me and saying “Simon Pegg sounds more Irish than Scottish.”

  Yes, dear.