Suave philosophical musings or verbal vomit, depending on what you agree with.
I have caught the sun on my shoulders, arms, chest and back.
Yes, ‘catching the sun’ does mean sunburn. I’m pretty dark so I always forget, when the sun comes out, that I need sun cream. Now it’s painful to wear a rucksack.
The reason I got so, ahem, tanned, was that I partook (is that even a word?! WP says yes it is) in the Race for Life yesterday. I have no pictures as they were all on other people’s cameras (hint, hint), and I didn’t think you’d fancy seeing my blackened-by-Primark-socks, sweaty feet. Isobel and I did it with our trainers in our hands, by the way. We looked awesome, her in Lauren’s shirt, me in pink tartan shorts, which, I assure you, Lyn-Z Way would buy if she ever decided to kick in the skirts. Happy birthday, by the way, Lyn-Z. I hope Bandit and Gerard got you something that wasn’t fished out of Gerard’s touring suitcase.
Anyway, the real reason I’m typing this out when I could be watching Doctor Who is that I am stuck for something to write. It may seem that I never run out of things to say on here, thanks to my dulcet tones, but since I finished Ella’s Blog nothing remotely creative has hit me in the face. I’m sorry, Ellen, but that story about our mothers and an ash cloud just won’t work; I can’t do funny on demand. I just do it when I’m not supposed to… So, dear readers (I’m pretty sure there’s more than one of you) I challenge you to challenge me. Comment with your ideas, or a phrase or song lyric, and I promise a story – or at least a one-shot or poem- will come out of it. It might take a while, but I will.
However, there are rules:
Get going. You will have a cameo (if you want) or a dedication. I might kiss you.
PS Please donate to Race for Life. The widget is on the sidebar. Thank you.
I thought I’d take a moment from everything that’s been going on and point your attention to the excellent new header I uploaded thirty seconds ago. It is staying up there for approximately eight million years, as that is the amount of time it took to match the colours to the format I write in on Picnik and Paint.
Yes, I use Paint. I would also be a big fan of a website called Crayon, if one existed. It would teach people like me how to draw straight lines and font so art exams are less painful than French ones. There would be every colour and shade known to anyone, and people who own Flash/Photoshop/graphics tablets would not be allowed in on principle.
However, I am digressing from the track I originally wanted to write about. Ah yes. This blog is a place for me to say what I want, when I want to, in whatever way I see fit at the time. No apologies for having an opinion, though bitching over the Internet is too 2008 to consider. It is also childish. So, without further ado;
Ten Things I/We/You Hate About High School
#10 Teachers thinking they are better than you because they are the ones with the diploma and whiteboard pen. Teachers saying they know what you are going through since they were once hormone-riddled teenagers, then lecturing you on the dangers of GHB. If we want to take it, we will take it. If we don’t die or become junkies, hopefully we won’t try it again.
#9 Classmates with their heads stuck so far up their own arse they can’t see the light. The ones who only see that they’re different to you, but act as though it’s a criminal offence. It isn’t. For God’s sake, accept that not everyone enjoys listening to Cheryl Cole and get over the fact they enjoy heavy metal or classic. These people are often also the ones who think it matters what your high jump score was and whether or not you can multiply out the brackets.
#8 A-Levels/AS-Levels/GCSEs/SATs/end of year exams/end of topic tests. Enough said.
#7 This probably only applies to girls and gay boys, but I’ll stick it in anyway: the fear of saying anything meaningful or personal to anyone, in case the next day four other kids know about it. Same applies to bitching. There are two people in my school I would take into my complete confidence, possibly three. The rest I don’t know well enough and/or don’t trust not to spill at the slightest pressure. Or on MSN.
#6 The permanent emphasis on gay people, sex and gay sex. No longer being in primary school clearly shows that every other conversation has to involve innuendo, especially about fags, but it’s totally not cool to come out about being a fag, which brings me on to my next point…
#5 There is no way to tell when you are fifteen, whether or not you are gay or bisexual. So, attention seeking kiddies, stop ‘coming out’. Everyone else, stop worrying. The consensus is; have a hell load of fun, experiment and steer clear of STDs. Chances are in later life you will want to get married to a member of the opposite sex and help populate the Earth without spreading AIDS.
#4 The rivalry between schools and the stereotypes that accompany them. The typecast for my all-girls grammar is ‘posh lesbian’. You simply have to take a look at some members of Year Ten to see that this is not true.
#3 Confusion. Over what to have for lunch, what to say to whom, where to sit, what to put in the answer space, whether you like that person or not. I seem to spend seventy percent of my time at SHSG not knowing what to do.
#2 The toilets.
#1 Pressure. From everyone. On you. To ace that paper, sleep with that dude, practice for that assessment. To be nice to friends and family (which you really want to do because they are nice) while stressing out about tomorrow’s exam and wondering if you finally blew it and said the wrong thing to her again.
I may add to this list and make it The Definitive Yet Unlimited List of Reasons Why We Are Allergic to Senior School. Watch this space.
Good luck in the jungle, and remember: you can’t go to hell, you’re already in it. However, you will leave when you are sixteen or eighteen and at some point in your mid-twenties you will be glad you put up with it. Probably when you recognise some prep in the high street who’s not got the movie-star life she thought she would.
… And I can see a seagull flying above the trees in the next street outside my window.
I have nothing to add to this, I just think that everyone should look out the window and enjoy the rain. Appreciate the wind, maybe watch Doctor Who if you missed it yesterday. This is very peaceful.
Too bad I’m in the middle of my English coursework.
There is really no excuse for slitting your wrists.
There’s an excuse for self-harming, definitely – why do alcoholics become alcoholics? I listen to Mindless Self Indulgence loudly, people smoke or take drugs, get addicted to daytime TV. There are a lot of people in the world who don’t like themselves, and I’m often one of them… There is nothing wrong with that. You know, bad hair day, failed exam, fight with your best friend, someone close to you dies.
Getting depressed is a very normal occurence and if you don’t get depression at least once in your life you are clearly not human. There is, however, a massive difference between having a bad week and being depressed.
I go to school with a lot of people (I won’t name names because I am not the Daily Mail) who treat an argument in their circle of friends as the be all and end all, then go and take a razor to their wrists, permanently marring their skin and making their nerves hurt.
What’s worse is when kids do it and make it very public, but at the same time make a big deal of wearing wristbands and having black and white display pictures on MSN. This is not having issues with your BFF, this is attention-seeking.
It is called emoshit and is utter crap.
Look, I get it if you’re upset. I understand that there’s no one close to you that you feel you can talk to. I realise you might want to block out your parents having a row or relatives discussing sick grandparents in hushed whispers.
Ever tried watching a Monty Python sketch? Or Glee? I can tell you from experience that Glee is forty minutes of singing and bitching, with no relevance to anyone’s life whatsoever. You don’t have to have blood running down your arm to forget about problems. You just need an escape route.
Another type of emoshit is when teenagers listen to bands like, I don’t know, My Chemical Romance and think, “They wear black and sing about death, their frontman’s hot, I’m going to make my hair look like a crow died on my head and never smile. Now I’m a My Chem fan!”
You need to wake up and smell the body odour.
One of the first times I heard The Black Parade I was all, “My life sucks!” and briefly considered poking holes in my hand with nail scissors. Then I listened to some of Parade’s lyrics properly and realised that I was being a prat and needed to take a break. Nowdays MCR are my favourite band because they say some smart things, write some hilarious and wierd stories and helped me bond with some of my closest friends… There’s nothing like a debate about Demolition Lovers verses the Patient to glue a relationship. So many kids love My Chem because they are an escape route, just not in an it’s-cool-to-hang-myself way. More of a I-can’t-believe-they-just-sang-that-I-must-see-them-live kind of way.
So, emoshit kids. Get over yourselves. Take a step back and work out why you’re doing what you’re doing. Think it through. I’m not saying your life isn’t difficult, I’m saying it isn’t impossible.
Oh, and stop fangirling over Gerard and making him have sex with his brother. He’s a gobby chain smoker with no proper job… He also happens to be married to a woman.
Good evening.
I am very glad that even famous in-laws go to great lengths to prove they like each other:
I love my feet. Also my thighs. Back. Arms. Shoulders. Kneecaps. Shower.
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned I am partaking in the Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award Scheme, and in case you didn’t already know, it involves – for my school at least – an expedition to Danbury, Essex.
I do not like Danbury anymore.
We walked twenty-five kilometers and I have no pictures to show you because we were busy trekking off the map and eating grass, looking like homeless people. Big thanks to Sarah for accompanying me to the loo at two fifteen in the morning, Pugsley for getting the toothpaste open and Mrs. Brierlly for phoning the teachers and discovering that we’d actually passed camp an hour ago and said, “That’s not it, keep going.”
Oh, and we saw fluffy bunny rabbits, with white tails that are like the Beatrix Potter illustrations. They look a little like this:
I’m going to walk Fred now. Drink to Mr. Brown’s resignation for me.
My mother embarked on holiday to Greece yesterday with my aunts and has left my dad, my brother and I to look after ourselves for a week. Can’t say I blame her.
I was kind of dreading it because it’s a Duke of Edinburgh expedition on Saturday, and I have English coursework due in tomorrow that I really can’t do since my MP3 player is the most basic thing since unsliced bread and has less memory.
Actually, it was all going okay until half an hour ago. I’ve sussed out the washing machine, I have a newfound appreciation of the dishwasher, I haven’t exploded anything and Maxim and I have both eaten. Then Dad decided I have to walk the dog. Don’t get me wrong, I love Fred, Fred is an amazing dude, but the way it goes is that I stop the washing from going mouldy, Maxim stops us from starving and Dad stops Fred from eating furniture by taking him on a walk.
Oh no. Dad’s been at work all day (so have I) and it’s tough (so are high school French lessons and homework) and because Maxim has boxing, I get to walk Fred and clear his crap off the pavement . Regardless of the fact I cut open the back of my ankle on my shoes and need to work out how to get The Vote Now Show on my MP3 to transcript it in tomorrow’s English lesson.
I don’t think Dad even knows I am taking GCSEs.
I hope it’s raining in Zakynthos. Or that it’s too expensive to buy anything except fish heads.
Happy belated Star Wars Day.
