| Hello. |
It's been ages.
I can hear rain but I'm too tired to open the window and see if I'm imagining it.
Susan Boyle is a really good singer.
My new hat is wonderous but a rip-off at £12.
Why does the school act like it's a choice I have to wear a hat?
It's not a choice!
Why am I pressing Enter instead of Space?
I don't know.
I want to sleep.
I want the weekend,
2 days of nothing
except work
and play :DLabels: me, sigh |
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| Return to Oz... er, Cardiff. |
Well, what a twee little holiday that was. Great fun was had by all, apart from when a tractor reversed into my uncle's car and nearly killed him and my grandad... but all's well that ends well! I'll try and summarise in my favourite form - bullet points!
- South Molton is a very quaint little town, very pretty indeed, but not great for a day out because there's sod all to do.
- Don't anger a chicken. They can run quite fast.
- I finally bought a scarf I've been saving up for... cost £10 normally but I got it for £7, muaha.
- Cadbury's Mis-Shapes are LOVE in chocolate form.
- It's easier than I thought to survive for a week without internet connection or signal on my mobile phone.
- Prisoners in Dartmoor Prison might complain about the hard time they get behind bars, but they're lucky the cat o' nine tails is no longer used there... I never knew they used that in any non-naval circumstances!
- Cows moo very loudly.
- Broken fire alarms are no fun, especially at 4 in the morning.
- Apparently, a rumour has been going round that I stuff my bra. Yay, my bust has been the talk of the town. (As Aneira said, 'what with - melons??' You have to love well-meaning siblings.)
- Writing postcards in French is actually quite difficult without a French dictionary or translator.
Might put up pictures later, might not. It depends on whether I can be bothered or not... Labels: holiday, list, me, owch |
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| Au revoir! |
| Am off to Devon for a week. Yay. Goodbye civilisation and adorable Welsh lilt, hello cows and sheep and incomprehensible farmer jargon. When I get back I shall amaze you all with many pictures of the wonderful countryside of Devon, and maybe some random photographs of farm animals. I'm sure there'll be a few. -  Went to Devon last year and visited the world renowned 'Gnome Reserve'... don't tell me that Devon isn't mad :P
Author's note: yes, I have been to Devon before, so don't tell me I'm being close-minded when I speak of sheep and cows. There are lots. There is an ABUNDANCE of farm animals in Devon. And gnomes, actually. But more on that when I get back. Labels: holiday, me, sigh |
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| Torchwood Signing, Cardiff |
Well, that was a fun day. Last week, I went to town with my twin, and we saw a sign saying that there would be a Torchwood signing of the 3rd series DVD with John Barrowman, Eve Myles and Gareth David-Lloyd (yum). So, we skipped home and merrily planned to go. That signing was today, and we went with two other friends, one of whom had a Captain Jack military coat!  My envious photo-editing skills. Yes, I made a fan club for my friend's Jack Harkness coat. It was the most awesome thing ever. We got there at 11, had originally planned to be there for 1 o'clock but all our school lessons were cancelled (well, my twin actually had to mitch Biology, but shh), so we went early - and it was a good thing we did! There were already about 30 people in the queue, and the signing didn't start until 5pm!
 The queue at about 4pm... probably about 300 people came in the end!
- 2 VERY ADHD kids kept having what they referred to as 'a pushy fight' in which they basically jumped on each other and pushed each other into shop doorways and phone boxes... that was the strangest thing I have ever seen people doing in public.
- A weird beggar woman came up to us. She was about 4ft tall and very old, with a coffee cup to beg with. I don't like being hassled - I am not averse to giving money to those who need it, but this woman literally just stood there until people gave her something, so I turned to her and said 'I'm sorry, but I have given all my worldly goods to the poor children of Belarus'. She actually smiled and said 'thank you'!
- A strange improvisational drama man began doing performances for us! He had this act where you gave him an object and he did a comedy act with it. He wasn't funny at all, but it passed about 15 minutes.
Then, at 5pm...
I HAVE THEIR AUTOGRAPHS.
I didn't speak to them - you weren't really allowed, there were too many people there - but GDL is lovely in real life, JB is better-looking than he is on screen (I think his botox was wearing off, thank goodness) and also very lovely, and EM is mad and equally lovely and has great hair. So, all-in-all, an amazing day - but my feet don't half hurt...Labels: friends, me, picture |
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The TV event of my year is finally upon us! Yes, I am a sad little Whovian and the idea of a whole week of Torchwood makes me salivate at the mouth. It's a shame there are only 5 episodes, so here's hoping that they're of a good quality!
One of the things I like about it is it's portrayal of gay relationships. I'm not a pervert, honest, but I find it refreshing to see a relationship on telly that's not just monotonous husband/wife, man/mistress etc. I do wish they'd be a bit more subtle about it and stop saying 'LOOK, THIS IS A HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP, AREN'T WE ACCEPTING?' and instead just sort of throw it in the mix to show that it's normal, but it's a start. Anything that annoys the Daily Mail is good in my eyes.
So, la la la, school is boring, have far too many free periods nowadays. Boredom has set in like lockjaw. Give me some drama!Labels: fascist shit, me |
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| Sigh. |
Tomorrow looks to be boring.
My family are going to Hereford, but I'm working.
I finish work at 1pm, there's a vintage clothes sale on down the road but it starts at 12 and ends at 3 so all the good stuff will probably be gone.
Ah well.Labels: me, rant, sigh |
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| It will get better. |
Sometimes it does seem like it won't, because that's the thing with anxiety; it's a 'nothing disease'. The symptoms of it mean that you ignore it because you don't want to feel worthless, which is essentially how anxiety makes you feel anyway. It's a paradox, but not an inescapable one. Anxiety isn't ever really spontaneous. You don't wake up one day and realise you're suffering from it. It builds up over a long time, like tar on the lungs, and it's usually caused by repeated erosion of your confidence. But confidence is a strange thing. You can have bucketloads one day, and none the next, for no discernable reason.
Anxiety isn't really a feeling. We all feel anxious, but we don't all have anxiety. Anxiety sufferers have low self-esteem. It's also known as 'social phobia'. Some sufferers can't go into shops, some can't even go out in public. I have an irrational fear of post offices and phone calls. Yes, it's laughable, but it's irrational. People laugh at anxiety sufferers because they're seen as wimps who cry and chicken out of everything. That's not what it is. People have asked me why I act like it's a big deal when I manage to walk past a dog in the street. To me, that's a huge milestone. That's not anxiety related, but my cynophobia produces a similar feeling to my anxiety (panic attacks, irrational crying), and when I manage to beat it, it's like beating a part of me that's not really there. Just as cancer sufferers have to fight a part of their body that's not really them, mentally ill people have to fight a part of themselves that's hiding within their consciousness. It's hard, and people do underestimate that.
BUT
it's not impossible. Yes, 80% of people relapse with a mental illness, but 20% don't, and of the 80% that do, most of them are cured again.
For the sufferers:
Give therapy a chance.
You are worth it.
You are human and there's nothing to be afraid of in admitting that you don't want to be beaten.
For the others:
Don't laugh at someone else's misfortune; a large proportion of people will suffer from mental health issues at one point in their life.
Don't laugh at someone's phobia. One of my friends finds it hilarious that I'm terrified of dogs and post offices. I find it hilarious that she thinks she's better at writing than me. We all have our weaknesses, but we all have our strengths.
Take the time to understand. We are all equal, but we are all different. Don't think that that's a bad thing.Labels: anxiety, friends, me |
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| Urghhh |
I hate far too much at dinner. Why is my mum such a good cook?! I should sue.
Today has been uneventful, as per usual. Realised that I am in pretty desperate need of a haircut though. I have no idea how I want it cut. I've had various suggestions - pixie cut (because I'm an elf), bob, skinhead...
What do you think, world?
(This is the elfiest picture I have. Elf.)
I also really need a cup of tea.
I also am not hungry but want to eat, but will resist.
I also realised that not everyone likes mustard yellow footless tights as much as I do.
Ho hum. Boring days are so darned monotonous.Labels: fashion, me, picture |
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| Ain't no place for a skinny blonde midget no more. |
I have just finished my week of work experience.
In Barry.
Don't get me wrong, my journalism work experience placement was amazing, I met some great people (including an 89-year-old woman who kept stroking my hair and asking if I was Scandinavian) and learnt a lot about the world of journalism, and my self-confidence increased as I had to make the 40 minute train journey by myself and phone people (part of my social phobia is an irrational hatred of phoning people... don't ask!), but still, it was in Barry.
Barry is actually quite a nice place. It's the largest town in Wales apparently, and it has plenty of shops and activities for a day out if you're bored. It's close to Cardiff and the countryside. The seaside is a stone's throw away. But some of the people I met really let it down. For example, the first day I was there, I saw 8 pregnant teenagers and 3 teenagers pushing a pram. I'm not 'judging' anyone who makes that decision at that age, but it was a bit of a culture shock as I've only ever met one teenage mother before in 17 years! The second day I was there, I walked past a group of girls and one said 'Jesus Lord above, what is that??', referring to me. I guessed it was because I look and sound posh, and I wasn't 'one of them', so I was automatically an outsider.
That's my main point. Why can't someone 'belong' just because they look a bit different or come from a different background?
Take the touchy subject of immigration for example. Britain is very multi-cultural nowadays, and that's in no way a bad thing. But it's still segregated. Muslim girls form groups in school and won't mix with other people, because they feel that they need to have the common bond of their religion to have a good friendship. That's not true. As the great Bill Bailey once said, you don't need to walk into the paddock to see the horse - you don't need to actually be a Muslim to understand their religion and accept it. It's the same with groups of friends who only seem to hang out together because they dress the same, or like the same group of music - why? Why not mix and learn something about another culture or another aspect of life?
People are so one-track minded these days, and by that I don't mean that they're blind to other people, rather that they wear blinkers around others. They see the outline of the person, the silhouette, but not the flesh that really makes that being, because they don't want to know if there's any chance that they won't like what they see.
To bring this post to my favourite topic of mental illness, that explains, in my opinion, why those with mental illnesses are often ignored and mistreated by society - people feel that if they've never been through it, they shouldn't even try to understand it because there's no way that they can. It's not true. It takes work for both sides, but what mentally ill people need is a connection to the outside world. If I hadn't made the 40 minute train journey by myself, I'd still be afraid to, and if I hadn't had to phone up people, I'd still be anxious about it, but because someone understood my inhibitions and helped me work through them, I managed it.
And, to be honest, I'm quite proud of myself for that.Labels: dear world, me, ow, rant, sanity |
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| Fatigued. |
The school behind my house decided to have a huge party last night that lasted until half 1 this morning. No matter that the terms of building the school mean that they can't make noise after 11pm, as long as they're happy, who cares?
So, I'm slightly sleep-deprived at the moment.
Going to Cardiff Bay now with my uncle. We (my twin and I) go out with him every weekend, we can annoy him as much as we want and he doesn't really mind. We go to the Bay and buy a cup of tea, some Quavers and a Twix, every week. Usually we make an annoying CD for his car. Today's CD contains about 12 Eurovision tracks, an ABBA song and 'Rock DJ'. Yay us.Labels: me |
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| After Birth |
The fire that once kept my brain alive Alive but tortured, ebony and cold Has burnt out; only ashes have survived, The embers dead and grey, so withered, old. None of this at birth could be foretold, Sweet baby with a smiling, pleasing face Without the wisdom of her birthing place The cruelties of children, and of Earth. If she had known, perhaps her saving grace Would be to die so tender after birth.
Alas, she grew, and as she did, she learnt That children could be cruel with their remarks. Their scorn and taunts would be forever burnt Into her flesh, and soon would leave a mark More permanent than bruises, and more dark Than scars of wounds that healed from childish mirth. The suffering we must endure on Earth Is but a life on which we must embark, To seek to prove belonging and our worth Less we have died so tender after birth. A skeleton can tell no tales or lies, And so the child was left an empty shell And all she had to say was told by eyes As desolate as those forged hot in Hell. The child was living, dead and in a spell Cast on her by those with evil at heart, With aims to tear her existence apart. Remorse had not its place, had not its worth. They took their bows and shot a poisoned dart That struck the child so tender after birth.
And now she lives in solitude and grace, With knowledge that this is the only place In which one is rewarded for their mirth, And punished if they dare to show their face Among the strong, so tender after birth.
Doesn't have to be autographical, but it is.
All I want to say is that I don't have to be treated with kid gloves... (don't give me what I want just because you feel sorry for me) But fucking RESPECT me as a human being. I expect that. I expect you to treat me as you would anyone else. Don't make hollow promises because you think I'm an android and I won't mind. I have emotions. Don't make a fucking ignorant judgement that I won't give a shit if you screw me over. Because I WILL. Labels: dear world, me, ow, poem |
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| Ugh |
Really don't feel great today. Constant nausea, splitting headaches (sinuses playing up again) and very tired. I'll get over it.
No point in this post, but I had to update after 8 days...Labels: me, owch |
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| 'Individuality', that well-known A Level French topic. |
I've been racking my brain a lot lately to try and find out what people mean when they say 'individuality'. It's as hard to define as it is to touch-type, and everyone has a different idea of what it is exactly. Are those chavvy little twonks who creep out of lessons every day for a sneaky fag 'individual' because they do something that not a lot of students do, albeit because the other stupids have a higher level of intelligence? Or are they just slaves to the media, rebelling because the media tells us that it's cool to do things that you shouldn't?
Now, I don't think that I'm exactly the same as everyone else. I don't make a point of being different, by which I mean that I don't go to school in a dress made out of recycled McDonalds' packaging with 7-inch platform boots, but I don't make a point of following the latest trends either. Ugg boots will not be seen in my wardrobe nor on my feet unless someone's threatened to let their dog off the lead in my presence if I don't wear them. Which, let's face it, isn't likely. My favourite dress is my brown one with cats on, my favourite shoes are blue ankle boots and I'm quite partial to a bright cardie now and then. There are hundreds of people who dress like me. And yet they're not me.
Individuality comes down to so many things - looks, likes and dislikes, background and experiences - so with so many factors, how can you truly define it? Just because all the emos in the world look like they were born in a petri dish in a cloning factory doesn't mean that they're all the same. Emo 1 might like wearing pink bows in her hair. Emo 2 might only wear green. And emo 3 - God help him - might not cut himself. Emo 4 might have parents who are divorced, and emo 5 might live in a huge house in a little cul-de-sac with her parents and pet chihuahua. They're different. But they try to be the same. Why? Since when has it been cool to fit into a mould? We're not jelly. We're individuals. We should try to be individual.
And now for the brain-boggler. Someone once told me that if we have to try to be individual, we're not really individual. This is reinforced in one of my old school friends who suddenly decided one day that she wanted to be a 'rocker', so she got a bad dye-job on her hair and purchased a range of 'emo' clothes from Debenhams, of all places. We all nagged her, as teenage girls do, to be herself. We'd like her more if we felt that we still knew her. But no, to her being cool was just more important than we were, and eventually we all just stopped talking. I saw her recently. She's got bright red hair and has gone for the 'indie' look, and I feel like slapping her and saying 'Christ, woman, just be yourself. Avril Lavigne might be a talentless Canadian twit who wants to be American and seriously needs to stop dressing like a pre-teen harlot, but she had the right idea in that awfully catchy song of hers'.
You know that things are bad when Avril Lavigne becomes a philosopher.
So, when I'm asked in my next French lesson what I think of individuality and fashion, I shall shrug and say 'je ne sais pas, parce que, a mon avi, ca n'existe pas!', then demand cake and sit there looking like a smug git in my cat-dress and ankle boots, with poorly applied eyeliner and pitifully messy hair.Labels: fashion, me |
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| 10 worst things about being a midget. |
1. Everyone thinks you're about 12... you can kiss goodbye to ever being asked out by a boy your own age. Also, if you're blonde and petite like me, you do get a fair few 11 year old boys gawping. Which makes me feel like a paedophile.
2. You see eye-to-chin with people. The other day, someone actually asked me 'do you see eye-to-eye with me on this subject? No, of course not, you see eye-to-nipple with me!' I did hit them across the face.
3. Going up stairs behind people. I feel like a total pervert because I have to look at their arse or their stairs. If I were just a few inches taller, I'd be able to look at their backs, but as it is, I have a view of their posterior. Oh, great. I'm a peeping tom.
4. You get things thrown at you in the street. A couple of months ago, in Cwmbran (shitty little town which pretends to be all modern because it has a shopping centre, but really is stuck in the middle ages) a group of morons thought it would be funny to throw Haribo sweets at me. Oh, hilarious. Spend 50p on insulting the titch. If you want to throw something at me, you might want to make it something that you didn't have to pay for, otherwise you're just wasting money on something that really doesn't offend me. So used to it now.
5. You get disrespected! Now, I'm no chav, so I don't go off on one when someone 'disrespects' me, but I would like some respect. I even got spat on in the street last year by an 11 year old. That wasn't too fun. Didn't help that the school didn't help either. If it were legal, I'd name and shame the poncey Catholic school behind my house that couldn't give a shit if a girl gets spat on by one of their poorly-educated religious nut pupils and can't be arsed to even telephone me or get any help for me, or even be grateful that I didn't get the police on them (which I could have, seeing as it's technically assault...)
6. People think that your opinions don't matter. I'm opinionated. I'm open minded. I will usually have something to say on a topic, and I will fight my corner. But because I look young, people think that I have the brain of a 10 year old, and thus my words mean nothing. Sigh.
7. Buying clothes is a NIGHTMARE. Well, not really, I don't wake up in the middle of the night screaming 'the clothes! The clothes! They don't fit!' but it is rather irritating. All my jeans are hemmed. It doesn't help that I'm also a size 6-8 (UK!) and the average size here is a 14. Go figure.
8. People think you're 'cute'. People actually go 'awww' to me and pat me on the head. I am not a dog. I do not bark. But I will bite the next person who calls me 'adorable'.
9. When I wear high heels, I look like a 12 year old prostitute.
10. Getting through corridors in school is impossible. You'd think it would be easy, but when you're invisible, people just shove you until you feel a bit like a ragdoll or a Guy on a bonfire.
There, there's my complaining for the day. My friend told me that I should give up being grouchy for Lent, as apparently I've been cheerful for the past 3 weeks. Score.Labels: list, me, rant |
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| Revenge of the Blistered Skin |
Wow, I must be a real magnet for blisters... just discovered I have this sexy piece of ass on my lip.
Yes, it's a blood blister! Must've bitten my lip while eating my (accidentally) vegetarian spaghetti bolognese. Mum has to learn to read the labels of food before she buys it.
Anyway, this post is really to showcase my extreme art skills. Dad drew a picture of me at dinner: 
.. which is a REALLY cunning, sly reference to the fact that I'm short and top heavy. So I drew this in response:
 I think we can all agree that my family is quite clearly a talented bunch.
And no, I did not take Art at A Level...
Labels: me, ow, picture |
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| An update! |
I've not been a very busy blogger lately, have I? I wish there were a valid reason, possibly an exciting one, like 'I was on holiday in the Congo', but sadly no, I've just been lazy.
Not lazy enough, by the looks of it.
I've got the best blister ever on my finger. Well, actually, as far as blisters go it's pretty pathetic, but the sheer fact that it prevents me from fully bending my finger makes it immediately impressive.
I didn't even get it in a cool way. I was carrying a heavy plastic box of paper and I guess it rubbed on my finger. I shouldn't have even been carrying it, but no, the lanky waist-coated twat with me wasn't enough of a gentleman to help the midget.
Anyway, here it is, because we all like to see freaky things:
See? It's quite cool. And I apologise for the awful lumpiness of my finger, I do have very bizarre digits.
Anyway, that's all from me. I also have a huge spot on my forehead, but that's a bit too gross and personal, so no pictures. Besides, we've all seen spots, but not everyone has seen an Amazing Blister Caused By Blatant Sexism and Midgetism of the Lanky Bastards.Labels: me, ow |
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| Your craziness is my sanity. |
I'm clinically mentally unstable. I do have a mental illness. It's not one of the cool varieties that people are afraid of or write horror films about. Instead, it's a very common one. Yes, I am a recognised sufferer of clinical depression. Who isn't, nowadays? But anyway, being one of the crazy elite, I've come across a few questions from skeptics who want to think that I'm just making it up to try and stand out from the crowd. What is craziness? What defines insanity? What makes us mad as opposed to just 'quirky', or 'different'?
Now, I'm no expert, but I would define crying for hours on end for no reason and having panic attacks in the middle of the night as being slightly more than just 'unique'.
Craziness affects us all in different ways at different times. Sometimes I just want to shout it out from a rooftop, from every rooftop, to stop the bastards asking questions ('why do you care about that so much?' 'What do you know about mental illness? You're not an expert!') Sometimes I want to make everyone just shut up about it, but not usually.
Usually, I want to find the twatheads that did this to me and scream in their faces, 'look what you've done to me, look what you've done because you thought it made you look tough in front of your mates'. But I won't get the chance to do that now.
However, there is a fine line between craziness and the normal workings of the brain.
And that is why I don't tell people that I'm ill.
I have told three people. The first person, my best friend, was understanding, and accepted it. She said she didn't know how I felt, but that she would try and help me. That was a good response.
The second person said, 'oh yeah, I had depression too.' I was surprised, and asked how they got over it. They replied 'I just did'. It emerged that they classified 'depression' as a mood, not an illness. They had once been sad after getting a bad grade in school. I gently explained the difference between our conditions, and they remained adamant that it was the same. I then shouted that years of sexual and psychological taunting is slightly more likely to cause depression than a C in art. We've barely spoken since. What a shame.
The third person said that they had also had depression, after their dog died. Now, of course, they were very sad, but clinical depression is diagnosed by a disproportionate reaction to trauma. With me, the bullying I endured ended, but for months and months afterwards I was still crying every night, still couldn't go out in public on my own, still depended on others to look around the corner for me in case someone was there of whom I was afraid. I needed months of therapy and confidence building to be anywhere near normal. But, you know, I suppose I shouldn't dwell on it. People that dwell on things just get annoying. So hopefully by writing all this down, I can stop thinking about it and just be more normal. Yay.Labels: me, sanity |
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| Bad parenting makes me hate the world. |
I went to town today with my mum. Not much to say about that, except here's a tip - don't wear bright orange tights, a yellow sundress and high-heeled ankle boots unless you want old women to think that you're a 12 year old prostitute, or is that just me? Anyway, I went to a clothes' shop and decided to try on two dresses. I didn't buy either. One of them made me look like a turnip and the other made me look like a harlot. But I digress. As I struggled out of the second dress, a woman of about 50 entered the changing area. Only a curtain separated us. It was a tense moment. Then she realised that I existed, and went into the adjacent changing room - along with about three-hundred children. HER children. And seriously, I think at least two hundred and ninety of them had ADHD or something. One of them - 'Erin', I think - appeared to be 'that way inclined', as she kept running into occupied changing rooms. Her mother shouted, 'daaahn't do that, Erin, peopwe are in dere!' in the worst Cardiff accent I've ever heard (I'm allowed to say that because I am a Cardiffian). The girl started screaming obscenities in response, and as my ears bled, I could just about make out the woman shouting at another child (Alan) - 'daahn't run into ya bruvva like that, 'member last time you did that? 'E ended up in 'ospital wiv an 'ole in 'is 'ead and 'ad to get stitches! There were blood everywhere, do you want that to 'appen again? Then stop it!' Oh great, I'd gone in to try on a dress and ended up with a medical report into the results of stupidity and hyperactivity. Alan burst into tears at this point, at which his mother started hugging him and kissing him. What the Hell? Your kid just tried to kill his brother and you're praising him? Do you want your kid to grow into a psychopath? I hurriedly got dressed and left the changing rooms. I think my IQ dropped about 10 points during the time I was in that changing room. It's probably into negative figures by now. It would explain a lot.
Also, here's something I should have mentioned before: I have a list of things I have to do this year. I've already done two (small ones) which I think is quite good, especially as I did one yesterday and one today. Oh yeah, I started late.
Completed:
1. Buy Cadbury's Mis-shapes - the chocolate equivalent of me!
2. Watch 'The Exorcist'. Ooh, it was freaky. Some real 'behind the blanket' moments. I can't imagine how they filmed that, I would have pooped myself.
More tomorrow, by which time my favourite (and only) sister will be back from her Deutsch trip. She'll be jet-lagged and cranky. Yay.
Laters Alligators, in a while crocodiles.Labels: list, me, rant |
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| Bad drivers make me hate the world. |
I went to Bridgend today. I don't usually. I don't wake up and immediately think, 'I'll go to Bridgend today'. Not that I dislike Bridgend at all. I have some very fond memories of it, like when I bought a toy cat from one of the toyshops there and the assistant forgot to take off the security tag, so my dad had to hammer it off in the living room with me howling like a banshee, afraid he'd hurt my new cat.
My twin sister is in Berlin on a school trip, the lucky bint, so I decided 'I'm not having this', and I rebelled against the Man of boredom by going to Bridgend. On the way there, we were stuck behind a man (living corpse!) who misread all the speed limit signs of 50mph as 25mph. It didn't help that my Uncle insisted on playing whining, drivelling durge on the stereo - 'The Crying Game' and 'I Wanna Know What Love Is' to name but two - and by the end of that stretch of the motorway, I felt like throwing myself out of the car and walking. I probably would have got there quicker.
Also on the way there, we were graced by the presence of a moronic tit in a BMW on the motorway doing a respectable 60mph - while on the phone. I actually stuck my middle finger up at him and mouthed 'get off your phone, you nimwit'. I can't believe the idiocy of some people on the roads. They should be torn from their precious cars and forced to ride bicycles on the M4. It might give them some lessons in safety awareness. I've noticed that a lot of people talk on the phone while driving. It's really disconcerting when lorry drivers do it. You feel like shouting, 'look, mate, you've got a big-ass truck tied to the back of your little cubby-hole, now stop talking to your trailer-mistress on the microwave and focus on the big plastic doughnut in front of you!' How hard can it be? These people have passed their driving tests, for God's sake. I haven't, and I know it's a pretty bad idea to risk the lives of others (and yourself) just so you can tell your wife that you've changed your mind about the pot roast.
So, here is my message to bad drivers everywhere; STOP IT. The girl you're trying to impress won't fancy you quite so much when you're behind bars for your prattiness.Labels: me, rant |
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| Why set up this blog? |
I am but an average, random teenager. No-one really cares about what I have to say. They'd be mad if I did. I don't tend to approach a surly adolescent in the street and ask for their opinion on the Gaza conflict or the economy. Perhaps I should. I'm sure that they would have an opinion as valid as any other. Perhaps even as valid as my own. I'm not sure. We teenagers can be hypocritical.
So, that returns us cyclically to the inevitable question; 'why set up this blog'? The truth is that I set it up not only to force my opinions on the realms of the internet and shamelessly self advertise, but also to hopefully give others a little insight into the minds of a mentally unstable teenager. Naturally, I shall retain my anonymity, at least until the publishing offers come pouring through (in what parallel universe?). The mind of a mentally unstable teenager is a terrifying place. Its geographic equivalent is probably the Grand Canyon, full of steep cliffs of unfinished thoughts and cognitions, dangerous opinions and seemingly impossible climbs. The teenager is an intimidating being. No two are the same. And no two are sane. Not even you.Labels: introduction, me, sanity |
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Name: AnwenKya
Home: Cardiff
About Me: I am a 5ft blonde teenager with an overactive imagination, bad temper and terrifying sense of humour. Hear me roar!
See my profile...
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background by tayler
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posted by AnwenKya at 