...it was always going to be offending someone

A man says to his nine-year-old son, "Son, I have a challenge for you. Ask your mother, your sister and your brother if they would sleep with Brad Pitt for a million pounds, and come back and tell me the difference between what is potential and what is real."

The boy goes to his mum and asks her if she'd sleep with Brad Pitt for a million pounds.

"Ohh yes!" she says, looking up from her book. "He is rather dashing."

He then goes to his sister in her room and asks her the same question.

"Hell YES! He is welcome in my bed any day!"

He asks his brother. His brother "umm"s and "aah"s before coming to a conclusion.

"I would," he answers slowly. "But only because I want the money."

The boy returns to his father, who asks if he's found the difference between what is potential and what is real.

He thinks his answer through carefully. 

"Potentially, we're three million pounds richer. In reality, we're living with two sluts and a queer."

When I heard this joke for the first time, I fell over laughing. I'm still unable to be in the same room as the person who initially told it without crying with laughter. That was two years ago. I think it's fair to say, this joke is a personal favourite.

A few days ago, I read an article online about political correctness, and how it causes us to suppress our true opinions and encourages us to lie and all that, and, to an extent, I agree - but typing the very last word of the joke makes me uncomfortable, just as it always makes me uncomfortable every time I say it aloud. 

"Queer - Originally pejorative for gay, now being reclaimed by some gay men, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered persons as a self-affirming umbrella term. Caution: still extremely offensive when used as an epithet." [Urban Dictionary definition]

It's one of those awkward situations - to use the correct term, "homosexual", completely ruins the flow of the joke. The word "gay" isn't technically a noun in itself, and so, in that context, would be incorrect usage of the English language. That is definite. Once that's decided, it's an uncomfortable game called "which term is least offensive?"

[Here I'd like to say that I am homophobiaphobic]

Poof? Faggot? Bender? Nancy? Dyke? [Actually used when referring to a lesbian, but still.]

Why is it such a massive problem?! The only reason people hesitate when wondering what to call gays is because society has had it tattooed onto our minds that all slang is offensive. Does it have to be? I'm called names such as "fatty", "gingy" and "dumbass" so often that I'd sink into my own little depressed hole and grow to despise everyone and starve to death and be found in a state of half-decay several weeks later if I took offence every time they're casually thrown in my direction. Maybe it's just me, or maybe it's to do with familiarity [despite what you might think, strangers don't often address me with insults], but I do think that, when you take a step back, the situation has surpassed the interests of politeness and general etiquette and has entered into the realm of the completely ridiculous. 

Yes, it always has been, and always will be, unacceptable to glorify racism, sexism, homophobia - any form of discrimination - but what makes jokingly calling a friend "a fairy" when he expresses feminine tendencies abominably rude? Is it only considered oafish to refer to women as "birds" because, several decades ago, it was just decided that life was boring and a word was chosen to become taboo without reason or justifiable cause? Quite possibly, in my humble opinion.

It's difficult, really difficult, to discern between the acceptable and the shootable offences. I think it's fair to say, and it's an overused quote - that this is political correctness gone mad.

                    

Quote of the day: A quick test to see if you are a feminist. Stick your hand down your pants. a) Do you have a vagina? b) Do you want to be in control of it? If your answer to both was "yes" then, congratulations! You are a feminist. [Caitlin Moran]

...turn them into lemonade without the ade

Had my last exam at half one today. German reading. As I walked out of the hall fifty minutes later, I was ecstatic, jubilant, elated, rhapsodic, overjoyed at the prospect of never having to speak another word of German ever again! Ja ja ja ja ja! Screw modal verbs, screw past participles, screw "der, die, das" - I'm FREE of this bitch that has been dragging me down until I'm on the verge of committing racial homicide for so long*! I'm FREE, DAMNIT! FREE! Not only that, but it was my LAST GCSE! No more exams! HEAR THAT? Summer! I'm freeee

Celebrated by pottering along to Stefan's place with Ben and spending a lovely couple of hours sunbathing in the shadiest space available [I burn like toast], eating cake and drinking Coke out of a glass bottle. [Is there anything more awesome than Coke in a glass bottle? Unlikely.] It was really, really nice, just to chill and talk about mindless stuff and drink "lemonade without the fizz", courtesy of Stefan, and it occurred to me that this is the start of what could be the best summer of my life.

Three weeks from now: my brother, Robert, flies his skinny arse over here so I can kick it for being away for so long. A week after that: the four of us [parents, my brother and I] drive up to Skye and inflict ourselves upon our cousins. A few days after that: we all travel to a charmingly Scottish holiday resort and stay for a week. During that time: big family reunion [my sister, her husband, Granny, the seldom-seen Uncle Peter, his wife, Rob's girlfriend] to celebrate dad's upcoming birthday. Following that: puppet academy [don't ask - I have peculiar hobbies, but at least I'm damn good at them].  After that: Soul Survivor [my favourite place in the world, without a doubt]. After that: exam results! And then: a few weeks of sitting around, scratching my nose, growing more and more nervous about starting a new school in September.

[You probably didn't need to know my entire timetable for this summer, and you almost certainly couldn't care less, but I'm not bothered.]

All in all - a bloody amazing couple of months, no?

I'm about to go off at a tangent.

As a rule, I dislike summer. I'm more of a winter person, in every way. I like rain, I don't do well in heat, I have typical "ginger skin" and burn ridiculously easily, I hate all the beetles that occupy the garden when it gets warm, I don't like going into swimming pools to cool down because I'm too insecure - the list goes on. ANYWAY, this evening I braved the midges, I defied the pitiful Suffolk sun, I donned my straw hat and sat outside with my ukulele for a few hours and was completely amazed by how good it felt. Yes, it was too humid, yes, I was sweating like a pig, yes, a multitude of many-legged organisms were crawling all over me, but it was actually really really nice. So then I got thinking - why can't the rest of the holiday be like this? It can be - I have about ten weeks until I need to wake up at any reasonable time and shake myself out of a nocturnal habit again, why not spend it enjoying summer?

I've [hopefully] a time of acclimatising myself to the outside and twiddling with the uke and laughing with friends and reading good books and having fun ahead of me, and I want to take advantage of that. Maybe at the end of it I'll have earned myself a tan, who knows.

I suppose the moral of the story, and everyone already knows it, is: enjoy life. It's too precious to waste sitting indoors, thinking about what's going on "out there". Get "out there" and see for yourself. There's nothing that can't be overcome with patience and persistence and the knowledge that you have people to help you every step of the way.

Since I started writing this, I've been debating with myself whether or not to actually post it. Is it my honest opinion? Yes, completely. Is it likely to turn the German nation against me? Hopefully not. Might it be seen as massively insensitive? Quite possibly, and that, I admit, I'm worried about - call me a bitch, a bad friend, an intrinsically evil human being, but I'm not going to tiptoe around other people if it means distancing myself from what makes me happy. I know it isn't, but if it was me, if I had a lot to think about [euphemistically speaking], I know I'd want people to be normal, because normality gives me something to aim towards when things outside of my control are changing around me. I'm sorry if this causes offence or displeasure, but I'm not being deliberately vindictive; I'm here to be a friend, and I'm trying to be as helpful as I can.

Quote of the day: When one door closes, another opens; but often we look so long and regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. [Alexander Graham Bell]

* From a politically correct perspective - I have no hard feelings against the Germans. Not enough to collectively wish them misfortune, anyway.

Every Day the Same Dream.

Well. Hey.

Got back from an evening with Ben and Stefan a couple of hours ago. We went to the circus [one of those occasions where it's acceptable to say "Shit!" several times a minute if it's accompanied by a gasp and the slight feeling of insignificance that comes from watching inhumanly flexible/hot Dutch people perform stomach-churning feats we can only dream of]. 'twas pretty damn good :) I came away wishing for a very little bicycle so I can be cool, like the clown.

I don't have a connection between the circus and the topic of my rant today... Something that's been preying on my mind a lot lately is something I'm wary of, even scared, if you like.

Routine. Lack of individuality.

A few months ago, my brother showed me a game [if you can even call it that] which explores both of those, from which I drew the title for this post. You control a faceless man who wakes up, gets dressed, says goodbye to his wife and then drives to work. The next morning he wakes up, gets dressed, says goodbye to his wife and then drives to work, as he does the next day, and the day after.

The object of the game is to help him escape the monotonous spiderweb that is his life. Little things - turning left instead of right, walking instead of driving. Each has a dramatic effect on the outcome of his day, eventually. The game reaches a climax when he has to kill himself - and yet, the next day, he still wakes up, gets dressed and drives to work.

I know, it's just a game - just an uncomfortable, poignant caricature of an often forgotten concept lingering in peoples' minds - but seriously, you try playing it. If you're anything like me, it's a brutal punch in the face. An unexpected and abrupt reality check, but not an entirely unwelcome one.

Think about it. Routine has become part of everyone's life now. In term time, we wake up at a certain time in order to be at school for a certain time, lessons commence at the same time every day, school finishes at a set time, sleep is inevitable though variable - and the next day we repeat the whole charade again. I don't know how, after twelve years of the same thing so far, my generation, and generations before us, have managed to stay sane.

For a start - it's boring. Routine, predictability, certainty, is dull. Depending on the person, reactions to something as simple as a new timetable at the beginning of the academic year vary from annoyance at essentially being told what to do and where to go for another whole year, to relief that nothing will change for another twelve months. Personally, I fall into the first category. No, I don't like surprises and yes, I do prefer to know where I'm meant to be, but all the same - a timetable dictates our moods and emotions as much as it dictates what lessons we have when, because one is directly affected by the other. I hate German and chemistry, so it's logical that, on Tuesday mornings, when I have double German followed by double chemistry, I'm going to be in a worse mood than I will be on Monday afternoons, when I have double English preceding a free period. A piece of paper controls my mood for a year, and it pisses me off.

I'm one of these people you can call a dreamer. When I'm PMSing, I want to grow wings and fly to the moon just to escape from everyone being infuriating and even when I'm calm, I know I'm happier when I'm retreating into my own, unrealistic little world. In my own, unrealistic little world, anything goes. Pudding before main? Absolutely. Bungee jumping from the Empire State Building? Go for it. Skinny dipping? Kinky, but why not? 

As it is, I'm stuck on Earth, with a timetable and exams and a pet to feed to keep me grounded [though the first two don't apply now and that comes with a feeling of elation, the feeling is dampened somewhat by the knowledge that it's going to come back with a vengeance next year]. Even now, on my holiday, my break, routine is evident - and this kind is more dangerous and depressing, because it stems from natural human habit as opposed to rules that oppose our natural cycles. Like a garden when left to grow of its own accord, people are made worse when they have no legitimate reason to go out and do stuff.

I'm confusing myself now. Then again, it's two in the morning and I'm on the verge of passing out. Words are beginning to meld into one, like my days. I'll try and spellcheck some other time. For now, check this out - and type "Every Day the Same Dream" into Google.

As long as habit and routine dictate the pattern of living, new dimensions of the soul will not emerge. [Henry Van Dyke]

...make some pointless, pointless lists to pass the time.

I feel like making lists!

Five books that have affected me profoundly:

* Room, Emma Donoghue

* Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, John Boyne

* Carrie, Stephen King

* Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer

* The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, Terry Pratchett

Five films everyone should see before they die:

* Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind [trippy as hell]

* Nightmare Before Christmas

* Thirteen

* Calendar Girls

* Fiddler on the Roof

Five fictitious characters I'd totally make out with:

* Simon Bellamy [Misfits]

* Amy Pond

* Artemis Fowl

* Hermione Granger

* Hwoarang from Tekken

Five favourite songs:

* Who is it, Michael Jackson

* Grounds for Divorce, Elbow

* Boys and Girls, Blur

* My Beloved Monster, Eels

* You don't know, Will Young

Five people I want to meet [dead or alive]:

* Katie Piper

* Eoin Colfer

* Eva Peron

* Jack White/Nick Cave/Dolly Parton

* Charlie McDonnell [yum]

Five items of clothing, superior to all others:

* Converses [preferably red] and Doc Martens [also preferably red]

* Patterned skinny jeans [tarten is best]

* Bras that manage to be both comfortable and not ugly

* A top with Dolly Parton's face on it

* Fishnet tights

Five names I really really like:

* Evangeline

* Lazarus

* Forrest

* Deanna [since that post a few days ago, I've realised it's actually a really cool name]

* Quentin

Five memories I'd spend my whole life reliving if I could:

* Korea '10

* The whole of year six

* Soul '10

* New year, '10/'11

* Last day of year eleven

Five occasions I literally cannot wait for:

* Scotland with family '11

* Soul '11

* The chump I sometimes call "my brother" coming home

* Meeting my first niece or nephew, come mid-September

* Retirement

People who've made me the person I am:

* My mum. She's instilled morals and a conscience into me that I probably wouldn't have if it wasn't for her. Undeniably, my rock. I don't know how else to say - I love my mum, and I'd take a bullet for her any day because I know that, without her, I'd be a rubbish version of the me I've become accustomed to over the last decade or so.

* Dad, from whom I've inherited my social awkwardness and sense of humour and ability to cut the crap and see people for who they really are [eventually].

* Rob, my brother, the reason I'll defend what I believe and people close to me until the end. I envy his lifestyle I wish I could have. He's the coolest brother on the planet, and he's taught me more than teachers ever will, even if most of it is irrelevant, and I know that, if it wasn't for him forcing his [excellent] music tastes down my throat, I'd be a chart-slave and so, for that, I am eternally grateful.

* Liz, the only person who can consistently make me feel like a moron [in a good way] and not feel my wrath. She makes me want to be a better person, she guilt-trips me into being proactive and mature, not stupid. I have so much I've learned from my sister - and I know my niece/nephew will grow up to be just as inspirational as her and her husband.

* Jen D. I've been watching her grow from when we were both in playgroup, and it's been a pleasure. I'm so, so proud of her, what she's been through and how she's dealt with it, how she's productively channelled her emotions into her music, her unshakeable faith, and I feel honoured to know her. I look up to her so much [not in the literal sense. She's both shorter and younger than I am], and I love her.

* Hannah, my emotional twin for a long time. I learnt from her [the hard way] how to stand up for myself and not be a pushover, and the years of laughter we had together before are looked back on with a smile.

* Ben. I haven't known him for as long as some of the other people on this list, but he's helped me gain a sense of contentment and familiarity in a new county that I don't think I would have had otherwise. He reminds me of me in a lot of ways - both satirical, both quite ethical and opinionated, both have deep hidden personalities, both utterly unpleasant when it's our time of the month - and I think it's because of him that the last year has been among the, if not the, best of my life. I have a lot to thank him for.

* Rory, with his neverending patience and willingness to give advice, even if it isn't always what I want to hear, has taught me that anything is possible if I persevere. He's opened my eyes to a whole new way of thinking, and he's [grudgingly] made me not resent intelligent people so much.

* Mac - where would I be without her? For my whole life, she's been close by [even if not geographically in recent years] to make any room of people prettier and more likeable, and her infectious bubbliness will never cease to make me smile. I loved loved loved spending time with her in Spain, even if I was a massive killjoy about being out in the sun, and I miss her loads.

* Ella, my favourite cousin [I'm pretty unashamed in my favouritism, she's way cooler than her brother]. She's so talented, but so modest - I know for a fact she's going to be one of those people who kids point to on the telly and say to their parents, "I want to be like her", and I completely empathise.

* Venis. [When I met her for the first time, I was stuffing my face and I never quite got over the embarrassment of trying to communicate around a mouthful of biscuit] She's something of an enigma - I don't think she's aware of it, but the way she is with her friends has made me realise how amazing they all are too. She completely respects and appreciates them, and, I know, will always stand up for them and I, for one, think that's a quality more people should have.

* Callum, the first proper friend I made in Suffolk. He makes me question my motives - am I doing this because it's the right thing, or am I being immature? He's made me grow up and think of others more often, even if it's hurt on occasion.

* Josh. What can I say? This chump has helped me in more ways than he'll ever know in the year or so since we became close. His utter lack of modesty never fails to exasperate me, but it's because of him that I've found reason to not give up hope, because he's taught me that not everyone is out there to hurt me. I hate to say it because his head's big enough as it is, but it's been awesome getting to know him, finding out that he's not just a pretty face - he's a genuinely great guy, and I'm happy to know him.

* Sophie I've known since year seven, and, in a nutshell, I love her. I see her as a sister, a sister to whom I can tell anything and everything and I know she won't judge me or hate me, I know she's always on my side, I know she'll always support me. Since I met her I've been caught in an internal battle of paranoia and self-hatred, amongst other things, and she's always provided me with security and stability I've needed to feel comforted, and for that I owe her. 

* Judge. As much as I hate to admit it. He taught me that, if you're going to play with fire twice, you'll get burned twice - and if you keep going back to someone who's hurt you, they're going to keep hurting you. I made a mistake, and I'm not going to make it again.

* Dan, the first friend I met in reception. I've always admired the way she concentrates on something she wants to achieve, be it a style of dance I know she loves or convincing me to play the mum in year two, until it's achieved, and her quiet, uncomplaining manner.

* Cheryl. I haven't had the chance to see her anywhere near as often as I'd like, but her gosh darn awesomeness spreads over a hundred miles to infect me, and for that I'm grateful. She's one person who I know will always make me smile. I both envy and admire her individuality and bravery, and if I were to go lesbian it will always be for her, because she's just so amazing.

* Fran introduced herself to me in the middle of year ten with her shirt buttons constantly popping open, and neither of us has looked back [I think]. From her I've learned that it's best to always be yourself and to stick two fingers up at whoever disagrees, which I'm working on. She's both talented and gorgeous as well as kind and empathic, and she doesn't recognise it.

Phew. That was a biggie. Now it's past midnight, I've reached a doubly gripping point in a highly addictive book, and I have a German exam at 9am tomorrow. Byee

Quote of the day: If you're born knowing you're loved, and if you die knowing the same thing, everything that's happened in between has been dealt with. [Michael Jackson]

...contemplate life and think, "Why?"

Do you ever do that thing where you get so into a film or a book or something that you get really disappointed when you remember that it's not real? I do that on an alarmingly regular basis, and it's beginning to worry me.

I'm not really in the mood for a massive rant today. I'm just feeling kind of meh. I have these huge dreams and plans for myself, I have a destination I'd do anything, literally anything to get to - and I'm no closer to finding out where the hell I'm supposed to start than I am to growing wings. The quickest route from point A to point B is a straight line, but what do you do when, like the Isla de Muerta in Pirates of the Caribbean, point A is impossible to find unless you already know where it is? How are you meant to locate the bloody thing?

In a nutshell: I know where I'm headed [hopefully] but my vessel hasn't come to take me there yet, and I'm beginning to freak out a little bit.

Going back to the first thing - I think fiction is both beneficial and poisonous. Good because it enables ordinary people [e.g, me] to escape life for a few short, sweet hours. Bad because, sooner or later, the story ends and said ordinary person is slapped in the face by the bitch that is the harsh reality of life, and I can attest to the fact that it hurts. I don't want to be reminded every time I turn on the tv that people are dying in pain and poverty the world over when my imagination can rose-tint everything for me, when I can convince myself that buying a Big Issue and turning lights off when I leave a room and getting a red nose for Comic Relief will actually make a difference.

Anyone who knows me will know that, as a rule, I prefer to work alone. I appreciate my privacy, I like my independence, I enjoy my own company from time to time - but what can one person do to change the world when it's just her with her thoughts to keep her awake at night, thinking of all the things that should be, but can't be, changed?

Bugger all

It makes my skin crawl, knowing that there's people in the world who need help, but for whatever reason can't get it. I want to heal the world, but what can I do? How can I hope to enter into the spider's web of manipulation and corruption that is world politics and sort it all out when I can't even work the stupid washing machine?

I was in Ipswich yesterday with Fran. We were walking to Primark, laden down with shopping bags from here and there, and we saw a man sitting in a doorway. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark, relatively short hair. No possessions, from what we could see. I know you see people "like him" [and you have no idea how much I hate using that term] all the time, but this guy looked so... I don't know how to describe him. Broken, maybe. Anyway, Fran and I went through the motions I suppose everyone does - see him, keep walking, don't make eye contact, forget about him asap. We'd reached the end of the road when my conscience gave me a kick up the butt and I stopped, went back, and gave him a pound. He was watching me approaching and he kind of drew away from me, and he was shaking and I don't know what "happened" to him, but whatever it was, it was bad. When I put the money into his hand, he thanked me profusely. I smiled at him, said "God bless", and walked back to Fran.

A pound, a smile and a "God bless"? What fucking good will that do?

I wonder if he found some shelter from the rain that attacked Suffolk yesterday. Did he find somewhere to sleep? Do his family know where he is? Does he even have a family? Where is he now? What's going to happen to him? How long has he been living rough?

My brain keeps taunting me with the whole "should have done this" game, presenting to me various things I could have done that would have helped him more than I did. Talked with him for a while, maybe. Offered to get him a sandwich. Asked his name, turned him into a person as opposed to the ornament lining the streets of Ipswich I suppose he's become. Why the hell didn't I?

And what about his dreams? I have my dreams, my ambitions - I want to be a writer, I want to find someone who makes me happy to spend my life with, I want to be happy - and what does he dream of? What makes me more likely to have my dreams realised than him? Why is he there and I'm here? How can there be "privileged" schools like the one I attend when there are people like him wondering if this doorway is more secure than that doorway? It isn't fair

I have a policy I try to go by, which is, if I don't like something then I change it - but if it can't be changed, I change the way I think of it. This, this dream of taking the world and fixing it and making it a better place, is something I can't do. So what do I do now?

Quote of the day: Pick battles big enough to matter, but small enough to win. [Jonathan Kozol]

...hyaah *kick*

I'm going to admit it now - the only reason I took up taekwon do was because I wanted to be like the redheaded Korean guy in Tekken, and the only reason I stayed was because there was a really hot guy there [another story].

Nerdy, undeniably. Embarrassing, certainly. Cool, not so much.

So my friend and I would potter along to a primary school hall somewhere in Northamptonshire that had cold floors and ugly decorations and make colossal tits of ourselves [me especially] trying to kick a mat in the same place over and over again or memorising terminology for our exam and mispronouncing everything or dying of oxygen deprivation with eighty pushups still to go, all the time thinking to ourselves: this is bollocks. How will a forearm guarding block [or 'palmok daebi makgi'] ever protect us from all the nonces out there? Some of those guys carry knives and, quite frankly, all this was doing was making us more aware of how vulnerable and pathetic and defenceless we were, damnit.

It only really occurred to me after I stopped going [not through my choice - the guy only got hotter. Again, another story] that that kind of thing is progressive. You get better and more able the longer you learn and practice it. In retrospect, it's a given, but at the time I wanted to kick butt and skip the embarrassment that is yellow belt. It was about then that I realised how impatient I can be. Screw starting out small - I want to immediately be able to juggle with four balls, make a perfect pancake, write a bestseller, fit in at a new school. You'd think someone would have told me before then that I need to work on my patience but, alas, everyone was too polite.

So. In the two years since I stopped going, I have indeed worked on my patience and I think - feel free to disagree - that I'm pretty damn patient now. 

[Admittedly my newfound tolerance was put to the test with the unwelcome existence of an extremely bothersome ex, but after a solid year of despising him I think we've reached a bitter medium.]

Anyway, I was bouncing a tennis ball against the wall the way I do when my brain needs some brain time and my body can be helpful by doing some menial, repetitive, pointless action that doesn't take a lot of thought, and I got thinking about times in life when everyone has to be patient. From a sentimental perspective, there's waiting for him to pop the question, waiting for the big day, waiting for the baby to hurry the hell up and arrive. From that of a career girl, waiting for a promotion, a big break, the opportune moment to obtain maximum profit or whatever. From my perspective, waiting for a text to arrive, waiting for news from my brother in Asia, waiting for dad to bugger off to work so I can claim the laptop back - I wonder how old Kat would have liked all the proper waiting in store for me in years to come? I wonder how current Kat will do?

One area in which I'm still struggling with patience and persistence is the awkward few hours before I catch some zees. As I'm writing this, it's just past midnight and I'm knackered. I can feel the sleep beginning to consume me - but I'm sleepy, I don't want to wait several hours with nothing but my overactive thoughts to occupy me, I want to sleep now, and my insomniac habits aren't letting me. It's been this way for years - I've never been an easy sleeper. I was never one of those kids who, one bedtime story - dead to the world. For as long as I can remember, whenever I couldn't sleep, I'd turn on my bedside lamp to the lowest setting and read. More often than not, I'd wake the next morning after less than four hours sleep, light still on and the book down the side of the bed, never to be seen again. It's a habit that's failed to change much in the ten years or so since it began - maybe a deeper fatigue the next day, covered in a blanket of tiredness I've been wearing for so long, to have it gone is alien. I'm not as young as I used to be.

I don't help myself, I admit. If I exercised my brain more in the day then I wouldn't think so much at night. If I didn't have books near my bed then I'd be less inclined to leave my duvet to go to the bookcase. If I didn't attempt a running jump yesterday evening, my bedframe wouldn't have collapsed underneath me and I'd be sleeping on something more substantial than a mattress tonight. [Most depressing moment of my life. I didn't realise I was that fat until I landed on the bed and kept going.]

There have been times [in the past, I hasten to add] when excessive boredom mixed with drunk-like lethargy has led me to think of some biologically inadvisable habits as a good idea, a healthy release. Older, wiser, past behind me and all that - but I'd be lying if I said the masochistic mindset wasn't still there, even if it's subdued most of the time.

I have a friend called Callum and, this was some time ago and I don't remember the context exactly, he asked me once what was going on in my head. I told him I was tired, and explained the two different types, in my experience. Tired A - the feeling you get after a late night and an early morning when there's no coffee left. Tired B - sinking in what you don't realise is barely suppressed despair and frustration until it's gone, questioning the meaning of [your] life, catching your reflection in the bathroom mirror and not being able to look yourself in the eye, wondering why everyone's talking about  and watching you, bearing the brunt of your inability to meet your own unrealistic expectations, lying to your own diary because you don't want to admit even to yourself just how low you are.

For me, Tired A is a permanent state of being. I flit in and out of Tired B with worrying regularity and I want to stop and sleep and get the hell on with life.

Sorry for the massive change in tone, just noticed that.

Quote of the day: The only limits are those of vision. [James Broughton]

...pour salt on your broken heart and move on with life.

I'm a self-confessed cynic when it comes to 'love'.

Mhmm. It's true. Love at first sight is complete bollocks, teenage infatuations are just embarrassing, and fairy tale happy endings with the Prince Charming are unrealistic, improbable, impractical and nauseating.

That said, if the dictionary definition of love came round my way, I'd be happy to take it. 

Oxford Dictionary, 'love': a strong feeling of affection.

A strong feeling of affection? That's not love, idiot, that's how I feel towards my cat! Excuse me for assuming the role of love expert [because I'm really not] but the kind of love you should see between a married couple - that's more than "a strong feeling of affection", isn't it? Shouldn't that kind of love be more like, "the feeling that accompanies having a best friend whom you trust and depend on enough to get your relationship officiated, if you can. You'd do anything for them. Lay down your life for them, if necessary, and do it gladly because to you, nothing is more important than for them to be living happily and, if sacrificing everything achieves that, you want nothing more than to sacrifice everything because it's for them."? 

Strong feeling of affections are felt between friends - don't get me wrong, if that is love then I love my friends unconditionally - which is, I know, the first step towards 'love' love, but affection can't be the be all and end all where love is concerned. I struggle with the idea that what I've felt up 'til now is all there is. A questionable romantic history compiled mostly of fleeting fancies and creepy ex boyfriends are okay for a girl of my age who's barely scraped the surface of what life and love have to offer, but as we mature and grow and come into ourselves, there has to be more. I firmly believe that this isn't all there is, just as I believe there is someone for everyone if you look hard enough. [That's as far as my cliched love-beliefs go.]

A strong feeling of affection can be mistaken for an overactive libido, in any case. Casually getting naked with someone is not love, just as friends with benefits is not love, just as using someone to get what you want, to make someone else jealous, to pass the bored time, isn't love. I wish the word wasn't thrown around as much as it is, supposedly in the sense of which I am talking and defending. You see it all the time, even preteens copying what they see on the telly and getting worked up about telling someone how much they love them and the feelings not being reciprocated. If they didn't see 'love' all the time, they wouldn't take it for granted, per say. If they didn't take it for granted then they'd learn to have respect for it - it's a powerful word, and, when said in a romantic sense, should be taken very seriously. Except it's not, is it?

I don't even know what brought that on.

Quote of the day: There is always some madness in love, but there is always some reason in madness. [Friedrich Nietzsche] 

...leave them alone to rot or try and make something of them.

I have a friend [using the term in what must be its loosest form] who I've known for coming up to ten years now. For the purposes of this, her name is now Deanna, because it's the name of the song I'm listening to and I'm too lazy to come up with anything more imaginative. Anyway - she joined the school in year two, I think, and it was the school I'd been going to since reception, and the register hadn't changed much until she came along, so for ages she was the shiny new toy with an accent that meant she said some things differently [I remember when some people got her to say the word "book" over and over again just to laugh at her... That was mean], and she and I became close very quickly. We stayed close for the rest of our time at that school, we moved together to a new school halfway through year five and stayed close for that, we graduated and moved up to secondary school and stayed close for that, I moved across several counties after a few years and after a crap first day at a new school I get a call to say "Guess what? We've replaced you!"

That exact moment was when I started to think: what the hell. This isn't right. Yeah, I'm a snide, self-obsessed bitch who doesn't know when to stop, but surely, by anyone's standards, that was uncalled for? I did my best to forget it and get on with my studies, but at the same time I became increasingly aware of the distance that was being placed between my 'old' friends and myself. Things that were inevitable - I can't hope to still be part of in-jokes and the like when I only see them at half term, can I? For the first year, before I found proper friends at my new school, it was okay. I went to Deanna's for new year, and then again several times over the course of last year, and every time I saw her I saw how she'd changed more and more from the girl I felt closer to than a sister for the early years of high school - and it hurt, I'm not going to lie. Maybe I was just hoping that things back home would grind to a complete halt so when I return on occasion, I don't feel like a fool trying to dance to a song I don't know amongst strangers who used to be so familiar. It's shit, going back and not recognising your own friends.

I'm trying really hard to not wallow in self-pity here... It's difficult, when I think of times when I was so excited about going back to see some people, and I get there and it's a monumental letdown. That sounds awful... I don't mean that my friends are letdowns, but they're different to the people I befriended over the course of the last fourteen odd years. Even the people I've known since the cradle - when did they get so big? I remember us freaking out together when we lost our baby teeth, and now everyone's finding out who they are, who they want to be, and it's hard to get your head round the fact that someone you thought you'd be knitting with in the nursing home has better things to do than call a friend they rarely see. I suppose, when we saw each other at school every day, there was no need to call, because we saw each other all the time, and if I did call someone then it would most likely be to ask them if they wanted to come sleep over at mine on Friday night. Now it's all, every visit has to be planned weeks in advance and, for the sake of convenience, can only really occur during a school holiday - and only two people have come to stay over here because everyone else has plans. Don't get me wrong, previous engagements are completely fair enough, but to fidget on the other end of a phone for ten minutes after I've asked if you want to come and see the house I've been living in for two years before announcing that you "don't want to... I have, uh, plans" is seriously unimpressive. I don't think it's a coincidence that the friends back home I'm generally closer to are the ones I became close to after I moved.

Anyway - Deanna. We began to drift pretty much the minute I moved away, and I didn't see what I could do to prevent it. We were growing up into people who just didn't get along as well as we did when we were younger. I'd kind of resigned myself to seeing her three or four times a year and having a huge catch up on those occasions, bond over our love of Dolly Parton and Richard Gere [and other dilfs] and rocky road and discussions about the many wonderful things about Mr Right, and just carry on that way, still friends, but not the soul sisters we were before.

Then, late last year, I got... "involved" with someone, and then early this year I messed up and then two weeks later something happened with her and the other involvee and it was all painful and messy and, I think, easily preventable, but there you go. I know what they say, friends before boys, but excuse me for feeling victimised in that particular situation. So, without going into too much detail, that exacerbated things between us to the point where, I don't know about her, but I dislike talking to and seeing her because there's too much stigma attached to her to make a meeting pleasant now. It's undeniably shit. Deanna used to be my best friend, and now, in the nicest way possible, I can't deal with her. It's reached the point where even I, the most stubborn bitch in the world, can see the ridiculousness of it all - but every time I go to call her or text her to make amends, apologise for overreacting and taking it out on her, I'm reminded of the injustice of it all. She's there, with people who mean so much to me, and they're changing and growing around each other, and I'm here, changing and growing around some amazing people I've met who, though I'm so happy I met them, are going in a different direction to the people back home, so when I go back it's like trying to fit a round peg in a square hole, and I don't know what to do about it.

This rant has been both therapeutic and, if seen by the wrong person, dangerously close to tempting the start of a third world war. Here's hoping it's not seen by the wrong person. Here's hoping I get over myself and pick up the phone. Here's hoping that whatever happens doesn't hurt any more than it has to.

Quote of the day: Even if you're on the right track, if you just sit there you're still going to get hit.

...turn them into a tangerine and pick them up.

Hiii

Feeling awkward again, already. Marvellous. Anyway, check out my friend Ben's blog for the reasoning behind the title. [It's an in-joke which I wasn't actually a part of, but you know what I'm like for leaping at the opportunity to make a feasible connection between citrus fruits!] He's a really cool guy, and he's been an awesome friend over the last year or so, even though he actually hated me when he first met me.

[Dear Ben. Yes, I will always make you feel bad for that. No, I will never drop it. Bastard.]

Anyhoo - last whole-year exam today! Saddest day of my entire schooling life so far, mainly because it's the last time I'll see any of "the gang" in school, but even more so because it was a bitch of a maths exam.

Collectively, we are, without a doubt, the awesomest people on the planet. There are four of us, and I'm the only girl - lucky me! - but sometimes Fran joins us, and enlightens us all with her unequalled randomosity and ability to go from discussing tampons with herself at great depth to flashing everyone within a mile radius to quietly reading a book within the space of thirty seconds. She's a lovely girl :)

So there's Ben: the Green Giant, Rory: the "profound" one, Stefan: "the one who comes out with the most brilliant little quotes" and meee: the ditzy, borderline-slutty malteaser [blonde on the inside].

I don't know how we came to be our little gang - Stefan and Ben go wayyyy back, Rory joined the school a couple of years before I did, and I arrived at the start of year ten, this neurotic, massively insecure ginger girl who didn't say much for the first six months and only found her feet after she'd been attending the bloody school for a year. Odd combo, but it works.

Anyway, yeah. So there we were, the five of us curled up underneath a staircase in the English block, familiarising ourselves with the cobwebs and cocks and mysterious white stains on the walls and ceiling for maybe five hours after the [disastrous] maths exam like weird little gremlins with an aversion to light, soaking up the last few hours of each other's oddness before summer. It was nice knowing that, even though I'm about to leave, damnit, I've found some people I can be around without feeling like I have to wear a mask because I'm wary of what they'll think of me. Not that I don't care what they think of me - but I know they've fallen for my endless charm, matchless intelligence and mindblowing good looks which so many people overlook. Thanks, guys :)

I'm getting all nostalgic and sentimental now. Seriously, go to Ben or Rory's blog for their take on our group's awesomeness - Ben manages to strike a balance between charmingly camp and deep and philosophical, and Rory is just Rory. Facetious, sarcastic, opinionated, awesome. [FOUR adjectives - who's a lucky boy, eh?]

Quote of the day: When you're chewing on life's gristle, Don't grumble - give a whistle, And this'll help things turn out for the best, And... always look on the bright side of life [Monty Python's Life of Brian]

Until next time x

...succumb to peer pressure.

Hey.

...

Wow. I wrote one word and already I'm stuck on what to say.

Well, hi. I'm Karl. Attending a school for toffs, halfway through exams, freaking out about the future, overcoming a phobia of cows, etc etc.

...

See, this is why I don't do this kind of thing.

I wouldn't be doing this at all if it wasn't for some friends at school suddenly announcing their desire to keep a blog. They're pretty good, as well. So now here I am, feeling like, for want of a better word, an utter retard, wondering how the hell people know what to write on these things.

It's kind of nerve-wracking, writing here, even though I'm about 80% sure no one will ever read it. I feel like I'm picking my own brain for the benefit of others - though how reading my pissed-off, awkward ramblings will benefit anyone is a mystery of the most enigmatic kind in itself.

I should probably do some revision. I have a maths exam tomorrow. Anyone who's ever met me will be able to willingly testify to the fact that numbers and I have a long-running feud. Neither of us see the point of the other's existence. Unfortunately, I've been eating my own words for the last decade or so - I know maths is essential, but I'm stubborn enough to refuse to openly accept it.

Oops - did I say that out loud?

I just turned my head to the left and a nasty "ghhhlk" resounded from my neck, actually reverberating around my room. Owie. Hey, imagine if I could revolve my head, like, the full 360. How cool would that be?

Ok, I need to go, I've been procrastinating long enough. Now to go do some delightful mathematics.

Quote of the day*: Staring at my butt is a good way to get your's kicked. [Christie Monteiro]

Ciao!

* I say "quote of the day" as if I'm actually going to update every day - I can promise you now, I won't. I am monumentally lazy and forgetful - a lethal combination, if left to my own devices. Sincere apologies. Feel free to attempt some harmless amateur brain surgery, try and change me, if you'd like.