When you spell things wrong, I check my keyboard to find out how close the letters to see whether it's an acceptable mistake.

December 01, 2011

I don't wanna be one of those twats who doesn't blog for ages then does a comeback blog like, "OHHHH I'M SO SORRYYYYYY, DID YOU MISS MEEEEEEE, I HAVEN'T BLOGGED IN AGES HAHAHAHAHA SILLY MEEEEEEE" expecting everyone to be like "OH BABE WHERE HAVE YOU BEEEEEN, I'VE BEEN PULLING MY HAIR OUT OVER YOUR WHEREABOUTS, I THOUGHT YOU'D LIKE DIED OR SOMETHIIIIIIIIIIIING LOLOLOLOL" when no one actually gives a shit.

But Google's PISSING ME OFF and I thought what better way to ironically blog about them. You can get paid if you blog enough, by AdSense, which I set up as soon as I hit 18. Because I need money. Because I am poor. Because I spend all my money on jumpers Karen Gillan wears so I can pretend I'm her. I live a sad, sad existence. I genuinely wonder daily why I have any friends. I was asked to go out tonight to get drunk with Tim (who will go batshit mental that I've mentioned him in this, because he's badgered me for long enough), because that's what all the cool people do, apparently. My excuse what that I was watching One Direction in my Karen Gillan jumper, playing Solitaire WITH ACTUAL CARDS and listening to S Club 7.

The rest of my time I've spent building up good karma, taking Gen to meet Noel Fielding for her 18th,

and taking Sarah backstage at Chattyman to see Steps. (EFFING STEPS. Don't get me started. I cried.)

Suddenly it was December and I woke up this morning with an advent calendar on my face. Cheers nan. I asked for the Doctor Who one but A LINDT ONE'S FINE. I even missed my 2 year blog anniversary last month so couldn't bake a necessary cake to mark the occasion.

In all honesty, when I haven't been out in London living the high life like the ultimate partyguuurrrrrrl I am, I've been putting my brain through shit. Serious shit. I've unleashed monsters on it and the poor sod couldn't even put up a fight so tried to ache its way out through my eyes. There are parts of my brain I didn't even know I had to use before A Levels. They're stuck in the depths and I'm TRYING to will them out with bacon, but they're having none of it. Dyed my hair blonde to make it sunnier, but no. Jammed. Don't blame them. IT'S A JUNGLE OUT HERE.

I was talking about earning money. So to pay for all my completely necessary material items, I need the money Google are willing to pay me. But they're not paying because of the PAAAAAAAAAAYMENT THRESHOOOOOOOOLD (say like Peter Dickinson). I click on PAAAAAAAAAAYMENT THRESHOOOOOOOOLD to find out what mine is, but it DOESN'T BLOODY TELL ME. So it's all PAAAAAAAAAAYMENT THRESHOOOOOOOOLDing in my face, but NOT TELLING ME WHAT IT IS. HOW AM I MEANT TO TRY AND GET MY MONEY IF I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS.

I can't get money, and I don't know when Waitrose Christmas overtime is, and I don't understand Psychology, and my wordcount isn't going up with my EPQ, and I'm denying my Media coursework, and Cardiff uni's teasing me with email's like "We have our decisionnnnnn....BUT WE'RE NOT GONNA TELL YOU JUST YET WE'RE GONNA KEEP YOU IN SUSPENNNSSSSSE BECAUSE IT'S FUNNNNNNNNN tehehehehe" and my room's a MESS and there are locks everywhere in my life AND I DON'T KNOW WHERE THE BLOODY KEYS ARE. APART FROM CAPS LOCK. QUITE GOOD AT USING THAT ONE.

DON'T JUDGE ME

university

Ufficial UCAS university upplicant...uh dear

November 10, 2011

Well. There they are. Five universities. Sitting in all their university glory in the UCAS database, locked down behind bars of my future, all giggling with each other and staring at my paranoid face. You could generate enough energy to power the whole of London with the constant rapid refreshing of my emails. I only sent it off yesterday. "Sorry, there's a technical fault" now greets me when I refresh, i.e. my phone telling me "Bitch calm yo tits I'm getting dizzy"  I want 5 unconditional offers. I want universities I haven't even applied to to give me offers. I want THEM to apply to ME. Actually sending it off was like having an injection at the doctors. Four of us sat in a waiting room before being called in to our Head of Sixth Form's office, where he did a bit of typey typey while I shut my eyes so tightly that I'm sure they started rolling in on themselves, before he turned back around saying "All done!" offering me a "I've sent off my UCAS application!" sticker and ushering me out. And that was that. And it didn't hurt. And now I've applied for university.

Hahaha.

Oh.

I remember when this was my personal statement..

I also remember when I didn't even my choices, didn't know what I wanted to DO at university, and didn't know what I was doing with my life and doubted every aspect of it. Oh. Wait. That's EVERY BLOODY DAY. My brain man sits in my ear, throwing a tennis ball against my eardrum so my head pounds, and starts saying shit like "Are you sure you want to do this? Who even are you?WHAT'S YOUR PURPOSE IN LIFE LOUISE EMILY JONES, IF THAT'S EVEN YOUR REAL NAME, BECAUSE YOU COULD HAVE BEEN SWITCHED AT BIRTH OR EVEN JUST BE A FIGMENT OF SOMEONE'S IMAGINATATION, OR YOU COULD BE A SIM. EVER SEEN SOMETHING ON THE FLOOR AND THINK "I CAN'T MOVE!!!" THAT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE A SIM." No, that's because I'm a lazy sod. Calm yourself brain man, and stop shouting at me just because you're insecure and wish you'd lived a fuller life instead of being my brain man...

What the actual eff am I doing...

I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm spending all my money on London travelcards. One day I'll walk out the house to find the train track literally on my door step, because it's easier if they just stop at my house. I was at Twight Night on Monday. It was basically a big posh tweet up in a posh club in a very tall posh building with a posh view, with me, not so posh, shoving hot dogs in my mouth and desperately attempting to look old and sophisticated and calm in the presence of people I LOVE SO MUCH AND STILL HAVEN'T GOTTEN OVER THE FANGIRL STAGE OF OMG omg breathe. I have no shame. I literally have NO shame. My shame upped and left, packing bags and leaving a goodbye letter stating "You obviously don't need me. You just ignore me now and it's not working out, so I'm leaving. You can clearly cope on your own. I've found someone else anyway. Someone who ACTUALLY needs me. Frankie Cocozza. Goodbye Louise." 


Being out on a Monday night (a SCHOOL night I know fear me I'm untouchable now I should have, like, asbos and shit) did feel immaturely ace. People I know have been out 'clubbing' or whatever teenage stuff you do since they were, I dunno, 10. But seeing as I'm quite happy sitting my dressing gown, with a plate of custard creams and a colouring book on a Friday night, this was MA-JOR. Had to do the whole sneaking in thing and everything. Even my house knew it was late, because it made everything deafening loud. Brushing my teeth sounded like Hiroshima in my mouth, and I'm sure my house set up everything like dominos. One knock over of hairspray sent everything tumbling to the floor like an avalanche. To be fair, my 'floor' always has the effect of an avalanche, but WHO CARES because I'll be moved out in 10 months anyway...LOOK THE POINT IS THAT I WAS OUT. LIKE OUT OUT. LIKE PEOPLE DO. BECAUSE I'M A LEGITIMATE BIG PERSON NOW who chose to yabber on to her fangirl victims about how she had school tomorrow and loved being out 'late' on a Monday like the easily pleased sadcase she is who has suddenly decided to talk about herself in the third person and not use commas and nowcan'tbreathebecauseofit.

...

*refreshes email, grabs colouring book, runs*

#talktoteens talking no more

October 22, 2011

Teachers are stereotypically boring. Are we agreed on that? In books and films they're either female, skinny, tartan skirt, brown cardigan, glasses, and a low brown haired ponytail (usually fastened with a massive brown clip bought from the local christmas market), or male, overweight, glasses, BO, greasy curls with a bald patch on top, trousers up to his manboobs and flashing some ankle.

Of course, I'm not talking about every teacher going, and if you're reading this and are thinking of going into teaching, for the love of Pete don't let it put you off. Just read this, digest, take note, and be more determined than ever to be like Charlotte Berry, aka, @talktoteens.

When I first started talking to Ms Berry, as I call her, I never realised she was a teacher, let alone a teacher at the school down the road. We'd discuss my blog posts, TV, news, and whatever other random rubbish I was yabbering on about. She was hilarious, and part of my 'twitter family'. Then she became more to me. Even though I wasn't a student of hers, she helped me with my A Level Media coursework. Did you get that? 'I wasn't a student of hers'. I'm at a rivaling school. She was still helping me. Even then, she was stretching the boundaries of a teacher.

I soon realised that Ms Berry wasn't your generic "Tuck your shirt in." "I want silence." "1000 words due tomorrow." type of teacher. She wasn't a teacher at all, in fact. She was a inspirational woman who, ironically, set up a project to find real role models for teenage girls. Now, when teachers at my school try to set up a project, it fails instantly. Effort. Time. A half-hearted posters and 3 slide black and white powerpoint job. But Ms Berry had generated so much enthusiasm from her students that the project was a resounding success. An event was held in Chelmsford where these carefully chosen real role models were invited to talk about their profession. Consequently, the girls who set up the event grew confidence in themselves that they never knew they had. They realised they could, in a totally cliché way, be anything they want to be. Ms Berry made them realise that. Because of her, I'm basing my whole Extended Project Qualification (basically a mini dissertation), which is a large part of my A Levels, on the necessity of role models for young women. And I'm planning on her to be largely featured as one herself.

I talk about Ms Berry in the past tense, like she's not here anymore. Well she's not. She closed her account down this week in fear of being hounded. You see, a few picked up on her casualness and 'colourful tweets', as they put it, and completely ripped her apart. Not some trolls. They're a block job. I'm talking about her, our, local paper The Brentwood and Billericay Gazette. A paper which only last week published even more great positive work she'd done. The headline this week includes "obscene web chat". By 'web chat' they obviously mean tweets, but have used 'web chat' to assume 'chat rooms'. I firstly find this strange due to the fact they have a weekly twitter section in the paper. I secondly object to use of 'obscene'. This paper found her feed, stalked her tweets, and decided to take Ms Berry's tweets completely out of context, and twist everything she'd said. Nice. Tweets that were sent directly to people were laid out as public tweets, and were described as 'filthy' and 'sexually explicit'. Yes, she swears. Yes, she goes on about how much she wants Gary Barlow. EVERYONE SWEARS AND GNGNGNGNGNGNS ABOUT CELEBRITIES THEY WANT. There have been no complaints to the school, and the account even helps her students. She's a Media teacher for goodness sake. Tweeting and bantering with journalists is perfect for her job. Surely the twitter name she chose, @talktoteens, instantly proves that she's a bloody brilliant woman? The hypocrisy is outstanding. The teachers in Channel 4's Educating Essex are heard swearing to the nation, but apparently that's totally fine. No criticism there.

The victimisation of Ms Berry is beyond comprehension for me, and I just cannot understand the reason behind it. Do they want her to get the sack? Do they want the police involved? They know full well she's an incredible teacher. They've featured her success and brilliance a ton of times. This is a complete non-story, picked up on because they obviously have nothing else to talk about. Oh hold on, Dale Farm maybe?

I don't want to sound like I know everything about journalism, because I don't, but even I can see that this is cruel, uneccesary, petty journalism by a paper which is meant to support schools. I'm embarrassed that it's my own local paper, quite frankly. I'm all up for supporting local press, but unless The Gazette respond with a GOOD apology and get Ms Berry back where she belongs, then I want absolutely nothing to do with them anymore. Even the school she works thinks it's ridiculous, and they printed their comments stating that!

But still printed the article even though they knew full well it would go nowhere?! All they've managed to achieve is humiliation for her, anger towards them by their readers, and a massive hit for her confidence.

If they've knocked my Ms Berry back so hard that she doesn't come back then I'll never forgive them. If they've stopped her from inspiring young girls then no one will ever forgive them. The support on Twitter, with the hashtag #talktoteens, has been outstanding. Never have I ever seen a teacher so loved, by not even those who know her personally. But I know she'll come back. My Ms Berry will bounce back with the confidence she's passed on to so many and carry on doing what she does best. Being bloody brilliant and setting homework by tweeting.

I want an apology from The Gazette. I want it printed in every version. I want it to be front page. This hasn't generated attention and sales, but a myraid of angry supporters who will stop at nothing to get the justice Ms Berry deserves. There are tweets suggesting that people like me and Matt Leys (who originally blogged about this) are being over the top with the whole situation, and are now bullies. Yes, well done for thinking that standing up for someone incredible who has been ridiculed and giving our support and opinions to the newspaper is bullying. We are, of course, the bullies in this situation. Regardless of whether we're blowing this out of proportion, especially as the school is behind her,  I don't want this happening again. I want people to realise that journalism like this cannot happen, and if that means ranting on about it then so be it. I'm a teenager who's been affected by Ms Berry, and I'm standing up and speaking out to get her back. We need more teachers like her, ones you can talk about anything to. Ones you can trust. Ones that make you realise the potential you have to be brilliant. Ones that go above and beyond the call of duty. But how is that going to happen with rubbish like this happening? Ms Berry has influenced me, and in turn I'm going to influence others.

Supporting register. Louise Jones? HERE MISS!

Desperate STEPS for Louise

October 16, 2011

I lasted a month being an adult. 'being' is the perfect word. 'living' would have been a lie. I went to a party! An 18th! My ID got rejected! Life just doesn't want me to be an adult, and this week, whoever controls this whole shabang and kerfuffle threw another element in to pull me back to being about 6 years old.

I remember first watching Steps' Chain Reaction video on TV (I was gonna say youtube, but youtube was barely a sperm in someone's brain 10 years ago) and thought it was so futuristic with its white set and blue shiny suits. I listened to Buzz on a loop on my CD walkman, and treated it like a newborn baby so it didn't get scratched. Spent all my mum and dad's money on AA batteries for the bloody thing. When I first got my CD player for my bedroom, I put Gold on, not realising I'd whacked up the volume to maximum and Tragedy blared out so loudly my 3 year old brother burst into tears and the dog down the next road wouldn't shut up for hours. Steps was my first addiction and love. Their songs were the first I danced to at birthday discos in little church halls. Their music just hit a chord deep within my heart that sent sparks around my body, and my eyes saw the world so differently and I FELT FREE!!!!!!!!!!.......too far?

There will be a constant rivalry in me between Steps and S Club 7. S Club 7 had it all. They had TV shows ffs. Steps didn't have TV shows. Not to mention the FILM, which I couldn't see because I wasn't 12 yet...and still haven't seen because I feel like I'm illegalising (i'm so good at making up words. that needs to be a legitimate word) my childhood. I will never see Seeing Double. My dad used to work in the City and me, clearly having no knowledge of the largeness of London, badgered him every morning to find the Top Of The Pops studios and get me tickets so I could see my favourite band. That obviously never happened and I will never forgive him. The grudge is buried deep within my soul.

But I did see them once. 10 years ago next month actually. Along with my twin friends, our mums bravely took us up to London to see them switch on the Oxford Street Christmas lights. The best part was that it was a tight secret, and we only found out because a lady in McDonald's asked if that was why we were up there. Stupid woman. They sang Have You Ever and I sat on a stranger's shoulders clasping my Betty Spaghetti so tightly and I might have even cried. Possibly from the cold wind up there (it was a long way up on his shoulders for an 8 year old alright).



But that's the only time I ever saw them. Strangely, it didn't seem to matter too much to me. Well, apart from the TOTP thing BECAUSE THAT WAS SO EASY FOR MY DAD TO DO, WASN'T IT? HMM? HHHMMMMM????? Ahem. I didn't need to go to every gig to be their biggest fan. In my little mind, under my awful fringe, I was the biggest fan of them all and Rachel was going to ask me to be bridesmaid at her wedding. Jo lived round the corner from my Nan and Grandad's house and you could see her bedroom from their back window. I was a stalker from the age of 6. Not much has changed really. 

I still have their posters, and all the CDs. Probably some of the fan club stuff as well. All of Steps' and S Club 7's albums are on my iPod and are highly likely the most played. THEY JUST MAKE ME HAPPY ALRIGHT? My 6 year old self was first stirred, and had a bit of a twitch in me like a foetus, on 30th April of this year. Lee Latchford-Evans, from Steps, THE Steps, was in Brentwood selling...er...something. Details details. I was there, of course, and there he was indeed. Standing outside Zakz. On his own. No one paying him any attention. I froze, obviously, as per, so mum walked straight into the shop. I shuffled behind her, clinging to her jacket, and we pretend to be incredibly interested in the sports wear he was promoting. We were very sporty that day. 

Lee Latchford-Evans tapped me on the shoulder. TAPPED ME ON THE BLOODY SHOULDER. MY RIGHT SHOULDER. We spoke for a good five minutes about sport and fitness, and I miraculously managed to hold this conversation by bullshitting more than I do in most exams. He told me to feel the texture of his top. Now that was just WRONG.  6 year old Louise loved the music, not the looks, but good God maybe Freud was right and children do have a sexual sense in them. Oosh. Mum asked him there and then if Steps were planning on reforming. "The band are all talking. We're all friends! Never say never." was his response, I assume. I was too busy gngngngngngnging, but apparently that's what he said. I blagged myself a photo and I find it hilarious how I'm clenching my fist in emotion. 

That's me and Lee. Louise and Lee. Lee and Louise. Leeise. Louee. 

It was only the next month that Steps: The Reunion was announced. That cheeky sod. He knew all along. So obviously by the time September came around, my childhood was under my skin and itching to get out. The episodes have been incredible. I've realised that H is Welsh, which is probably why I loved him the most, and why I love the Welsh accent now, and that Lisa is a bitch and can't sing. Faye is adorable, Lee is lovely, and Claire has got a mighty set of lungs on her and deserved all of those main vocals. Steps have a personality now for me, not just cheesy pop hits that I fell in love with. 

AND NOW THEY'VE REFORMED AND ARE GOING BACK ON TOUR. Srsly, guys, Steps. On tour. In an arena. Singing old hits. THIS IS LITERALLY MY DREAM COME TRUE. Fate just wants me to see them obv. FATE SOUNDS LIKE FAYE. SEE, I BLOODY TOLD YOU. NO I DON'T APOLOGISE FOR SHOUTING.

Only problem is that I don't have tickets. Just a slight glitch in this glorious story of mine. I want to be right at the front of the O2 arena when they're singing Better Best Forgotten and Stomp. I want to scream and clap and jump and wear fluffy glittery Steps merchandise on my head. I want to lose my voice from singing along. But I don't have tickets. This is my plea. I don't know who's gonna read this. I haven't got a bloody clue who reads my blog anymore. But if anyone here is involved in any way possible with Steps, I'd give my SOUL for 2 front row tickets (if I can't get front row then you're not having my soul but I'm sure we could come to some arrangement). I'll pay. I'm willing to pay the full price for 2 tickets. I'll write a massive blog about it. I'll write for your website. I'LL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU. Please. Anyone. *sits on stage a la Katie Waissel* I'M JUST A DESPERATE 18 YEAR OLD WHO HAS NO SHAME AND WANTS TO RELIVE HER CHILDHOOD ONE LAST TIME.

It'll be a Tragedy if I can't go. I'll be a Deeper Shade Of Blue and my face will definitely One For Sorrow. I'll  Stomp forevermore, be Better The Devil You Know, and the whole incident will be Better Best Forgotten, but Love's Got A Hold On My Heart. Not going is the Last Thing On My Mind and I don't want to be the Baby Don't(not) Dance(ing). It's The Way You Make Me Feel, a Chain Reaction of childhood dreams when I was 5, 6, 7, 8, and it'll be an amazing start to a Summer Of Love. My Heartbeat will be erratic, Only In My Dreams have I thought this could happen, as When I Said Goodbye, After The Love Has(had) Gone, I thought that was it. Here And Now is when I can see them, and tickets oh please Say You'll Be Mine. Words Are Not Enough to describe my love and want. 

Now THAT'S gotta get me tickets, right?

Lots of love, your favourite teenager, Louise. xoxoxox

You should not have told me I can put GIFs on here...

September 29, 2011

Just spent the last hour looking at the Bangor uni videos. Standard September night really. UCAS -> English Language -> Same courses I always look at -> Oh look the same unis -> Funny, I recognise that bedroom I'VE LOOKED AT IT SO MANY TIMES.

I seemed to finish my Personal Statement this morning. That was, er, weird.


No doubt it will get ripped to shreds by a trillion people before I submit it, but writing the last line felt good. I'm not stressed about uni really. What? What do you mean you don't believe me? Verging on mental breakdowns constantly? You've received 5 emails of distress from me? Oh.

Honestly though, September's been ace. I'm 18. EIGHTEEN!


Did somebody say September? I'm sure I heard that. It's not July is it? S e p t e m b e r? The Autumn month? Yes I thought so. SO WHY IS IT 30C today??? No am I not happy about this. I have a new coat. It's burgundy. It has a very furry hood and I look like an eskimo. LET ME LOOK LIKE AN ESKIMO. I'm sure I heard my legs screaming in horror at being let out into the light today. Gorgeous red leaves, newly fallen on the ground, were shouting, "BUT IT WAS MY TIME. MY TIME TO SHINE IS NOW. WHY AM I NOT CRUNCHING? HELP ME UP, FFS. GET ME BACK ON THAT TREE." Even the slugs fell victim to the chaos. Thinking everything was dark, wet, and cold. Poor souls. They're the ones all crunched up on the ground, not the leaves. The only ones getting away with this are the daddylonglegs. Gliding around like they own the effing place. Spiders I can deal with. But daddylonglegs unleash emotions and actions I never knew I had. 

So yeah being 18's involved going out A LOT. Going to pubs, clubs, parties, buying cigar...*fades to black and silence. head pops into shot, and body shuffles in* Hahahahahaahaha...oh, you thought I was SERIOUS?


I've been fangirling the hell out of Doctor Who, geeking out over Stephen Fry's Planet Word, adding copious amounts of books to my Amazon wishlist, and voicing the tripod in War Of The Worlds in French with my friends, consequently crying with laughter and doubling over in stomach pain. 


The only remotely 18 year oldish thing I've done is click "I am over 18" boxes on websites with TRUTH. My 18yo life > your 18yo life.  


AND, EXIT

9/11 and me: The Wait

September 11, 2011

A lot can happen in 10 years. A lot does happen in 10 years, for a once 8 year old. 3 schools. 18 qualifications. 4 shoe sizes. 3 hair colours. 1ft 7". 6 countries. A lot changes in time, a lot develops, but it doesn't take a lot to influence an innocent 8 year old's mind. It can take 1 event. An event that doesn't change in 10 years. An event that won't develop, or get easier, or get better. An event that became 'the' event. 

I’m 18. In the grand scheme of life, I haven’t experienced a lot, and I don’t know a lot. But I've been taught a lot, and what I’ve been taught by the world is that bad always exists. We live in a bad world. Not just bad as in loved ones passing away, or a terrible car crash, but bad on a much larger scale. There’s constant risk, and fear, and wait for the next awful event to occur. If something hasn’t happened for about 3 months then I think that something’s just around the corner. I wait for bad. I expect bad. I don’t expect good. I never wait for good.

But I live in a bubble. I live in a bubble and it never crosses my mind that this bad will happen to me. I just watch from the sidelines, tut a little, sympathise a little, switch to a different channel to get different angles of a burning building. A different photo of another dead solider. A different looter. A different set of Libyan rebels. This is where it starts to scare me. I’ve seen so many varieties of disasters with my own eyes, without actually being there, that it no longer affects me. I’m completely desensitised. I watch for the fascination and explicitness, not just the shock and horror. The first time it happened for me, on 9/11, I was shocked at the pure images without fully understanding. I saw planes fly into buildings, I saw people jump out of those burning buildings, and then I saw them collapse. I heard hysterical families, I heard heartbreaking answerphone messages, and I heard the world go into panic. The second time, on 7/7, I saw and heard it an hour away. It was closer to home, and I understood that people wanted to kill people. They wanted to kill families. Our families. The third time? Well, what third time? Take your pick. There’s been a few. Which earthquake hit country would you like me to pray for? Which rebels would you like me to back? Which terrorist would you like me to rejoice in the death of? It’s a necessity. It’s just what happens, right?

10 years ago, when you saw those towers being hit, then collapsing, then disappearing along with the people inside them, would you have thought that in 10 years time the world wouldn't have changed that much and the risk of it happening again is still there? Or would you have thought that being in the future with such development, we could feel safe and know that the world is stable and everything's going to be alright? Because it's not alright. I knew from 8 years old that things were not going to be alright. Things are never alright, and will never be alright, but we sit ensconced in our little lives and just watch things happen 'outside' like a movie reel. It'll affect me soon. I know it'll directly affect me some time in the future, and I accept that, and when it happens maybe I'll suddenly sit up and realise that life shouldn't be like this. That life is incredible, and people destroying that life and the world is not what should happen. But for now, it's normal. And I will watch. And I will not be shocked. And I will wait for something so massively horrific to happen, that I feel emotions I never knew existed.

The world is like a badly written story. You can tell what happens next, you know the future, and you just, well, wait...

Adulthood t-minus 4 days. Fml.

September 05, 2011

So here's the thing. It's my last ever first day at school tomorrow.

...

It's weird, and I don't really like it. But what I don't like even more is everyone a year older than me on Facebook posting stuff about moving to uni. In a month's time we're expected to start applying. That's not going to happen. I still don't know what to do, but with my brilliant nack of procrastination I've managed to put it off. Anyway, I've still been productive, because I GOT A JOB.

A REAL JOB.


I did NOT spend the majority of yesterday in my bedroom, sitting at my desk, scanning every item, going 'beep......beep.....beep.....beep....' Nope*.

Nan and Grandad were over yesterday and when I said I was working on checkouts they flipped and said stuff like, "WHAT?! The tills?! Money?! What if you steal it?!" Erm.
Then at dinner Nan said, "You know Sue got a frozen chicken thrown at her when she was on the tills. A frozen chicken in the face." Well thanks Nan, that's very comforting. If any frozen poultry is lobbed at my head I'll be sure to let you know.

I start next Friday (not this Friday, because this Friday's my birthday. Have I mentioned it's my birthday this Friday? I don't think I have) and it's perfect timing, as I'll now be able to begin accumulating money for Canada. I'm going to Canada on my own some time next year to stay with my auntie. Seeing as I'm such an independent woman now after Kos (lol) I thought WHY NOT. Go mad. Go away. Go solooooooooo. I'm very excited. If I had it my way, I'd be staying out there for months, but with this little thing called 'the most important school year', I can't. Boo.

I'm half hoping that I get a good stint of this book written, I'll send it off and a publishing company will want to take it on, and I don't have to worry about uni because they'll ask me to write more, I'll get an agent, I'll get more work, I'll move to Canada for a bit, I'll move to Cardiff because I can, I'll work on Doctor Who, I'll marry someone from Doctor Who, I'll still be writing more books, and we'll live happily ever after.

I don't ask for much, really.

In reality, I won't have time to write a good stint of the book because this whole effing year will consist of me stressing about exams, coursework, and shitting effing unis.

AND THAT'S WHAT YOU MISSED ON GLEE IN MY HEAD. (although it will be repeated, quite often, as it has already been countless times, so you can sky+ it or something, or watch it on Dave.) X

*Lies

"Housemates. You have been evicted. Please leave the house via the door on your left." And then my life ended.

August 19, 2011

It's been over a week since I left the Big Brother house. It's hard on the outside. So difficult to adjust to reality. I've seen countless psychologists but nothing is helping. I keep waiting outside my bathroom, waiting for the green light to appear above it before I go in. I've waited by the hatch every morning in the kitchen waiting for cereal. I've put a sofa in my garden as a makeshift Smoker's Corner, and I don't even smoke. I just miss the house so much. MY house. My beautiful lovely house, which has now been INVADED by squatters making me want to storm it and drag them all out like an angry parent.

I wanted to do this blog post as soon as I got back, when I was on a complete high from being in the actual house for an afternoon, but being the procrastinator queen that I am, I never got round to it. It was quite possibly definitely the best day of my life. Big Brother's been in my life since, like, forever, and seeing as I'm not even 18 yet, I am officially the youngest person to ever be a Big Brother housemate. I'm having that as my title now. I want to be known as that. Put it on my gravestone please and thank you.

We got to walk up the BLOODY STAIRS like a PROPER ENTRANCE through the ACTUAL SLIDING DOOR

With scouserachel and simperman ON THE SOFAS. WITH THE WELCOME PACK. You know, the one that KERRY KATONA had last night. js.

Jungle Cats. Oh, it was war.

GARDEN. WITH ME IN IT. 


There's a bloody SAUNA. It's really hot. Like a sauna.

We lived on champagne and breadsticks.

James and Ariane in Smoker's Corner

.......don't

That shit hurt

STAIRS IN THE BACKGROUND

Comfy chairs

Emma Kennedy and the Diary Room


Just making ourselves at home y'know




WANT. PLEASE. THANK YOU.



TASK TIME







In bed with Rachel
Quite amused by my leg

Bedroooooooooooom
Picture of the day

I was just so HAPPY, man

Well there are the photos, and there may be more official ones soon. I don't know. We're all getting our own DVDs of the afternoon, and being edited into a proper show (which I'll hopefully be able to post up here). If I hear Marcus Bentley go "4.26pm. Louise is in the bedroom." I will frickin' wet myself. I don't want to say anything more so it doesn't ruin the actual 'show' for you. It'll just have to be a SURPRISE. *jazz hands* I hope we get a best bits too, but if we don't, here are my best bits...

  • Within minutes of entering the house, Emma walked straight into a glass wall. Highlight of the day settled there and then.
  • James quite literally taking the plunge into the pool (heated) when it was pouring with rain.
  • Ariane asking if the grass was real, how to work the toilet, and that you can't see out of blindfolds.
  • Getting in the bath with Rachel then James turning the water on.
  • First entering the house as a housemate. I can't tell you how trippy that feels as a Big Brother fan.
  • Us all in the Diary Room before leaving and talking to Big Brother.
  • But the ultimate best moment is the green light suddenly appearing above the bedroom door, after Big Brother telling us we weren't allowed in. So, as no one else had noticed, I went up and pushed the door. It opened. I screamed. Everyone else ran after me, switched the light on, and we, quite literally, ran around the bedroom screaming and jumping on the beds, before Big Brother told us to get out. Mum said she was mortified when she found out I was the one who found it unlocked. Not my fault. They accidently unlocked it. *angel face*

All in all, it was so bloody amazingly brilliantly surrealy and any other excitable adjectives you can come up with ACE, and it was all down to Julian Stockon. So if you're reading this Julian, THANK YOU, again, for the billionth time. 

Seeing the new celebrity housemates in MY house last night was weird and I can't wait to see what Big Brother have planned for them............BUT SERIOUSLY GET OUT MY BLOODY BED AND TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF, YOU'LL RUIN THE CARPET. X

'Boredom' is an anagram of 'Bedroom' which is ironic because I am bored in my bedroom

August 07, 2011

I am bored. I have been bored for 4 hours. And a bit. I am sitting on a chair in my room, which squeaks every time I move. I am wearing a pyjama top, hoody, and shorts. It is raining. Which is quite nice. I like the rain. My windowsills are soaking wet because I can't be bothered to shut my windows. I need a wee, and have needed one for quite a while. My right index finger aches from endlessly scrolling and refreshing, with minimal positive outcomes. My left hand is getting that pre-pins and needles thing because I've had a tissue pressed to my face for a good 10 minutes as I've picked a scab and now it's bleeding like frickin' Niagara Falls. My room is engulfed in a strong stench of nail varnish remover, which is probably quite dangerous, but I've left the top to the bottle in mum's room and can't be arsed to get it. I also can't be arsed to remove the rest of my nail varnish so have a green stained thing going on with my nails.

(I couldn't hold my wee any longer)

Can't believe I'm so bored I've resorted to talking about my need for wee. C'est la vie. STOP RHYMING.

Jesus.













It worries me that in my second week of the summer holidays (technically speaking, seeing as the first full week was Kos week) I'm bored already. I've done nothing today. Nothing. N o t h i n g. I should be used to doing nothing, seeing as that's what we did in Kos. We lay in the sun all day, doing nothing. Although to be fair, lying on the sofa while my little brother runs around the house with friends screaming, while my mum is screaming at them, and my dad has the football on the TV at maximum volume because of said screaming...isn't really the same. I'd do a whole blog post dedicated to mine and Clare's gallivanting around Kos, but it wouldn't be worth it because we did, er, nothing. So have some photos here instead.

Things I have managed to achieve today:

  • Get up before midday.
  • Finally persuade the 'rents to let me have an 18th birthday party at home. (ooooohyeeeeeeah)
  • Make a Facebook event for said party, and continually refresh it to see if people like me and 'attend'.
  • Eat a roast dinner. Achievement, I know. It's succeeding through battles like this that spur me on for greater future success, and make me proud to be a human being.
  • Watch 3 cat youtube videos.
  • Watch 1 adorable child youtube video.
  • Watch 1 freaky youtube video.
  • See 3 twitter fights unfold.
  • Carry on writing my book. The document is open.
  • Take off and reapply my nail varnish. (work in progress)
*le sigh*

Today IS special, though, because I have a new baby cousin. Zachary.


































So combing these photos, with the new one of Beckham and Baby...















...I now feel like my fallopian tubes are flapping around my face, while my brooding heart bleeds out my eyes with every new photo. I want a baby. Now.*

WELL, that's about it. I'm gonna goooo aaaannnddd....oh let's not kid ourselves I'll still be sitting here until midnight. But know that I am going in the Big Brother house for a day on Thursday with the likes of EMMA KENNEDY (yeah you heard right) so my boredom will be severely diminished. Ciao. X

(* I am, of course, totally lying, but I've always held a small hope that one day a baby will be left on our doorstep, or I find one abandoned on the side of the road.)

THE BELOW WHITE SPACE WON'T GO AWAY. IT'S IRRITATING, AND EVEN MORE SO THAT I CAN'T FIND A DOWN ARROW ON MY KEYBOARD TO DISPLAY IT. DAMN YOU, WHITE SPACE, AND YOUR LINGERING WAYS.