Had another row with mum yesterday, about a frequently discussed subject: she doesn't like the way I laugh. I must say that in the moment I had a terrible urge to bitch-slap her across the face. How I laugh is my goddamn business. If I can't choose that, then what the hell can I choose?
Supposedly this laugh of mine is vulgar, 'Boers' she said, and trying to stay on the funny side of things I pointed out that that wasn't very respectful of the old South-African colonist's descent. She literally exploded. It was big, scary and loud, and if I'd let her, there would have been blood. It might have been that of the meat she was occupied  with, but it would have splattered like it did in the shower scene of that 'Psycho' movie of Hitchcock.

But I didn't let her. I can do my fair bit of venom talking, especially around family, where I'm not afraid to shout it out loud. I started with a decent argument, that it was my bloody laugh, my bloody very obvious way of showing I find something funny, and that since she was obviously the only one bothered I wouldn't change it for her, thank you very much.
She then deflected, saying she wished I'd be a little more feminine. I added that I'd wish she be a little less like a teenager running high on hormones (she's worse than me most of the time) and since I've been into the Stones lately, I quipped a quintessential (god I love that word, I'm sure I use it wrongly but I love it) "You Can't Always Get What You Want" at her, thus closing the argument and winning. I was still seething though. She wants me to be more open and social, but if she thinks I better shut up because my laugh is vulgar, then what the hell does she want? Well I said it already: whatever it is, she's not getting it.

Free Time

Ah! It's weekend! Seriously, this part of the week took forever to arrive. Like it mostly does.
I'm sure there are loads of people who said fantastic things about the weekend. Let's take a look to all those guys who had the art of the good reply. (I'm only doing this 'cause I don't really feel like writing today. Not right now, anyway)

Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. -- Bill Watterson

Tell that to my parents!

There aren't enough days in the weekend. -- Rod Schmidt 

God how right you are...

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday.
-- Henry Carey

I truly couldn't have said it better. Except I love Saturday even more than Sunday.

Give a man a fish and he has food for a day; teach him how to fish and you can get rid of him for the entire weekend. -- Zenna Scha 

How deliciously controversial.

 Always strive to excel, but only on weekends. -- Richard Rorty 

I love a party person, don't you?

I thank all the great people who allow me to develop a sense of wit.

Writer's Block (and a lifeline)

For today's blog, I have no inspiration.

(...)

I have now received two subjects from a friend, to whom we'll all give a big cheer now.

*silence*

Anyway, I thank my red-haired friend and hereby dedicate him his blog (I'm sorry, just think that colour of shame fits wonderfully with your hair).

Subject 1: A certain person we both know has been terribly smitten lately, so I was requested to write about the one, true, only love.

Epic Fail. I've never even be slightly smitten, how am I supposed to know anything about love at all!? My only sources are those sappy romantic comedies my mother adores and that clutter up our shelves. Not exactly the most realistic source of information, even I know that. The same thing counts for the even more sappy romance novel's my grandmother has left us a box of.

Because yes, I was actually so lame at a time that I read those things, which aren't even good enough to start a decent camp fire.

That kind of rules out writing about the subject, isn't it? Trust me,  I'd love to write how wonderful a feeling it is, and how teenagy the thing is. I'd love to. I want to be smitten and get a boyfriend, but that's just not something that's happening right now (and it certainly won't happen if I don't start to leave the house more, but that's such a long story it's worth an article on it's own. I am that pathetic)

Subject 2: Tomorrow, we both have this huge, very boring ancient Dutch literature test. I won't bother you with the specifics, partly because I want to spare you and partly because I couldn't tell them to you if my life depended on it. Let alone for some stupid test I don't care about anyway.

Those old Dutch writers, they all write pretty things, but they're kind of... well let's say they've been dead for like a very long time. Not exactly something that'll interest a bunch of fairly normal 16-17 year-old teenagers.

But the thing is, even though we may both be very bored teenagers, we have parents, teachers, and a whole society to please by getting good grades. I'm on fairly okay ground there, but I know that for some others it's way more difficult. Resulting in us, two very bored teenagers doing something wildly resembling studying with a bunch of twittering in between 'till every hour of the night. Did I mention that even if the Belgian school system is praised, it's as screwed up as our weather? Relying mostly on science, but requiring that magic touch. Which this Dutch course obviously doesn't have.

"It's a small world a-fter all". Guh. I want to puke.

I have been said to write 'depressed' articles. Well, dear very few people who are my readers, I am here before you today to announce the dawn of a new era, the era of the "Shiny, Happy People"...

The shiny, happy people are the people who never worry. Not about themselves, not about the others, not about the world, not about anything. The shiny, happy people just smile, and spend their time in the "Small World" attraction of the Disney resorts.
The shiny, happy people are some kind of fluffy, pastel coloured living teddy-bears. The shiny, happy people always agree with one another, so they can't discuss subjects.
The shiny, happy people are all the same, so they can't discuss other people either.
The shiny, happy people are very boring. Luckily they don't notice, or they'd go all Lester's American Beauty on us.

The point is that the complaining maketh the person like the clothes maketh the man. Complaining makes you human. Arguing with others makes you interesting. Fighting with others brings you back to being as stupid as the shiny, happy people because then you are their evil twins, never talking about subjects because you hate them all, never talking to any people because you killed them all. You spend all your time in the renewed Disney attraction "It's a smelly world after all". You enjoy burning things, smashing things, tearing things up, throwing things around, and splash all the remains in the blood of a freshly killed shiny, happy one. You're a smelly, unhappy one. Some kind of stinking punk-style kid.
If you're a shiny, happy one, you spend this relentless struggle for survival, stupidly enough, trying to convert the smelly, unhappy ones to your shiny, happy way of living. And what's more: sometimes you succeed.

Of course, all the converted smelly, unhappy ones have Stockholm Syndrome. You know what I mean, they're brainwashed. Quite literally. After having been captured by some fluffy traps, they're taken away to the "Happy Farm" where the people live on Prozac (an anti-depressant)and rose-scented water. And they're intensely scrubbed. Not only to get the ghastly smell away, but also to get all the filth out of their soul.

Unfortunately, the process is rarely completed, because the smelly, unhappy ones just want to kill, kill, kill and will take great pleasure in killing their caretakers in the farm. Resulting in the lovely pink colour the Farm's floors, ceilings, walls and windows are tainted in.

Wouldn't we love such a society. The shiny, happy people who breed like rabbits would compensate for all the people killed by the smelly, unhappy ones, cutting short our overpopulation problem, bringing in the natural balance. If there aren't enough shiny ones to kill, the smelly ones will just kill each other or themselves (because they hate themselves too) until balance is restored.

I propose we implement the Shiny, smelly, (Un)Happy era as of tomorrow.

Exams. Or the art of boiling our brains 'till they come out of our ears

Exams, the well-known roaring monster punctually making appointments with students at Christmas and in June. Possible side effects include: stress, compulsive eating, lack of sleep, shortening of the nails due to biting them, 'je-m'en-foutisme', breakdowns and burnouts.

Yes, you, the adults of this world, you are poisoning the children you pretend to care so much about. I wish you would find another system to evaluate our capacities. Have open conversations and debates about the viewed subjects, for example, with small groups of students. Have them teach a lesson. Have them write an essay. Most importantly, have them choosing which method is the best for them. If they want to do a plain traditional exam, fine, if they want to write an essay, fine, if they want to do a presentation, fine. You'll never have someone at his/her full capacity if it's to do something that person doesn't like. Yes, this spawns from personal experience, but I'm almost sure it could be taken as a general truth.

I tend to be one of the lucky ones, being rather confident with a pen and all kinds of knowledge. So I was relatively safe until this year. Because here comes the cause of all my nightmares: Oral Exams. The very much feared thing dances through my mind, all written in capitals.

You might tell me there's nothing to fear, and that teachers are rarely into cannibalism. Tell that to my guts. I would very much like them not to try to spill out of my mouth at every oral exercise, or every word spoken above the 'very very quiet' voice level. Said guts trying to crawl their way up your throat to get out also cause shortness of breath, stuttering, and a crimson coloring of the cheeks. Plus of course the lasting impact of a psychological trauma.

Yes, dear teachers, you're killing us. So if one day your schools are empty, your homeworks not given in and your tests left unscathed, know that we're all having an acute case of examinitis. You might want to keep your distance. It's extremely contagious.

These ARE The Days Of Our Lives...

Aren't there days where you want to throw everything against a wall and follow suit, hitting your head against it as well until you pass out and sleep 'till the day is over?

Probably not.

I get those days all. The. Bloody. Time. It's at these moments I wonder why I do not have any more girl friends, with whom I could spend hours on the phone, complaining about my life and lamenting the misery of this world.
If I were in my normal state, I would merely roll my eyes at such a comment.

But that's the thing, isn't it? I'm not in my normal state. I do not whine in my normal state.

I have noticed that I use the internet extensively to whine about things. And I know I'm not the only one. But you might ask me why I'm only online to whine, and not to scream out loud when I'm happy.

I guess it's because I regard happiness as something too intimate to post it online, whereas frustration, irritation and sadness merit to be tossed out to the world. They're doing no good inside of you anyway.

But going about this way won't get anyone to like you, off-or online. I don't like whining friends either, and even if I have a respectable amount of self-control, it takes an impressive toll on me to have to listen to those friends.

The whole story starts out with the assumption that these persons are indeed my friends, something which is an unproven fact.

But I'll whine on later. Have a good day/afternoon/evening/night. If you read on till here, you have my utmost respect. Hope you didn't die of boredom. If you did, you're welcome to insult me in a comment.


Babeluda.

Hullo...

... and welcome to the worst coloured blog in the universe. Good thing I'll be the only reader.

Anyway, we (or rather, I) are here to discuss the antics of my day-to-day world. Don't worry about those highly philosophical 'entrevues' cluttering up your (I'm sure) terribly busy schedule; as I have no life, there's not much to be said about it, let alone to discuss.

Because I'm already running out of ideas after this very first paragraph, this will also be a very boring blog. With a very boring view of the world by an even more boring teenager. Who has no life. Yes, I'm going to have loads of fun. You, on the other hand... might wanna stop reading.