Looking for a morphing. Me ==> a real somebody

Jack Adams (a hockey player, but that doesn't really matter) said this about advice.

If it's free, it's advice; if you pay for it, it's counseling; if you can use either one, it's a miracle.

I'm still gonna need yours.

This is a question to people who have already seen me live.

What the fuck is wrong with the way I look? Seriously, what is it? The clothes, the haircut, the overweight? It'd be a lot easier to do something about it if I knew what it was. And if it's the combination of the three and even more, which it probably is, pray tell me where I should start the adjustments.

There must be something wrong. Question for you, Great Red Haired Dance Machine, did I imagine it or did your almost-but-not-quite best buddy cringe when he was paired up with me for salsa? That was a lame-ass excuse for getting out that he used, and you could see and smell the flight reflex of the boy. Everybody saw it, hell, even I got it and God knows I'm not good at reading people.

Seriously, I have a problem. I'm a 17 year old overweight girl whom people almost always identify as her brother on the phone (yes, even my parents), and who keeps getting called 'young man' by polite strangers. I don't even correct them any more. What's the use, it's not like I'm gonna be seeing them again.

Soon, my Alzheimer suffering neighbour will start confusing me with my dad or her dead husband or something.

Seriously, what should I do? I admire androgyny, but it's not something I want for myself -- certainly when it's not on purpose.

I guess the first thing my mother would say is go shopping. Then it would be lose weight. I think she's given up on the hair a long while ago.

I think her ideal plan for me 'd be have me lose weight, drag me of shopping and then teach me good posture. Apparently I walk around slumped all the time and one day I'll look like Quasimodo.


Fuck me, who knows, it might even be an improvement.

End Me.

That's it! Kill me now!

Seriously, go on and shoot me; I wouldn't mind, if I could I'd even thank you. The embarrassment that is my life has now sunken in such an abyss that it will never resurface again, and because I do not want to be miserable until the end of my days, I request that you kill me now. Without physically harming other people.

So do it, pull the trigger, throw me off a cliff, strangle me, drown me, poison me, run me over, set me on fire or cut me in little pieces and feed me to a pack of dogs. I do not care; I just want it to be final and with no turning back, so don't pull a coma on me.

The thing that calls for such drastic measures? Well, the whole story would be a pain to tell, so to make it short: my parents are teenagers. Help!

They've set up two of their friends and are giving advice over the phone. I feel like I landed in a 'When Harry Met Sally' parody, way, way less funny than the original. No, seriously? Adults giving other adults advice on dating each other, advice that might just as well come out of a teenage mouth might I add.

My mum's hysterical snarky laugh rings through the house and hurts my ears. There is a hormonal problem in my home. How could one otherwise explain the fact that my dear parents wound up with me and my brother's teenage hormones and we inherited their mid-life crises?

Guh. There she goes again, giggling like she's some kind of hen, while my father just sits by smirking. This is so ridiculous. And the whole enterprise is bound to fail, because I've never seen two more unmatchable characters than the two they're trying to set up. The fact they haven't seen it won't work out is because they're both terribly polite. I know two persons who are going to have to go through a very painful dinner date, because they have virtually nothing to tell each other, except maybe their opinion on the weather.



But of course this isn't the only reason for the plotting of my demise.

The other reason is that I have come to the conclusion I absolutely suck. At everything except eating and perhaps sleeping. I'm not even sure about that last one; that's saying something. I have a sucky taste in music, I'm a sucker for colour coordination and I suck at social contact. I suck at driving, drawing, studying, love, playing music, interestingness, jokes, friends, maths, Latin, sports, diets, fashion, hair, physique, cleaning, respecting deadlines, not losing things, enthusiasm.

I suck at Life, The Universe, and Everything. (The ones who get this reference, give me your address, I'll write you a postcard, even if you happen to live in Antarctica.)

In the light of these facts, I've made the perfectly logical conclusion that I'm here using precious resources such as air, water and space and producing copious amounts of waste, of organic and non-organic kind, and therefore am a danger to humanity. So go on, kill me now. Did you know that not having kids is actually the greenest gesture you can do for the planet? If it's too late, you got two or three other options.

1. Kill the dog (if you happen to have one)
2. Turn vegetarian.
3. Kill the kid. He/She'll turn out to be a stupid brat teenager anyway, most probably another danger to humanity. And if you're lucky, perhaps it'll be thankful. There's always a chance that the kid is me.

On junk and other lost causes.

I managed to lose one slipper. One obviously from a pair of two. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is? I turned my whole room upside down inside out to find the other one back and I didn't.

I don't exactly know what bugs me more: the fact I lost it or the fact I basically cleaned all of my room, which is a real 'capharnaüm' by the way, for nothing. It's a pig's nest, a shambles, a big, big mess.

And amidst of it all, in the middle of my bright red rug, stands one slipper. Desperately waiting for the other to resurface. It's some kind of reminder of how terribly empty-headed I am. I look at it and get angry at myself, which might get me to do something productive instead of taking naps for no reason (I once read sleeping too much is a sign of depression) or lounging on the sofa doing nothing but squandering the net hoping for some flicker of interesting business.
But there isn't. Of course; it's the internet.

I get up in the morning, I stumble on that slipper in the dark and a wave of fresh frustration wakes me up. I kick it through the room in the evening to lose some pent up energy before going to sleep. I even remember religion because of that stupid slipper. I pray Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost articles and the seekers of lost articles, to help me find back the other one. Yes, I am crazy. So shoot me. Or pray Saint Rita 'des causes déspérées'.

A human being shapes its life around a goal. When it hasn't got any, it's looking for one. When it doesn't feel like looking (and I actually don't feel like anything) it still needs focus, something to build its actions around. Even if that thing happens to be one slipper. The thing has become such a thorn in my eye that I can't enter a room with a shoe lying about without picturing the lost one. It's gained so much importance in my pig nest I might just as well place it on a pedestal.

Amazing, innit, how stupid objects or people take such place in people's lives. Emotional value, let me laugh, as the Dutch would say. I'm a hoarder. I keep so much useless stuff in my room one day I swear it's gonna go through the ceiling of the living room below. Right on the pool table, now wouldn't that be a sight, a collection of old books I haven't opened in years, of markers that don't work any more, of newspaper articles outdated by years, of magazines I'll probably never read again, of broken earphones, of souvenir seashells, of plastic bags filled with presents I didn't like and would never use. Bath bubbles. Colourful but itchy woollen mittens. A pink and glittery Santa hat. Booklets from school trips destined to my brother. Scraps of paper I kept because in some way or other they praised me. I'm fucking vain.

And on top of all that junk that'll have landed on the pool table, among the coloured balls, there'll be that one slipper.  Because failure is always what one sees first.

Not joking, past caring.

I am a fucked up joke.
I am a genetically fucked up joke.
I am a predetermined pathetic excuse for a girl. If we weren't struggling against evolution like we do, it'd have wiped me out ages ago. Glasses-wearing fat slow intellectuals aren't made for survival.

Why the fuck was I born here, now, in this family with these fucked-up genes? Why am I just genetically programmed to be a whiny self-piteous bitch?

I wish I could tell you I wasn't the girl who looked like a boy for half of her life and still a bit does look like one. I wish I could tell you I wasn't the one who spent half an hour lying spread out on her rug, crying and wallowing in self-pity. I wish I could tell you I had friends that can pull me through anything. I wish I could tell you I have determination and talent and courage.
I wish I could tell you I wasn't the one who, after the tears had run out, turned on her radio full blast and tried to dance herself to exhaustion,  to shake all the shit out of her. I wish I could tell you  wasn't the one who had to choke back a new shitload of tears when her brother knocked and walked in, asking to turn the volume down. I wish I wasn't the one who gave him a twisted crooked smile and said sure while something broke inside. I wish I wasn't the one who falls in love with a boy who doesn't and will never see her as girlfriend material, let alone return her affections. I wish I wasn't the one who is crying all over her keyboard now.

But I can't.

I can't cause it'd be lying, and I don't lie about things that matter. I just don't tell them.

I am that girl, that ridiculous fucking pathetic excuse of a teenager who had a breakdown at 6 pm. I had the terrible urge to destroy something, and instead I just threw a pack of Kleenex at Einstein's head.
I am the girl who says she loves writing, and every time she tries to write that story that's running around her head, she ends up ripping up paper in frustration and throwing all the parts around her room while she sobs. I am the girl who, when she's sure the house is empty and she feels bad, will scream like a madman, so loud her throat hurts, just cause otherwise she'd burst.

I am the girl who's so messed up inside her family doesn't even notice.

Fuck me, what is this? Depression? Identity crisis? Cry for attention? Pretty sure it isn't your average teenage behaviour.

Goddammit, sometimes in bed I'm crying, trying not to make a sound, and because I'm holding in in everything hurts.

Sometimes I wake up and I ask myself what I did that for. Sometimes I wish I'd never existed, sometimes I wish I'd die in my sleep. Sometimes I imagine writing suicide notes. Yes, it's creepy, so what? As long as it keeps me from killing myself, I'll take it.

I now realise what I wrote and that I should probably not post it. But you know what? I'm past caring.

Bis repetitam non placent

Exams have started. Again. I'm so not in the groove. Again. I'm pesky and pestering. Yet again.

Truly, this blog is starting to be terribly boring.

Damn. Just saw the light: I am terribly boring.

Probably why I am not girlfriend material.

I'm also lacking in all sorts of experience: never been so extremely drunk that you forget everything, never been kissed, don't know what love is, never really went out, never learned to dance.

Dance.

I can't dance. I love music and I can't dance. I've got the rhythm and the groove, but I've got zero moves. I can't dance, but I love to dance. Or swing my limbs around to the music and stomping y feet on the floor, call it what you like.

To learn to dance, you need somebody to teach you. Or at least show you. Or you need to watch people dancing, and not in those pathetic dance movies like Dirty Dancing or Flashdance or Fame or Footloose or more recently Step Up.

However, watching the people I've seen 'dance' at the few modern parties I've been to, I'm not so sure I'm willing to call it dancing. They just form some pack and jump around with their hands in the air.

Not that what I'm doing every morning to old rock & pop music on my rug is much better. It's like I don't know who (I'll google it and put it in a comment) said, "Dance like nobody's watching", I only do it when there really is nobody watching. Doomed be my shame and my shyness, but I'm very unwilling to show those improvised moves (I could really hurt someone if they were standing too close) to anyone apart from my family.

I wasn't born with many assets. I haven't got the style, or the nice figure and looks, or the outgoingness most people have. I'm clumsy, I speak too fast, I'm genetically burdened with the fact I get red real easy cause blood rushes to my face. I'm not quick witted or particularly intelligent, I map possible conversation out in my head not to seem like an idiot. I analyse conversation afterwards to find out where I should have said what. Too little, too late. I am not very nice to converse with. I'm abnormally plain in my looks and plainly abnormal mentally.

I can't dance.

What do I have in my favour? I write. Like I can.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, school starts again. Talk about big shit. Deadlines and the like. Really not where I want to go.

Sooo, this calls for drastic measures:

• Tomorrow, I'm gonna ditch every bad thing in my life.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna throw all my responsibilities out of the window. (Ouch. Very bad, painful rhyme)
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna stay in bed, solve world hunger and tell no one.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna write a book.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna build an empire.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna clean out my closet.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna re-read my whole library.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna be happy.
• 
  

And all that before lunch. For the afternoon:

• Tomorrow, I'm gonna make Frankenstein happen for real.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna listen to all of @Qrivi (on Twitter) aka The Great Red-Haired Whatsit's music recommendations, which I never do.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna listen to all Elvis Presley ever recorded and make a Top to Flop list.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna write my biography in French and English, and send the first version to VDM.fr and the second to FMyLife.com
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna take a nap.

By then I'll have done everything worth it and I'll kill myself. No need to endure only life situations that would be disappointing after that.


Don't take it all too seriously. After all, tomorrow is another day.

Aaargh!

Aaaargh!

I feel like screaming. I feel like screaming. I. Feel. Like. SCREAMING!

Why? Oooh, don't get me started, or you're getting sweet all night long.

Truth is:

1. I don't what the fuck to write about now I fell in my school routine again, which makes me want to pull my hair out.
2. I wanted to go to a little town cinema tonight to see 'Les Barons', a Belgian movie, and they were sold out so now I'm going to see a cult documentary, 'I Feel Good', at 22.30.
3. I still don't want to scrub the dark mouse matter that sticks to the floor next to my radiator and is disgusting.
4. I've got a bursting headache.
5. I gained all the weight I lost in Congo back.
6. I have no more room to store all the books I have, so they're spread all over my room's floor, reminding me to read them.
7. Project babeluda Ltd. by W.Inc. (aka putting wisdom in the toilets) is suffering from serious delay because I can't choose which quotations I want.
8. There are no more blank CD-Rs in the house.
9. My dad won't let me play with his Mac.
10. My HTC Wildfire still hasn't arrived.
11. I can't download torrents anymore because I reached the data-limit last month and now the family keeps a close watch on me.
12. My little brother insists on watching the Belgian-German football match we're going to lose anyway.
13. I realised I have no style or nice clothes and I want to have something cool to wear, dammit!
14. I don't know what to do with my hair.
15. I need twenty minutes to get my bloody contact lenses in in the morning.
16. I'm whining way too much again.
17. I'm fat.
18. I own 6 pairs of shoes, 3 of which I never wear.
19. There's only shit on the radio.
20. Dad's gone on nostalgia tour again with the living room's stereo.
21. My Latin teacher is horrible, my Dutch and English teacher deadly boring, my Maths teacher very dull and my homework a chore.

If you read this list until the end, you aren't too big a fan of this or that, but really, didn't you have anything better to do than listening to my whining?

I do appreciate it, though.

Start of term checklist.

• First day of school, done, finished and over with? Check.
• 
  
• Shitty feeling for tomorrow? Check.
• 
  
• Pessimism slowly but surely creeping back in? Check.
• 
  
• Losing an entire afternoon getting tangled up in wrapping paper, sticky tape and schoolbooks? Double check.
• 
  
• Having the distinct feeling you haven't slept enough? Triple check.
• 
  
• Little brother being a whiny little ass? Check. (Remind me to let him write here, his whining would be even worse than mine, granting him the prime editor spot. Once he'll speak English, that is.)
• 
  
• Half of all taken good resolutions down the drain already? Check.
• 
  
• Getting shouted at by mother for deplorable state of your desk? Check.
• 
  
• Having kept a compulsion from the time when you wore glasses, constantly pushing an imaginary pair up you nose? Check. 
• 
  
• Having to deal with a mouse who has taken domicile in your bedroom? Check. (The little fucker doesn't even like cheese. I put some on the trap and the vermin preferred to shoot out from under the wardrobe to eat an old roasted peanut. Ánd dodged the sandal I threw at it.)

Oh, how I love the start of term...  (imagine a voice dripping with sarcasm)