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.