Saturday, 21 November 2015

Christmas, your Latino uncle and I'm writing a book

There's been a lot of avacadoes in my house recently and I'm not sure if it qualifies as an obsession yet but at some point the shopkeepers are going to start wondering why every 4 days or so we keep purchasing avocados. Also, I'm pretty sure there's a rogue elf somewhere in the household because my socks are missing and the forks keep vanishing. We're left with the pity forks now and they're all dull and oddly shaped, which is absolutely no way for a child to live.  The yams are gone too and potatoes just aren't the same. They just don't fry like yams do.

It's also a little bit over a month till Christmas and I'm just trying to mentally prepare myself for the hell that is teenage materialism. Just like many holidays Christmas has become one of those commercial jackpots businesses use to make profits. And with that comes sales and offers and marketing schemes and babies wearing adorably large reindeer antlers...and..and adolescent cacti. I'm not even going to try justify that last one, just go with it.  Christmas marketing to me is like drowning in a pool of guava juice. It's not the nicest way to go but it's not the worst and it smells good. Plus it's probably comforting in a weird and sickly sweet kind of way so I'm cool with it. However I always seem to find myself  bombarded with gift talk every year. It's like everywhere I turn someone's always on about what they're getting and how brilliant/terrible it must be to have my birthday after Christmas.  I have no problem with someone casually expressing their excitement for a gift but if I hear "you must get a lot of gifts" or "it must be horrible having you're birthday after Christmas" one more time I'm  going to hit someone with a ripe and moderately sized mango.( Come on guys, I'm not an animal. I have morals!! ) Firstly I don't get that many gifts and secondly it's actually quite amazing, Jesus and I are practically birth buddies.

But Christmas aside, I'm genuinely planning on migrating to Mexico. I think people assume I'm lying. It's like that time I tried telling my maths teacher my uncle was Pythagoras. Or the time I told my friend that Cara Delevingne was my mum and the time I stole that cat from the neighbor and ran off with it to school. I lie. I don't run. (Once again I'm not even going to try and justify that, I'm like a parrot on opiates so please just work with me here.) I plan on changing my name to Pepito, running some sort of trade in the black market and just like in my last post, I would appreciate it so much if you would refer to me as your Latino uncle.

I've also started writing a book which is weird. It's a book within a blog. Every blog post is another chapter to the book and I'll even be including a few of my posts from here on it. I'm not sure exactly where I'm going with it but so far it's been a lot of fun. You can check it out here.

Tat's pretty much it.

Wednesday, 18 November 2015

The Art Of Repulsion

My existence is somewhat partially validated by how embarrassed someone feels by my presence.
And I love how I probably won't ever know how to pay my taxes but will always be able to call you a stupid green turtle in Spanish no matter the circumstance.


At some point in your life you will meet someone so utterly infuriating that it will physically pain you not to roll your eyes. It will be like involuntarily stepping into the depths of hell wearing nothing but cheap sunglasses and extremely teeny sandals, or accidentally stepping on a thousand needle points. It will undoubtedly suck. It will suck so much that it will seem like nothing in the world could ever suck as bad. And it's enough to make you believe it for a very long time.

Somewhere between getting spit at at a bus stop, getting hit by an obnoxiously large rubber and watching a 13 year old verbally tear someone to shreds, is where you start to realise that maybe humans just aren't as civil as you'd think. And although you'd like to walk around blissfully unaware of such things it's kind of unavoidable. Mainly because that obnoxiously large rubber was like the size of a brick and also because that guy spitting in your direction is about 1cm away from projectile spitting on your new socks.

And I, after 13 years of experience, feel as if I'm now somewhat qualified to tell you how to flee such encounters. All it really requires is cake. I mean cats. No, wait. I mean crates...or spades...or maybe manatees. That's it! All you really need is manatees.

Stage 1 requires you to identify the source of irritation. Is it that guy behind you on the bus coughing up his lungs without covering his mouth? Is it that 30 year old women sat directly opposite you on the bus shooting you death glares? Or is it that 11 year old boy who barged you in the shoulder despite having at least a meter of space to pass by in?

Stage 2 requires you to throw caution to the wind. Or rather logic to the wind. For every rational way to get yourself out of that situation, think of a completely irrational alternative to it. The guy in your class made a sexist comment perhaps. Glare at him for a while and then repetitively hit him with your paperback. Maybe someone pushes in front of you in the dinner line. Aggressively cough in close proximity to them and begin scratching your arms vigorously whilst whispering the word itchy.

Other techniques include:
-Kicking them in their shins and slathering their faces in full fat butter.
-Chewing gum loudly in their faces.
-Replacing their semi skimmed milk with almond or soya milk. Or worse full fat milk.
- Reciting Shakespeare in their faces in intense rap verses.
-Replicating that dance drake does in hotline bling.

Stage 3 is where you locate your exit points. If there is not a fire exit within a few meters of you, reconsider your approach. This can be done by dividing the distance of which it takes to leave the area plus the distance it takes to make your way over to a doughnut shop and a burger king, by the average speed of which you plan to run at whilst carrying a box of doughnuts and attempting to eat that burger.

Stage 4 simply requires you to put step 2 into action and run. There's a likely chance that guy on the bus coughing is a heavy weight boxer and the fact that you've just thrown a box of Kleenex and a jar of vapor rub in his face doesn't help the situation whatsoever.

And that is how you repel a human and or get attacked a heavy weight boxer. Same thing.

Also excuse my pages section. It is currently under construction so if you see any disappearing tabs it's probably just me trying to execute some coding technique but failing miserably at it.

Thursday, 12 November 2015

The 13 Year Old Grump

I'm like a 54 year old man in a 13 year old body.


Origin

I am cat. Cat is I. We are one. 
The same goes for your Latino uncle.
It's like that with him too.

Everyone has that one uncle. The one that's constantly criticizing today's society and frowning upon the political system because "those politicians are just so dang corrupt". He's the one wearing those old school Crocs and claiming sugar's basically the same as meth but a lot more legal. The weird thing here is that I don't have that uncle. I am that uncle. Minus the Crocs.

I feel as if I should clarify that I am a girl and not some 50 year old catfish. Calling myself an uncle however, seemed more fitting for this post. So for the meanwhile, I give you permission to view me as your 54 year old uncle with the protruding pot belly and stubbly chin. I'd also appreciate it if you could call me Pepito once in a while. And maybe imagine me with a sombrero and a malt drink in hand for good measure. 

I am without a doubt the 13 year old equivalent to your 54 year old Latino uncle. I'm also a grump. And as a grump I feel as if it's my duty to educate you on a few of the many grump traits. Let's get to it.

A guide to spotting a 13 year old grump, or a Latino uncle. Potato-potato.

If you're that one 13 year old sat in maths class hushing the people around you, you are a 13 year old grump.

If you're that 13 year old child sat in science class screaming "HUSH CHILDREN!!" in a stereotypical British accent, you are a 13 year old grump.

If you're that person stood in the streets angrily yelling at birds, firstly, what even are you? Secondly you're insane. Stop it.

If you're that 13 year old child trying to persuade your class that Pythagoras was your uncle, you are a 13 year old compulsive liar.

If you're that 13 year old child capable of giving someone the silent treatment for 2 days straight, you are a damn hero. I applaud you.

If you're that 13 year old child mocking your friend for getting a mark less than you in a maths test despite knowing how hard she studied for it, you are a 13 year old idiot. Too harsh?

If you're that 13 year old child staring down the guy a few tables across yours for no particular reason, you are a 13 year old grump. 

If you're that thirteen year old child shouting at students for running in the corridors, you are a thirteen year old grump. And get a moped you granddad.

If you're that that thirteen year old child lecturing students on how litterbugs are the plague of our society, you are a thirteen year old grump.

If you're that thirteen year old child not wondering why Dora is still allowed to roam the jungle with nothing but a talking map and a clearly over evolved monkey... I don't even know. There should be no person on this Earth not questioning Dora's amount of excessive freedom.

If you're a 13 year old child contemplating the various ways in which you could start a slightly illegal iguana trading business south of the Mexican border, just please contact me immediately.

I may or may not display all of these traits.

Sunday, 8 November 2015

So It Turns out the Border's Way Closer Than You Thought

It's a funny story really. No really, it's hilarious.
I guess I should explain.

You know how I said I  wasn't going to post here any more and that I  was migrating this little blog of mine,well I lie. And it really does go to show how indecisive and unreliable I am. You should have expected it really. I don't see how you trusted me, I'm like a parrot on opiates.

I kind of forgot how hard it was to start up a blog from scratch and I realised that I'm just not ready for that sort of commitment. So instead I'm just going to revamp this one. For the third time. Once again indecisive and unreliable. Don't ever trust me. Like ever. Seriously, please don't. I'm begging you. I'm as reliable as a toddler.

I thought that starting a new blog would be cool but I think I've built too much of an attachment to this one and I don;t want to give that up yet. Perhaps instead of getting that hair cut I'll  just be dying my tips a little. ( Which will make no sense unless you read the post before my last, but considering I'm deleting it, this sentence will probably never make sense to you.)

I suppose I'll go umm... find an iguana or something.
Whilst I'm at it I'm probably going to delete that post as well.

Saturday, 7 November 2015

Why The World Scares Me

I hadn't planned on writing this but I find myself going deeper than I should sometimes.
So excuse the many errors that may present themselves here.

It's funny how everything just seems so normal to us. How we've become such a tolerant world that we can no longer see the warning signs. It's like we're our own worst enemies yet we're perfectly fine with it. 

I don't like the fact that I'm scared of  the world. I don't like knowing that war exists or that racism still occurs, or that sexual and domestic abuse is still a prominent thing and slavery still exists. I don't like knowing that I have no control over stopping any of these things and it scares me more than it's ever done before.

It was only somewhere between the ages of 9 and 11 that I learn't that the world wasn't the world I'd dreamt it to be. It was no longer a world where becoming a fashion designer/astronaut/ journalist was a thing. It was no longer a place where shooting stars granted wishes or ponies and unicorns existed in physicality and not just in figments of my dreams. It was somewhere where I no longer felt safe. A place where race could determine status and make you a subject to police brutality. Where being a girl somehow made you weak or bossy and where being to feminine made you gay or girly. It was somewhere where I didn't want to be.

And there was no one else to blame it on other than society, right? This great big beast lurking in the background, screwing with the everyone. Blaming it on a concept rather than something feasible gave me something that validated my hatred. To me society was this tyrannical creature dictating social standards and our mindsets, and I believed this for the longest time. Then I started taking sociology at school and I realised that we are society. We are this great tyrannical beast dictating the things that happen. Yet we continue allowing it to happen constantly. We adopt these ideas in our minds and they become almost like second nature to us. We see them as right and then we carry it on to other generations knowing that it's wrong. But it's what we're accustomed to. We are the product of experiences and actions around us. It's not until we change ourselves that we actually make a large enough impact to stop these things.

You know, I used to think that one person could make a change?  But I lost faith in that real quick. It kind of feels like a stupid idea now, thinking that maybe someday the world could change just because one person said so. I used to believe that somehow one person could alter 7 billion people. Bu that's no longer feasible any more. One person can't change the mindset of a person who insists on subjecting someone to racial inequality. One person can't stop modern slavery or sexual abuse. One person can't stop homophobia or gender inequality. One person can't just stop all the damage we're causing to the environment, because let's be honest here, there's 7 billion other people to undo that change.


Sometimes I think how much easier it would be if children ruled the world. There'd be no social political disputes. No war or crimes and we'd all just see life through adolescent and innocent eyes. But sometimes I can't help but think that we'd end up turning into what we are today. I mean, is it just human nature that we do these things? Is it just human nature that a person actively tries to inflict harm upon another? Is it just human nature to kill someone because of their race? Is it just human nature to be so unbelievably inhumane?  Because I'm beginning to think so.