I like to think there are other people like me. People who get ferociously, terribly, horribly angry whenever their time is wasted in any way whatsoever. A minute in the real world is an hour in the world of someone who meticulously plans each and every segment of their day, right down to fifteen-minute increments. At 05:30 I will wake up. At 08:15 I will read, at 17:45 I will change my bed sheets, at 21:00 I will be in bed with a candle flickering and Alexa playing Last Hope by Paramore… and so on, and so forth. Is this normal? I’m not sure.
Some might call it obsessive, some might call it insane. Some might say it’s perfectly normal to want to squeeze as much from your day as possible, considering how fast time is slipping us all by. I am obviously of the latter; planning my days so carefully allows me to feel like I have control over my life. I never, ever go to bed lamenting over having wasted the day or week, and it’s simply because I have done everything with purpose. Even the useless things. Maybe it’s boring or too grown-up, maybe it leaves little room for spontaneity — but I do consider last-minute plans. I am definitely down for an impromptu trip to Franco Manca, I just need to consult Outlook and move my Sims block elsewhere.
Tl;dr: if you’re not already a fan, don’t bother.
Or bother, but be prepared for some degree of boredom.
If you’ve watched the likes of Senna and Williams, you would have gone into this with high expectations. Michael Schumacher, seven-time world champion, indisputably one of the greatest F1 drivers there ever was and ever will be. A household name worldwide. You would be forgiven for expecting a gripping documentary full of passion and competitiveness, celebrating the life and career of a worldwide icon who has since suffered a horrific and devastating injury. If you know of Michael Schumacher but don’t know why you know of him, you would want the long-awaited title documentary to tell you exactly why he is known as one of the greatest.
Unfortunately, this just didn’t deliver.
I don’t know if you’re going to exist, but I’ve grown a few maternal bones over the years. Whether you will be born from me or another woman, or even at all, I now often daydream about you.
There was once a time I didn’t want any children. It was in my later teenage years when I first saw how horrible the world was, when depression grabbed hold of me, when I knew what it was like to be purposely misunderstood. I couldn’t bear the thought of bringing anybody else into these feelings of helplessness. Then I got older and wanted to kill myself.
Children still weren’t a thought, but this time it was because every day that I lived was a day that wasn’t even meant to come, so I really took it one day at a time. I didn’t look further ahead because there was nothing there; I literally woke up thinking ‘nice, another day. Here we go again’. It’s only now that I can see a future in which I can almost see old-age. I have love to thank for that.
I realised that my mind and heart had sustained way too much for me to not pass on what I’d learnt. I had too much love to give, I had masses in reserve. Some for a lover. Some for his family. Some for friends… and some for those I will call my own. I learnt what love for a child was through learning what it wasn’t, and I suddenly felt that part of my purpose in life was to give it. It may be selfish of me to want you to exist simply so I can give you what I didn’t have. Is it bad to desperately want to give the good to someone else so that they never have to feel like they should just.. jump? Maybe. Everything I once thought I knew about family had been destroyed, and the concept of it no longer exists to me. I want you to love, not because you have to, but because you want to. It is my responsibility to teach you that.
Let me start by telling you the objective truth. Read more
I groaned as I saw someone pull up a stool in front of us.
We were sat in a corner of the Bulldog, smoking and talking about every single reason men were the certified worst, about past lovers, about the men who were currently on the shortlist, and men who were just booted off.
He was around five foot eight, with a small frame and a baby face, and he had come to join the boys in the far corner of the room. About eighteen years old, tops. A child.
‘Please don’t do this,’ I muttered under my breath, as she laughed and nudged me in the ribs. I was never good at this sort of thing, because I found it very acceptable to physically turn my head and ignore people I didn’t want to talk to; like a dog playing innocent after ripping apart your brand new goose-feather cushions. Apparently, though, that was rude. I still did it because I never cared, and she always dealt with them because she knew I would have happily just sat there in silence, making it awkward for everyone involved. I was immune to awkwardness, and silence was never a bad thing. I could ignore every problem that was right in front of me; she preferred to tackle it head on.
‘So, where are you from?’ he asked.
I really just be here.. minding my own business, and then I get a notification telling me that Abbie has posted. Excitement, joy, happiness.
Anyway I’m now sat here sneezing and coughing for whatever reason. I don’t recall being exposed to a sick person recently, so I have nobody to be pissed off at, and it’s pissing me off. Wherefore am I sick? From whence did these germs come to terrorise me?
I’m also trying to get my creative juices (ew, vagina) flowing, but my brain is so broken right now that I can’t even chat shit. I’ve seen these Vogue videos (I distinctly remember learning that Bella Hadid is Horse Girl™), and I’ve been pretty mad that I’m not famous, simply for the fact that I wanna be asked all these questions. Lo and behold, I have been tagged and it’s my time to shine.
Whilst you’re here, check out Abbie’s post too if you haven’t already. In an ideal world, anything I’d ever have to read in life would be written by her.
Except this time, they’re from Muslims.
We’re halfway through Ramadan and I can’t tell whether it’s going really fast or really slow. It’s harder, I cannot lie. I am but a shell of myself, a zombie going into work with shit skin and minimal words. I see everything 3 seconds after it actually happens.
I think I wrote something last year-ish about questions I’ve heard during Ramadan in general. I’ve grown up since then. I’m older, wiser, angrier. Very impatient. I have no time for ignorance and stupid people, and the more time I spend on twitter, watching the influx of 17-21 year olds spew their bullshit, I’m seeing more ridiculous opinions and lack of education. Lack of self-awareness. Lack of consideration. Kids these days really look for any reason to be offended – it’s like they enjoy the idea of being oppressed, they get a kick out of being controversial for no reason. I feel like an old angry lady waving her stick around at the children outside for being too loud. But in my old age and wisdom, I’ve also learnt to be much more tolerant. I know, it sounds so ironic given my impatience. But I’m more forgiving, less judgemental; I adopt more of a ‘let people be’ stance. So let people be. Except people who stay stupid things.