So I not-so-casually went to Sixth-Form today dressed as a random Death Eater Slytherin Hogwarts student and felt a little self-conscious all day despite the fact that about ninety-eight per cent of the Sixth-Form dressed up too. It just so happens that my SSR day is Friday, second period. That was fun, trying to get year sevens to take me seriously whilst running around all over the place wearing a Hogwarts uniform and an apparently lifelike black wig. The kids in my SSR group were awful, today. I was stuck with a different class because me and Sian were made to swap. Unfair or what? Anyway, the little shits thought it would be fun to try and kill each other whilst bullying the poor little dyslexic kid (who I almost knocked over twice because I seem to not look where I'm going a lot of the time). Like I said earlier, nobody takes you seriously in a costume. At all. Raising your voice and saying "Rhys, take your feet off of the chair and get on with your work," or "James, turn your laptop off, we're listening to the teacher now," has absolutely no effect on the rugrats when you're dressed as I was.
The fun thing was that my Sociology teacher came in as Professor Trelawney, so there were two Hogwartarians in the classroom, which was fun. The only problem was that she kept telling people she was 'Madame Trelawney'. Not quite, but close enough. At least she's read the books unlike half of the other people who were going off on one about me being a Slytherin. Bitch, I fit nowhere else. Gryffindors are brave, I'm not. Ravenclaws are smart, I'm hardly smart. Hufflepuffs are... PARTICULARLY GOOD FINDERS! No, seriously, I hate Hufflepuffs. Sorry to all the Huffies out there, but I'm a Slytherin and I dislike you all. (Insert Dark mark here...)
The only good thing about wearing a black wig to school today was that loads of people told me I should grow my hair and dye it black. Even though this has been my motive for a very long time, so many people tellimg me that was actually quite nice. It was like some form of approval on their behalf for something that I plan to do anyway but, in truth, I really couldn't have given a flying monkeys about what they'd have thought if I just casually strolled in one day with black hair. At least now I know they'd all like it. My Film Studies teacher even told me I should dye my hair black and that she'd start a petition if I didn't. (For the record, I'm naturally a brunette but currently have light brown/blonde hair.) Maybe I should dye it. I might save up.
Getting more to the point - the reason for me wearing a costume to school today was quite simple: Children in Need. I hope we raised a lot of money with everything we did today because it's a really good cause that has a lot of backing. Now all I have to do is decide what to go to school in next year! Alice Cooper or a pepper pot?
Friday, 18 November 2011
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Insomnia
One of the good things about this recent insomnia nastiness is that I can just lay there in bed and think about things, sing songs in my head and make plots for more stories that I’ll never finish.
One of the bad things though, is the noises.
1. The shower dribbling.
2. The TV creaking.
3. Doors creaking open/closed because of open windows.
4. The fridge rumbling.
5. Next door opening and closing doors/windows.
6. Next door’s sex life.
7. Things falling over in the loft above my head.
8. Random springs in my mattress showing off to its other spring friends by making me crap myself.
9. Fireworks.
10. Airplanes.
Next door’s sex life?
Yeah. It’s like free porn for blind people that nobody wants. Squeak, squeak, moan, squeak, moan, moan, squeak.
It’s like – SHUTTHEFUCKUP.
I automatically assume, every time I hear an airplane flying over that it’s about to randomly malfunction and plummet towards the ground and, as my luck goes, straight onto my house, killing myself and the other people in it. But, by the time I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have measly seconds left to live, the plane noise stops and I feel as though I’ve escaped Death.
When the slightest noise wakes me up from my insomniac half-sleep, I lay frozen in my bed and have this conversation with myself:
Me: What could that have been?
Me: I don’t know. A serial killer?
Me: O_O
So I lay there as though staying still will save me in the unlikely event that it was a serial killer, and just wait for my death to approach.
Because, as a hypochondriac, I think I’m terrified of everything.
And the sad part is that I actually am, and just use hypochondria as an excuse for it.
My name is Tasha, and I have insomnia which, at times (thanks to unneeded noises), makes me feel as though I’m about to die.
Sweet dreams?
Sunday, 3 April 2011
The Theme Table
The Theme Table
Me and my friend who lives a couple of doors away were having a rather interesting conversation at school the other day about old times.
We’ve know each other since pre-school (English version of kindergarten, but without nap time), so we’ve had quite a few good times.
I shall take you back to 1998. Me and T must have only been about three at the time, but I remember it as vividly as though it were yesterday.
We had themes, so when you came in, you had to bring an item relating to the allocated theme. At the end of one day, Mrs Thomas was talking about the next day’s theme, which was anything beginning with the letter ‘T’.
Now, I have no idea why, but Mrs Thomas then decided to be a comedian and add in a witty joke. It’s not like we even understood humour. We were barely old enough to talk, let alone understand humour. With an evil gleam in her eye, and a look towards me and T, she said, “Maybe we can put Tasha and T on the table!”
I was horrified.
I remember, as if in slow motion, looking over at T, the fear evident in both of our eyes.
When I got home that day, I was practically trembling.
Mum – Why aren’t you eating your lunch?
Me – B-Because M-M-Mrs Thomas s-said she was g-going to p-put me a-and T on the t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-TABLE! *Starts crying*
Mum - *Confusion*
I just left it there and sobbed into my billy-bear ham sandwich.
Mum eventually bribed me to stop crying by getting me some Barbies from my room and letting me play with them downstairs while she watched TV.
By the next day, I’d completely forgotten about Mrs Thomas and her evil scheme, so the morning was going great until my mum was helping me put on my jumper, and it all came flooding back to me. Mrs Thomas was an evil, evil lady.
I remember at that point, even though I knew it was too late, trying to pull a sicky.
I failed.
Me: *Overly-enthusiastic fake cough* I feel siiiiiiiiick.
Mum: You were fine just a second ago, Tasha.
Me: But Teddy just sneezed and it went all over me!
Mum: Don’t be silly. Put your shoes on.
Less than an hour later, we were walking past the windows towards the door. I tried to refuse to walk, but my mum was too strong.
One window.
Two windows.
Three windows.
We were at the door, and I was petrified.
“Hello, Tasha!” Mrs Thomas greeted me, the evil gleam still in her eyes. I hid behind mum and hugged her legs tightly, refusing to let go. “What did you bring today?”
I hesitantly pulled a plastic early-learning toy tractor from my backpack and held it out for her to see, my hands trembling.
“Fantastic!” she smiled, pointing through to the room containing the toys, the Theme Table and the other children.
I was very cautious for the rest of the day around the woman, but I made it home alive.
And to this day, I still hold a large amount of resentment towards Mrs Thomas.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Dear Guitar...
Dear Guitar,
Where to begin?! You know how much I love you, and I know you get hungry from time to time, but you really do have to stop eating my guitar picks.
It was easy to get them out of my old guitar, as she was acoustic. But you, being electro-acoustic, have all these confusing wires inside you and sometimes my plectrums get caught up in them, meaning I shall never see them again in my life, unless I shake you to death.
Now, I don’t want to have to shake you to get them out, because I don’t want to break you. You were too expensive for me to treat you that way. Besides, I really don’t want to give you some kind of concussion, as I like the way you sound – Especially your E-Minor.
So next time I’m jamming away to O’Children, please don’t swallow my favourite pick, because I will cry. I did have three. I’m now down to two.
I’d appreciate it if you’d spit it out and let me use it again. You know that’s the only one I can play with.
Another issue I’d like to discuss is the way I treat you. I can’t say sorry enough for the way I leave you lying around against furniture and accidentally whacking you against cabinets and chests of drawers when trying to put you back in your allocated stand, which is next to my rather messy clothes pile. I’m also sorry that I use you as a coat rack for bras, tops, and various other clothing types.
I shall make it up to you one day, I promise.
Love, Tasha
P.S. I’m sorry about the amount of dust you collected in the three days I completely ignored your existence. But I dusted you and apologised, and it will never happen again.
P.P.S. I’m sorry for all the sexual innuendos involved above. And for my rather unclean mind…
Where to begin?! You know how much I love you, and I know you get hungry from time to time, but you really do have to stop eating my guitar picks.
It was easy to get them out of my old guitar, as she was acoustic. But you, being electro-acoustic, have all these confusing wires inside you and sometimes my plectrums get caught up in them, meaning I shall never see them again in my life, unless I shake you to death.
Now, I don’t want to have to shake you to get them out, because I don’t want to break you. You were too expensive for me to treat you that way. Besides, I really don’t want to give you some kind of concussion, as I like the way you sound – Especially your E-Minor.
So next time I’m jamming away to O’Children, please don’t swallow my favourite pick, because I will cry. I did have three. I’m now down to two.
I’d appreciate it if you’d spit it out and let me use it again. You know that’s the only one I can play with.
Another issue I’d like to discuss is the way I treat you. I can’t say sorry enough for the way I leave you lying around against furniture and accidentally whacking you against cabinets and chests of drawers when trying to put you back in your allocated stand, which is next to my rather messy clothes pile. I’m also sorry that I use you as a coat rack for bras, tops, and various other clothing types.
I shall make it up to you one day, I promise.
Love, Tasha
P.S. I’m sorry about the amount of dust you collected in the three days I completely ignored your existence. But I dusted you and apologised, and it will never happen again.
P.P.S. I’m sorry for all the sexual innuendos involved above. And for my rather unclean mind…
The Hammer
So, sometime last year, I was unloading the shopping with my sister in the kitchen. It was going nice and smoothly and quickly, because we had a little system going on between us. It’s too hard for my tiny brain to explain in words, so I shall just get to the point.
All of the bags were unloaded, and everything was put away, except the Nutri-Grain bars. They were still in their box on the counter. So, being the lovely younger sister that I am, I offered to put them away. (Okay, a small white lie there. My sister told me to, and after some protesting, I gave in and set off to do the task in hand…)
I undid the first box fine, and put the Nutri-Grain bars in their allocated tray. But then it came to the second box, and things just went downhill from there. I decided the box would be easier to flatten for recycling if I opened the tabs rather than using the flap the Nutri-Grain folks designed and put there for easier opening.
I felt rather hardcore as I totally ignored the proper way of opening the box and slid my finger under the side tab. I felt the oh-so-familiar pain of getting a paper cut. I gritted my teeth and exhaled loudly. Where the box of doom had broken skin and practically cut open my finger, there was a mixed feeling of stinging and itching.
I hate that. Because you just know if you scratch an itch that’s stinging, it won’t turn out so well.
I decided to be a wimp and put a plaster on it to stem the blood flow and, using my middle finger, tried to undo the flap again.
Then, out of nowhere. SLIT. My middle finger was now in stinging/itching agony – Right on the bend.
Again, I decided to just plaster it up, and continued with the task at hand. I was going to undo the stupid box whether it liked it or not. So, using my left hand this time, I tried to undo the flap. It was going well! I was quarter of the way opening it, halfway, three quarters… SLIT. It got me again.
Now I was angry. This piece of card had now broken me three times, and let’s face it: Paper cuts are small slits of pure evil. And I had three of the stupid things.
After putting yet another plaster on my battle wound, my sister was laughing at me. I’m glad she found it funny because I certainly didn’t at the time.
I disappeared from the kitchen and went into the cupboard beneath the stairs. I took a hammer off of the shelf and went back into the kitchen holding it, looking like I was about to commit murder.
I found the box in the recycling pile. In my short absence, my sister had so nicely undone the box for me. I knew which one it was. It was the one with my DNA all over the edges. I picked it up, and with a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” I unlocked the back door and exited the house.
When I was outside, I placed the box on the floor, and glared at it. Then, raising the hammer to roughly shoulder level, I smacked it down onto the box, then repeated this process several times until it was a mangled wreck of broken card, begging for mercy.
I didn’t give it any mercy.
I carried on for a few more swings until I was sure the neighbours were worrying about my sanity.
Then, feeling much better after attacking the wretched thing, I picked up the remains and walked back in the house, dropping the battered wreck in the recycling pile, and returning to the cupboard to deposit the hammer.
I can honestly say that I’ve never touched a Nutri-Grain bar since.
All of the bags were unloaded, and everything was put away, except the Nutri-Grain bars. They were still in their box on the counter. So, being the lovely younger sister that I am, I offered to put them away. (Okay, a small white lie there. My sister told me to, and after some protesting, I gave in and set off to do the task in hand…)
I undid the first box fine, and put the Nutri-Grain bars in their allocated tray. But then it came to the second box, and things just went downhill from there. I decided the box would be easier to flatten for recycling if I opened the tabs rather than using the flap the Nutri-Grain folks designed and put there for easier opening.
I felt rather hardcore as I totally ignored the proper way of opening the box and slid my finger under the side tab. I felt the oh-so-familiar pain of getting a paper cut. I gritted my teeth and exhaled loudly. Where the box of doom had broken skin and practically cut open my finger, there was a mixed feeling of stinging and itching.
I hate that. Because you just know if you scratch an itch that’s stinging, it won’t turn out so well.
I decided to be a wimp and put a plaster on it to stem the blood flow and, using my middle finger, tried to undo the flap again.
Then, out of nowhere. SLIT. My middle finger was now in stinging/itching agony – Right on the bend.
Again, I decided to just plaster it up, and continued with the task at hand. I was going to undo the stupid box whether it liked it or not. So, using my left hand this time, I tried to undo the flap. It was going well! I was quarter of the way opening it, halfway, three quarters… SLIT. It got me again.
Now I was angry. This piece of card had now broken me three times, and let’s face it: Paper cuts are small slits of pure evil. And I had three of the stupid things.
After putting yet another plaster on my battle wound, my sister was laughing at me. I’m glad she found it funny because I certainly didn’t at the time.
I disappeared from the kitchen and went into the cupboard beneath the stairs. I took a hammer off of the shelf and went back into the kitchen holding it, looking like I was about to commit murder.
I found the box in the recycling pile. In my short absence, my sister had so nicely undone the box for me. I knew which one it was. It was the one with my DNA all over the edges. I picked it up, and with a hasty, “I’ll be right back,” I unlocked the back door and exited the house.
When I was outside, I placed the box on the floor, and glared at it. Then, raising the hammer to roughly shoulder level, I smacked it down onto the box, then repeated this process several times until it was a mangled wreck of broken card, begging for mercy.
I didn’t give it any mercy.
I carried on for a few more swings until I was sure the neighbours were worrying about my sanity.
Then, feeling much better after attacking the wretched thing, I picked up the remains and walked back in the house, dropping the battered wreck in the recycling pile, and returning to the cupboard to deposit the hammer.
I can honestly say that I’ve never touched a Nutri-Grain bar since.
Dear Microsoft Word…
Dear Microsoft Word,
I’d like to formally introduce myself. My name is Tasha, and for the record, when I got my laptop and you underlined my name with that patronising little red squiggle, it hurt a bit. I know you’re probably used to your luxury life, hanging out inside my laptop, and thinking ‘Awh, poor dear. She doesn’t even know how to spell!’ Well, I most certainly can.
My name is not a spelling error. Yes, my parents decided that giving me a nickname as a first name was a good idea, but I can assure you, that is my name, and I’m rather certain I’ve been spelling it right for my fifteen and a half years of life.
Now, I’m not one to share my last name, but I can assure you that that is not an error, either. Yes, it sounds like a word in the English dictionary, but it is spelt differently. I know you’re not used to this spelling, but it is rather insulting that you think you can spell my name better than me.
Another thing I’d like to discuss is your habit of using your little green squiggle. I will put this in short: My grammar is usually immaculate, thank you. I find your little comments when I right-click on said line, such as ‘Fragment (Consider Revising)’, rather rude.
When you say this, I imagine myself reading a revision guide entitled: Microsoft Word’s Guide to Get Grammar as Perfect as I do, which is rather vain, don’t you think?
So for the record, I apologise for clicking ‘ignore’ when you do this to me, because I really wouldn’t like to revise. I did enough of that last year whilst cramming for my GCSEs. Just so you know, Word – I passed English. So I don’t need your help when writing.
So now, when you correct things that ought not to be corrected, I shall get payback. I find ‘Add to Dictionary’ rather effective, even if the word is an error. I just don’t like being wrong, and it seems neither do you. So we’re both in a losing game, and even though neither of us can win, I will not give up.
You’ve been warned.
Sincerely, Tasha.
P.S. I know the full stop after my name in the previous line is bugging you, which is why I put it there. Haha, Word. Haha.
I’d like to formally introduce myself. My name is Tasha, and for the record, when I got my laptop and you underlined my name with that patronising little red squiggle, it hurt a bit. I know you’re probably used to your luxury life, hanging out inside my laptop, and thinking ‘Awh, poor dear. She doesn’t even know how to spell!’ Well, I most certainly can.
My name is not a spelling error. Yes, my parents decided that giving me a nickname as a first name was a good idea, but I can assure you, that is my name, and I’m rather certain I’ve been spelling it right for my fifteen and a half years of life.
Now, I’m not one to share my last name, but I can assure you that that is not an error, either. Yes, it sounds like a word in the English dictionary, but it is spelt differently. I know you’re not used to this spelling, but it is rather insulting that you think you can spell my name better than me.
Another thing I’d like to discuss is your habit of using your little green squiggle. I will put this in short: My grammar is usually immaculate, thank you. I find your little comments when I right-click on said line, such as ‘Fragment (Consider Revising)’, rather rude.
When you say this, I imagine myself reading a revision guide entitled: Microsoft Word’s Guide to Get Grammar as Perfect as I do, which is rather vain, don’t you think?
So for the record, I apologise for clicking ‘ignore’ when you do this to me, because I really wouldn’t like to revise. I did enough of that last year whilst cramming for my GCSEs. Just so you know, Word – I passed English. So I don’t need your help when writing.
So now, when you correct things that ought not to be corrected, I shall get payback. I find ‘Add to Dictionary’ rather effective, even if the word is an error. I just don’t like being wrong, and it seems neither do you. So we’re both in a losing game, and even though neither of us can win, I will not give up.
You’ve been warned.
Sincerely, Tasha.
P.S. I know the full stop after my name in the previous line is bugging you, which is why I put it there. Haha, Word. Haha.
Hyphens Cause Death
I hate looking back at my grammar in previous conversations. Why, you ask? Because it used to be abysmal. I know I sound like a complete freak in saying so, but I don’t completely care. I’m one of them people that corrects other people’s grammar. For example:
Friend 1 – I’m going shopping after school!
Friend 2 – With who?
Me – WHOM.
Yeah. I can get rather annoying. Take one of my best friends for example. We were asked to write a quick made-up news report for Psychology. The reason for it is irrelevant, but all I do know is that she took dibs on typing.
We hit the first hurdle at the title. We decided to make up the article about a middle-aged man stealing a £83,935 Land Rover. So, when A typed: ‘Man Steals a £83,935 Land Rover!’ In one of them unprofessional looking word-art forms, I simply suggested that an exclamation mark at the end of previous said statement wasn’t completely appropriate for the situation. So, not agreeing with me, A decided to find me proof that they do in fact use exclamation marks in News Headings. She got no such results.
I was right, for once in my life. But, A was determined to prove me wrong, so she carried on in her failing attempt to be right. And she did find at least three, but as I so kindly pointed out, they were all appropriate uses: For example ‘Obama Won!’
Eventually, giving up hope of ever shutting up my whinging, A decided to just delete the exclamation mark, and all was well once again.
After that, it was all going relatively well until horror struck… She missed out an apostrophe. Now, I kindly corrected her mistake, and she fixed it for me. ‘Dont’ really just isn’t the same as ‘Don’t’, okay?
Now, this would have been a rather short and boring story if it had ended there. But oh, no. The sudden turn on ignorant grammar continued. Next, she put hyphens instead of commas in two places. I could feel myself slowly getting all flustered over such a small and simple, yet monstrosity of a mistake, which, if you think about it is rather ridiculous, yes. But to me, it’s normal.
Again, I so kindly corrected the simple, yet abysmal mistake, but no. She replied, “No. It’s meant to be hyphens, not commas.”
So I, now on the verge of explosion, replied to her response with, “No… There are meant to be commas there. If there are hyphens, the whole sentence doesn’t make sense.”
So, out came her Alice in Wonderland book that she’s studying for English, and she found a part in which there were two hyphens instead of commas, and gave me the whole I-just-proved-you-wrong look. But she didn’t. I wasn’t giving up that easily. The hyphens made sense in the book. I politely pointed out that it differs, but she wasn’t having any of it.
I could feel my anger beginning to rise. Why didn’t she just change the hyphens?! I thought I was going to go blind just looking at it. Some may call this an over-reaction, and I guess it was – But if you know me, you’ll know that even the simplest of mistakes completely infuriate me.
I took a deep breath and sat there in an angry silence for a few more seconds, when she missed a full stop at the end of a paragraph. This was getting too much; She was doing it to purposely infuriate me. She was trying to ruin my life.
So, when she was done, I corrected the rest of her mistakes. But she still wouldn’t change the hyphens to commas so, when we handed in our work at the end of the lesson, they were still there, and still are. Now, every time I open my book and see that piece of work, the hyphens are flashing at me like neon signs.
And that is how hyphens caused me to have a complete emotional breakdown in the sixth-form common room.
Friend 1 – I’m going shopping after school!
Friend 2 – With who?
Me – WHOM.
Yeah. I can get rather annoying. Take one of my best friends for example. We were asked to write a quick made-up news report for Psychology. The reason for it is irrelevant, but all I do know is that she took dibs on typing.
We hit the first hurdle at the title. We decided to make up the article about a middle-aged man stealing a £83,935 Land Rover. So, when A typed: ‘Man Steals a £83,935 Land Rover!’ In one of them unprofessional looking word-art forms, I simply suggested that an exclamation mark at the end of previous said statement wasn’t completely appropriate for the situation. So, not agreeing with me, A decided to find me proof that they do in fact use exclamation marks in News Headings. She got no such results.
I was right, for once in my life. But, A was determined to prove me wrong, so she carried on in her failing attempt to be right. And she did find at least three, but as I so kindly pointed out, they were all appropriate uses: For example ‘Obama Won!’
Eventually, giving up hope of ever shutting up my whinging, A decided to just delete the exclamation mark, and all was well once again.
After that, it was all going relatively well until horror struck… She missed out an apostrophe. Now, I kindly corrected her mistake, and she fixed it for me. ‘Dont’ really just isn’t the same as ‘Don’t’, okay?
Now, this would have been a rather short and boring story if it had ended there. But oh, no. The sudden turn on ignorant grammar continued. Next, she put hyphens instead of commas in two places. I could feel myself slowly getting all flustered over such a small and simple, yet monstrosity of a mistake, which, if you think about it is rather ridiculous, yes. But to me, it’s normal.
Again, I so kindly corrected the simple, yet abysmal mistake, but no. She replied, “No. It’s meant to be hyphens, not commas.”
So I, now on the verge of explosion, replied to her response with, “No… There are meant to be commas there. If there are hyphens, the whole sentence doesn’t make sense.”
So, out came her Alice in Wonderland book that she’s studying for English, and she found a part in which there were two hyphens instead of commas, and gave me the whole I-just-proved-you-wrong look. But she didn’t. I wasn’t giving up that easily. The hyphens made sense in the book. I politely pointed out that it differs, but she wasn’t having any of it.
I could feel my anger beginning to rise. Why didn’t she just change the hyphens?! I thought I was going to go blind just looking at it. Some may call this an over-reaction, and I guess it was – But if you know me, you’ll know that even the simplest of mistakes completely infuriate me.
I took a deep breath and sat there in an angry silence for a few more seconds, when she missed a full stop at the end of a paragraph. This was getting too much; She was doing it to purposely infuriate me. She was trying to ruin my life.
So, when she was done, I corrected the rest of her mistakes. But she still wouldn’t change the hyphens to commas so, when we handed in our work at the end of the lesson, they were still there, and still are. Now, every time I open my book and see that piece of work, the hyphens are flashing at me like neon signs.
And that is how hyphens caused me to have a complete emotional breakdown in the sixth-form common room.
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