Resolute

Yes - believe it or not, it is that time of year again.

Christmas isn't long again, and already we are being bombarded with messages of detoxing, resolution making and self improvement for the new year. .

This Christmas, I've been particularly reflective. Last Christmas (refrain from singing Wham, I beg of you), my life was very different. Very different indeed. It's been hard for me to discern whether my life is different now because of luck, fate or simply my bad actions.

Like most other people, I've lost a lot this year. On the more insignificant end of the spectrum, I'm now single. On the other end, I lost my wonderful grandmother. It was one of the hardest things I've ever gone through, and it affects me more daily than I could have ever imagined. She had an incredible impact on my life, as well as everyone else's. Her presence was sorely missed at our dinner table this Christmas.

I've been through two jobs this year. I'm aware that people are in much tighter situations than me when it comes to my finances (shout out to my parents, my own personal bailout fund), I find it extremely difficult not having a safety blanket. I went from living relatively cheaply working a well paid job, to scraping by in Dublin. I don't like the fact that my parents are under pressure when it comes to housing and feeding me during college, especially when they have a stack of other bills on top of that.

It's a pity that amongst all this loss, I couldn't manage to lose a few stone.

Despite this, it's obviously that I've gained more this year. I've mentioned my Leaving Cert in previous posts, so I'll resist from going on about now. I've also written about getting into college, of which the experience has been a dream. I've gained an incredible new set of friends from all across the country,  who laugh at my jokes and make me feel like the world isn't as heavy on my back. I was short-listed in this year's Hot Press Write Touch competition, in which I was featured in the magazine, as well as my piece being published on their website. I've gained invaluable PR experience, and earned a press internship at 9 Crow Street as a result. I have had a fabulous Christmas, and I look forward to going to Birmingham in March with my gorgeous mother to see one of my favourite bands in the entire world.

It's not all about gain and loss, mind. What about what we still have? Often, that's what's overlooked. I still have my family here in Cobh, my school friends, my childhood friends and a roof over my head.

Some people haven't been as lucky or worked as hard as I have this year. Sometimes, I forget that. It's easy to lose perspective.

This year, I decided to do the Christmas Day swim with my sister to raise money for the hospital where my nan stayed in her final weeks It was extremely important that I did this. My sister and I considered dropping out as struggled to open the frozen doors of my dad's car. But we couldn't. We wouldn't let ourselves.

The swim was easily the most painful experience of my entire life. The steam rose as an assembly of clothed bodies descended into the waters of Cuskinny. My body felt like it had been set alight; my internal organs like they were being weighed down. I managed to stay in the water for half an hour thought, and I was proud of myself.

This year has allowed me to grow as a person in so many ways. I've made poor decisions, but I can safely say, I've learned from them all. Last new year's, I did something pretty horrific and cruel. I took this decision out on people who didn't deserve it. But now is not the time for self-loathing. Now is not the time for wishing things were different, or that I'd tried harder or that I was a better person. It's time to move forward - without regret and without anger.

Things have happened. Things will always happen. No matter how many resolutions you make, you stick to or otherwise. Now is the time to realise that  are great - you deserve your life, and this year is yours.

Your gains. Your losses. Your happiness.

Finding balance

"Hold still", the doctor said. "This won't be painful at all. I'll just be pumping water in to your ear".

A machine gurgled and hummed behind me as I held a dish up to my ear. I had been dreading this for the past day. The words 'ear syringing' had me conjuring images of oversized hypodermic needles being shoved in to each ear, before they slowly drained me of my life.

In reality, it was similar to a wet willy crossed with a very small tropical storm.

I was suffering - two infected ears, resulting in an infected throat. The last few weeks had been intense. As previously mentioned, I started college at the end of September, considerably later than my fellow classmates. Life before college involved ... Well, not preparing for college, that's for sure. I was diving head first in to a course I had wanted since I was a nipper, and a city I'd hoped to live in for as long as I can remember. So incredibly idyllic ... What could possibly go wrong?

College has been incredibly difficult so far. I completely underestimated just how monumental a change it is. I was going from a quiet country home with just my parents, to sharing an apartment with four strangers in the city. My first night had involved making awkward small talk in the hopes of convincing my house mates that I was a decent person - you could have smelled the desperation off me. By half 10, I was in bed watching kids TV shows on Netflix, wondering whether I was cut out for three years of this. I was uncomfortable and anxious and my fears were mounting.

I had always liked school. My mam told me that, even as a young child, it was just in me to study and to work. I never needed much encouragement. I thrived on doing well and succeeding - praise was the icing on the academic cake. I wanted to make my teachers and my family proud, (even now, I still feel like my intelligence is my only redeeming quality). Before college, I had never failed an exam. Starting college, I failed my first three or four assignments. Concentrating in certain modules was impossible. I would leave the lecture hall dazed and confused as to what I had just sat through. When I eventually started passing them, I only just passed. I felt like the rug had been pulled from under me. I wondered whether my old school would take me back, and keep me as a permanent fixture in the school.

Why was I complaining? I had made it to college! I had gotten my first choice! My parents had paid x amount of money to get me there and house me! I felt like grabbing myself by the scruff of the neck and giving myself a good shake. I had my mam on the phone constantly telling me that if I was finding it too hard, or wasn't enjoying the course, that I should tell her sooner rather than later.

But that wasn't it. I liked my course. It was hard, but I still can't imagine myself doing anything else other than journalism.

And another thing - why was I being such a moody sod to my friends about staying in contact, seeing as I was struggling myself to return calls and reply to text messages to myself? Why was I so surprised when they were busy themselves? Their lives didn't revolve around me, as much I wanted to believe that they did. To top it all off, I was constantly getting thick with my mam on the phone, as she tried to extract information from me about how college was going and how I was. Drawing blood from a stone doesn't even cover it, let me tell you.

It was during my reading week (essentially a week off), that things came to a head. Before and during my exams, I experienced very mild anxiety. I would get incredibly sad and anxious for no real reason, and this would be brought on by stress. I couldn't control my breathing, and it felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. Because I was doing little else but sleeping, watching TV and staying inside, my anxiety started to affect me again. I felt hopeless, alone and began agonising over things. I felt like I was swamped with work, when the reality of the situation I had finished all my assignments. I was painfully lonely, as my friends attended school or college.

When my mam found out (through Twitter, I might add - I am a horrible child), she was worried. But to be honest, she was my saving grace. I had found no solace in anything else. And then I spoke to her, and it felt like coming up for air. I didn't feel stupid talking about it. She brought me out, took me shopping and talked and talked and talked so I wouldn't have to. All my concern seemed to dissipate, my self loathing eased.

College has opened my mind to a lot of things. You can't assume any thing about any one. You don't know where they've come from or their walk of life. You will face challenges and struggles - some explainable, some not at all - but everything can be overcome. My mam's favourite expression is, "there's no such thing as a big problem; just a serious of little problems".

I lost my balance for a bit. But I think I've got it back. Being to able to spend time with my friends at home has been hugely important, and reaffirmed that I must have done something right to have them as comrades. My room mates have turned out to be fantastic people, and there's even talk of living together next year. The people on my course are like-minded and seek the same things as I do.

It's satisfying to know that I'm back on track. I'm terrified of what's ahead. I still think about whether or not I'm cut out for this; whether or not I'll be good enough. But every one falls down at some stage - be sure that you're the person that gets back up again.

"Wow!" the doctor exclaimed., "would you believe, that was my fastest ear syringe ever! Sometimes you can be hours at it trying to get the stuff out".

"I'm honoured", I smirked.

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Hot Press Presents - The Write Touch with Alcatel One Touch - VOTE FOR ME!

http://www.hotpress.com/writetouch/collegefemale.html

Exciting news! I've been short-listed in this year's Hot Press - The Write Touch competition. I am going head-to-head with 40 other students, both second and third-level, for the chance to win an internship with Hot Press this summer! 

For those who aren't aware - Hot Press is Ireland's leading music publication, and it would be an absolute honour to intern there.

However, I won't make it there, unless people vote for me! It's based on half public vote, half panel vote. So, what I'm trying to say is ... I would seriously appreciate a vote! All you have to do is click the link at the beginning of this post and click my little icon (Fionnuala Jones) and I'm good to go!

Thank you in advance! Cross your fingers and toes and intestines for me.


Fionnuala

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Definitely maybe

"Everything happens for a reason".

That's my typical response when something goes wrong in my life, or someone else's. "One door closes, another one opens ... " I'm some woman for clichés, especially when they're the last things you need to hear. Up until quite recently, I believed it all.

But what about the doors that don't close? What about the ones we leave ajar? 

I feel like nothing's certain any more. Recently, I've been second guessing myself on decisions I made months ago; on thoughts I believed I couldn't be more set on. Now, I feel like someone's yanked the rug from under me. 

I've always been level-headed. I've always relied on logic, and have never been spontaneous. I'm cautious - perhaps overly so - and indecisive. I'm not brave. I'm scared of my own shadow, and even more so of the unknown.

Open doors bother me. What I don't know bothers me. I need certainty and clarity in my life and right now I don't have that. I need someone to come out from behind the door and tell me whether I made the right decision or not. 

But that's not going to happen: not now, not ever. It's just a matter of waiting to see how curious I get before I coax the monsters of my past out from open doors. I just want to know ...

... What if?

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Eighteen going on extinct

"I know my place/It's nowhere you should roam ... "


It finally happened. On the August 8 2013, I turned 18 years old. I could now legally do the things I'd been doing since I turned 16 - not to mention the fact that I could now buy scratch cards and enter all those RTÉ competitions I'd been missing out on.

I was compelled to consider the significance of it all. I'm not aware of any country that takes turning 18 quite as seriously as Ireland. Mammoth preparation had gone into organising my party, to the point where I was considering who to invite a year in advance. Honestly, My Super Sweet 16 had nothing on me.

"What if nobody comes?" I considered this terrifying scenario. Surrounded solely by my family and a miserable cake, social suicide beckoning ...

"I'll laugh", my best friend Valerie, reassuring as ever.

So, after that little inconvenience that was the Leaving Cert was put to bed, Operation 18 was put into full effect. I created the Facebook event with precision and great detail - I sold the party with an hilarious description, referring to light up runners and the frivolity of youth. After that, I invited pretty much anyone I'd ever spoken to, and their neighbours.

"My parents are going to murder me", I grimaced as the number of people attending continued to rack up.

Being a career woman, I was able to purchase a stupidly expensive playsuit (and matching lipstick) to wear to the party, to ensure that I looked the most dashing. I was determined to look so darn good that I wouldn't have to untag myself from any pictures of the night - no mean feat, I can assure you.

"18 EURO FOR A LIPSTICK?!" My mam yelped.

"I told you not to look at the receipt for your own good!"

The days went on, the numbers continued to pile up, as did the number of people declining. Excitement was building, as was my immense nervous terror. I had full-blown nightmares of hoards of my drunken, messy friends terrorising Ballymore one naggin at a time. I would wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of vomit in my house, my parents reaction, broken limbs ... Amongst other things.

The big night arrived. I frantically set the house up, (and by that I mean Mama and Papa put up the gazebo and decorations for me while I got my hair done and pretended I was Kim Kardashian for two hours). Party time arrived, and the same nervous terror began eating away at me once again, fearing that no one would turn up, and, on the other hand, that everyone would.

By half 8, the majority of my friends were wasted before anyone else had arrived. By half 10, one of my friends had passed out in her own puke, and another had face-planted in the garden and took a battering to the knee. By 12, the music had stopped, and my parents were frantically urging my guests - who now resembled Bambi wearing rollerskates on ice - to 'come inside and stop drinking'. Meanwhile, I ran around like a headless chicken playing 'hostess-with-the-most-ess', telling everyone for the seventh time that there was food on the way and drink in the fridge. By 2 o'clock, everyone had left, I was tucked up in bed after a solid one Jaegerbomb, while my parents were left to clean up the mess. The joys of adulthood, eh?

"The guards weren't called and I didn't have to call a doctor", my mam remarked following the party, "so all and all, it was very successful".

Being an adult is strange. Telling people how old you are is stranger still. As someone who relies a lot on other people, to now be, pretty much, solely responsible for myself is sickening. Independence? Overrated - give me my blankie and my mammy any day of the week.

I don't think it had really hit home until the last two weeks. Last Wednesday, I received my Leaving Cert results, and achieved enough points to do Journalism in Dublin City University - my dream course and career path. Yesterday, I accepted my place. On September 23, I will be moving to Dublin, away from my family and friends, (my second family), to start an entirely new and terrifying life. I will have to cook, clean and learn to live for myself, (and possibly how to use a washing machine).

I have never been more scared or more excited in my entire life. Despite the fact that I'm still very young, I feel I have already made enough mistakes for a lifetime, and I am more than happy to leave them behind. However, leaving my friends as they face exams themselves, and my family, will probably be a bigger challenge than the Leaving Cert itself.

Without a doubt though, this is something I absolutely must do, and something that I have wanted since I was 12 years old. It gives me great satisfaction to know how proud everyone is of me already, so the least I can do is stick this out and hopefully, carve a bright new path for myself.

So I have to ask myself again - has turning 18 affected who I am? Yes and no. My teenage years are slipping by, and I feel caught between wanting to make the most of my youth and finally growing up and getting my shit together. This is my fresh new start that I've longed for as I've wished away my summer nights and drank away all my perspective..

All I know is, I'm about to change the world: the world's not going to change me.

(Well, maybe after I watch some Pokémon or something).


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My life in pictures #3 - Year of the gig

Following the exams, my sister and I joked that the summer and the remainder of the year would be referred to as the 'year of the gig'. In July, I saw The Killers, Haim, Two Door Cinema Club and Frank Ocean, as well as Bell X1 in Cork. Here's some horrendously poor qualities of both gigs, which were fantastic (unlike the camera quality). Enjoy!

Bell X1 @ Live At The Marquee, Cork, July 4th

 

The Killers, Frank Ocean, Two Door Cinema Club, Haim @ Phoenix Park, Dublin, July 13th

L

I'm never good at something when I try it for the first time. It's just a rule.
This rule, (more commonly referred to as 'Fionnuala's Law'), also applies to me driving.

Yes, after years of fleecing my mother, father and siblings for lifts , I have finally started to learn how to drive.

(Let's not get ahead of ourselves now, I've had two lessons - still more Spongebob than Jensen Button, unfortunately).

It's difficult though, isn't it? Well, maybe not difficult ... Just not as easy as I had initially anticipated. The first lesson was a breeze  - ambling around country lanes, Christy Moore yodelling in my ears, cruisin' at 20 miles per hour.

All that being said, where I live can't exactly be described as a built-up area - Narnia's a stone's throw away from it, so when you're the only car on the road, it's bound to be easier, isn't it?

It's all well and good being able to drive when there's no traffic on the roads, but it's entirely practical, especially with college coming up.

So, naturally, lesson two involved driving on a main road. All of a sudden things got that tad bit trickier.With roundabouts, T-junctions and drivers with road rage thrown into the equation, I was a nervous wreck. As I grappled with the steering wheel, I imagined I resembled an octopus lathered in Vaseline attempting to juggle.

(Of course, while I was imagining this, I almost crashed the car - apparently, you have to pay attention while driving?)

Road positioning's another kettle of fish altogether. "Let the white line be your guide", my driving instructor repeated, like some sort of ominous shaman chant. I was half expecting him to whip out some crystal meth and dream-catchers, but apparently that's frowned upon while driving.

You'd think it'd be easy - the lines are there for you to follow on the road. Essentially, it's Painting By Numbers. In a moving vehicle. Which can injure people.

And is there anything more shameful than that moment when the car stalls? Well, imagine doing that three times. On a roundabout. See, the truth is, I actually stalled on purpose. I was simply just stopping, momentarily, in order to embrace the roundabout and all its circular complexities. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Lesson three will involve lots of steering and positioning practice, and we'll be heading in to town. The downside of this is that, potentially, people I know will see me make a twat of myself. No pressure, eh?

So, if you see a little red learner car occasionally stalling to take in the scenery, don't angrily indicate or shake your fist because there is a strong possibility that I will cry. 

This is not a test

"Graduation?" My mam snorted incredulously. "You graduate from college, not secondary school!"

For me, however, I felt the only way to describe this incredibly melodramatic transition from student to mere mortal as a 'graduation'. As we all sat in the dining assembly crying our eyes out, (No? Just me? It's not news to ye that I'm a massive loser anyway), I found it difficult to envision life beyond the classrooms, the teachers, the students and the school that had, essentially, made me who I am. Afterwards, I joked about asking if I could stay on permanently, hidden away in a supply cupboard, content with my life as a good student.

My graduation marked the end of an incredibly challenging year for myself and my fellow Leaving Cert students. It also marked the beginning of the exams themselves. From January onwards, the stress of school, as well as other factors, built up enormously. As someone who is renowned for putting herself under a great deal of pressure when it comes to tests, the Leaving Cert just didn't seem like something I would, in the end, be physically able to do. Months of exam papers, predictions, rants, oral examinations, practicals and scouring for universities would all boil down to a week's worth of exams for me. "These are the exams that will define you and decide your future!" they told us.

I'm sorry, but that is bullshit.

As much as the SEC, your teachers and the Department of Education wants you to believe that the world is going to spontaneously stop the day you and 1 get our results - it won't. Life doesn't begin after the Leaving Cert. It never has, and it never will. In that week in August, if it turns out that I have indeed fail Maths, there is no doubt that I will be exceptionally disappointed. But I know that life will go on, and in my final hours it won't be remembered that I failed Maths in my Leaving Cert. Sure, if you can tell me all the characteristics of a desert biome, I'm thrilled for you. But the Leaving Cert doesn't measure human qualities - how funny, nice, selfless or determined you are.

I am now at a point in my life where I believe I am facing an even bigger test than the Leaving Cert itself. I am approximately half a month into my summer break, and I have found myself teetering in the middle of some kind of emotional see-saw. I'm not entirely sure what's going to happen over the next few weeks. Summer is always given such an air of importance among people my age - between its temporary nature, the good weather and the freedom, it is truly a unique time where anything is possible. For the most part, my life is now limitless - no restraints such as exams, study or school work to hold me back. What am I going to make of myself? What am I going to become?

Scary prospect, isn't it?

I'm not asking much of this summer. I want to enjoy myself, after what can only be defined as 6 months of torture. I want to spend as much time with my friends as possible, as I will going to college in Dublin and they will be facing into exams themselves. I want to drink copious amounts and inevitably puke on myself - again. I wish to attend every concert under the sun, and travel: the thoughts of spending my summer in this small (and equally small-minded) shithole feels me with dread. I will work, and, in turn, waste spend all my money on frivolous items. I am not a person who buys into the idea of having 'no regrets'. My whole life is basically a tidy collection of regrets big and small. I can only hope that I won't add too many more to my list this summer. I want to laugh loudly and not have to be sorry about it. I want this summer to teach me more about the world and myself than 5 years of education ever could.

This summer will be the ultimate learning curve. As a 17 year old with a seven year old mind with a fantastic memory, but lacking in 'street smarts', I need to learn my place, and ultimately, make better decisions, in order to succeed in college and beyond.

Not entirely sure how I'm supposed to study for that, mind ...


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Doubt

(For the sake of those who don't speak Irish - see translations at the end)

I still find it funny that there are three words for 'doubt' in Irish - 'amhras', 'agó' and - wait for it - 'dabht'. It's almost as if us Irish ourselves doubted that one word would suffice. Clearly, we as a nation are indecisive to the point where we need a choice of three words in order to say one.

A few days ago, I had my Irish oral exam, which consists of a 15 minute conversation as Gaeilge* in order to gain 40% of the overall mark for my Irish for my Leaving Cert. Piece of cake!

I started getting Irish orals grinds from September onward, in order to build up my confidence. By the time the mock Irish oral came around, I wasn't a bit worried and entirely convinced that I would walk out of the mock feeling like the founding father of the language itself.

How wrong was I, eh?

The examiner grilled me on topics such as how to download music and the plot of The Hunger Games, (I don't think I will ever forget the word 'íoslodáil'** for as long as I live). Let me just reiterate that I had to say all of this AS GAEILGE*** . Picture the scene: a stammering, bumbling mess sweating in her chair like a priest in an orphanage. For once in my life, I was speechless.

"I'm glad it happened to you", she told me when we were críocnaithe****.

I couldn't say I was thrilled myself to be honest.

From then on, bhí mé an-neirbhíseach ar fad*****. Rigorous preparation for the real deal ensued. I learned off an entire paragraph explaining how to download music, as well as the plot of The Hunger Games. I knew the modh coinniollach****** better than I knew myself. I prepared for every worst case scenario, every sticky question she could throw at me. 

The day came, and I was due to be examined at half 2 in the afternoon. I stood outside the room with the guy before me, waiting for him to be called. People who had been examined before me had been asked questions ranging from the Pope, to their opinion on the colour green. Our teachers had frantically given us vocabulary to cover both topics before we were due to be examined. Now, there was no more we could do.

"Sure it's just reading a poem, talking about a picture, bit of a chat", he said.

"Yeah, just a bit of a chat", I said, trying to drown out the voice in mind manically reciting every word of Irish I've ever heard.

Soon, he was called, and then it was just me in the hall, facing the longest 15 minute wait in my life. 

"Verbal diarrhea", I thought of my teacher's advice, "just go in and regurgitate everything".

My friend came out of the exam, awash with relief. 

"You have nothing to worry about. It's fine. Honestly".

As he went to class, I hovered outside the room for a few minutes, braced myself, and went in.

She was a tiny woman, the examiner: blonde, and sitting adjacent to a tape recorder that sounded like it ran on diesel. We greeted each other, I signed my name on the roll, and sat down.

I read my poem and picture so as to move on to the general conversation as quickly as possible. It all just started pouring out of me - I was running high on adrenaline and a single Kalms tablet my friend had given me before I went in, (don't do drugs - not even over-the-counter anti-anxiety tablets made of sugar and little else).

We got on to the topic of music. I informed her I could not live without it, that I had seen The Maine and All Time Low live last year, and after the Leaving Cert, I would be seeing Rihanna and The Killers respectively.

"Agus cad a cheapann tú faoi Rihanna?"******* she asked me, "cén saghas cailín í?"********

I sat, gobsmacked. What did I think of Rihanna?! What kind of person was she?! I scrambled for the information - abusive boyfriend, drug abuse, fashion icon, not particularly partial to wearing clothes ... 

"Is ... cailín deas dathúil í?" ********* I replied, "Eh ... Caitheann sí eadaí ... Eh ... Cool ... " **********

The examiner laughed, at which point I realised that not only had I cocked up my answer, but the examiner now thought I was a lesbian. Great. At least now I might have grounds to appeal my result. Can you imagine? "She failed me because I fancy ladies!"

Before I knew it, it was over. I floated out of the room, as relief flooded my body and left me incapable of saying anything other than - "It went grand!"

I drifted through the hall and sat on the window, stalling before class, content in the thought that I would never have to speak Irish again, unless by choice. Phew!

My result? Irrelevant. I got through it without puking into my examiner's lap - that's achievement enough for me.

* - In Irish

** - Download

*** - In Irish

**** - Finished

***** - I was very nervous

****** - The conditional tense

******* - "What do you think of Rihanna?"

******** - "What kind of girl is she?"

********* - "She is a nice beautiful girl".

********** - "She wears a lot of cool clothes".

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Growing up won't bring us down

"His name's Tulani".

I corrected my nan on the name of one of her South African care-workers - she'd mistakenly referred to him as 'Carrigtwohill'.

"That's it!" She said, pointing and shaking her hand in his direction, as if she'd figured it out on her own. "I knew it had a T in it. I've gone terrible deaf Fionnuala girl".

My nan was now in hospital permanently - sound of mind, frail of heart and body, eyes as blue as a porcelain doll's. The same, however, could not be said about her fellow patients.

"Get out ... Get out ... Get out ... GET OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" A pleasant old 'dear' had greeted us as we entered. Away with the fairies. "She's probably better off", my mam remarked. "Madame Butterfly", my selectively deaf grandmother had called her.

As I sat on the stiff mattress of the hospital bed, I allowed myself to take in fully this new environment. Shelves filled with adult nappies, assistance bells at the bedside, jellies on the table, the able patients' knitwork lining the walls ... Is this what awaits me? Is this what we wait for with bated breath? Is this really what I wish for when I complain about my life and long to be older?

In that moment, I felt like I had been wishing my life away. About the way I look, the people I spend my time with and where I spend it ... Yeah, growing is hard. Really hard at times. My secrets had spread faster than glandular fever at a GAA disco. Stress inevitably got the better of me at one stage or another. I was rejected, and in return, I rejected people. My whole landscape of friends had changed radically, to the point where I know longer acknowledge people who I previously invested all of my time into. I had complained previously about 'those people', 'this town', 'that night' ... All for what? For me to get old old and go loopy?

I sat amongst my family, in what was, essentially, an adult crèche and came to my conclusion: if growing old is hard, imagine how bloody hard being old is. I was suddenly overcome with gratitude for crappy school, drunken mistakes and horrible people who deserve to have their ears pierced with rusty nails. I have what my nan doesn't - spontaneity and diversity. I made a decision then and there to prolong monotony for as long as possible. Lord knows I can't stop the ageing process but, so help me, I'm going to slow the bastard down before I become my own Madame Butterfly.

"Are you working tonight?" My nan asked.

"Yeah I am".

"Sure God help us!" she said, shaking her head.

God help us indeed.



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The dark rise of celebirty culture

I wrote this for my Leaving Cert Mock/Pre exam. Enjoy!



I woke a few mornings ago to find my social networking sites a-flutter. Torrents of Tweets and posts were sending cyberspace into a frenzy, as well as my phone. What could warrant such a response? I wondered. An end to war? A cure for cancer?

The headlines read:

"KIMYE'S BABY JOY"

If you have no idea what/who Kimye is, you are one of a lucky few. 'Kimye' are composed of Kim Kardashian - American 'socialite', 'actress' 'designer' and sex-tape star - and Kanye West - rapper and occasionally, Taylor Swift's award speech interrupter. The white-trash equivalent of Brangelina, they are Hollywood's most prolific power couple today.

And now, they have managed to successfully reproduce. How thrilling.

How did it come to this, in which, globally, people are celebrating that two run-of-the-mill people are expecting a child/ Since when is this more important that current affairs?

This shows exactly, the rapid, sadistic rise of celebrity culture - officially diagnosed as 'the Kim Kardashian effect'.

Stars without merit are beginning to have a greater influence in modern society. Celebrities dictate how we look, dress, eat, exercise and think. We are more exposed to Hollywood indoctrination than ever before. Products are bought for the face on the box - what else can you attribute to Jennifer Lopez having 12 different perfumes? Not her keen sense of smell, that's for sure.

Celebrities hold power reminiscent of Fascist dictators. We are bombarded with highly sexualised images of D-list celebrities daily, accompanying mundane stories such as, "How My New Puppy Is Changing My Life",  and "Being Filthy Rich Has It's Challenges, I Swear". In a recent straw poll of people agd between 18 and 30 years of age, a mere 10% could identify Nelson Mandela from a photograph. Surprisingly, (or perhaps unsurprisingly), 85% of the group could recognise Simon Cowell. If the children are our future, should I be worried?

So where does that leave us? Just how detrimental is 'the Kim Kardashian effect'?

For starts, we are significantly less intelligent. Recent studies from Cambridge University have show that a lowly 8% of your brain is engaged while watching reality TV. Imagine the potential of that 8%! It could be writing a novella, solving a sudoku puzzle or playing a game of chess, as opposed to "keeping up with the Kardashians".

On top of that, we are more easily manipulated. We are allowing ourselves to be sold ideas and products from shallow, plastic mannequins, who are lucky enough to have famous parents. I myself have been a victim of this. Recently, I purchased a pastel pink mohair jumper from H&M that I had seen singer Lana del Rey model for a recent campaign of theirs. Did I like the jumper? Not particularly. Did it make me look like Lana? Perhaps ... If she shared the same penchant for biscuits as myself. The point is, I bought it, because, sub-consciously, Lana del Rey told me to. Such levels of exploitations are on par with those in a Nike sweatshop in Bangladesh.

Celebrity culture has corrupted our minds. People hold notions now that talent is optional, morals are irrelevant  starving is sexy and dignity no longer exists. We as a nation have become a herd: people with no discernible, unique characteristics. We are sheep, sponging off the personalities of 'the next big thing', in order to satisfy our seemingly inherent and insatiable desire to 'fit in'.

I can only pray that this is a mild overreaction on my part, and this event will act as some sort of a turning point. I have my fingers crossed that the next generation with shun the shine of celebrity and embrace the new age of intelligent thinking. Maybe there will be the next great novella. Maybe there will be a cure for cancer. Maybe the malignant force that is celebrity culture will be eradicated once and for all.

Or maybe not. Glossy rags could continue to be worshipped, the 21st century equivalent of the Holy Bible, and I could continue to lose faith in humanity. After all, Kimye look set to pocket a cool $10 million from selling their baby's first picture.

Baby joy indeed.


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Prologue (*)

This is the first piece of fiction I've written in a while. More importantly it's the first piece of fiction that I have been genuinely excited about. It's the prologue to a story that has been churning in my mind for some time - it's just a matter of putting pen to paper really, (or should that be fingers to keys? Hmm). Whether the entire story ever comes to fruition is another story altogether, (what a shameless, shameless pun), but hopefully it will. Maybe after school and exams ... Anyways! Enough nonsensical jabber! I hope you enjoy.



When I think of him, there's one particular memory that stands out above all the others ...



"I love it when you cut off my air supply like this. It's really attractive".

A voice beneath me murmured. I shivered. The wind was punishing me for wearing so little clothing, (nothing new there).

I began to laugh, and continued to do so. Uncontrollably. It hung in the air like cathedral bells, loud and boisterous, (nothing new there either, my signature laugh was infamous).

I lay there. surrounded by several other friends, the majority of whom were enjoying the wonders of underage drinking outdoors. My discarded Jones' bottles lay next to my equally jaded naggin bottle of Huzzar. One of the girls had gone down the other end of the field for a piss - you know, the usual.

"Hey Logan?"

"Yes dear?"

"Wanna know the difference between soda and vodka?"

"Of course".

"Two letters"

Logan laughed politely.

"Not that you'd know". I buried my head into his chest. "Too busy being a dry-balls to drink with me".

"Sorry. Next time. I promise".

We were silent for a few moments, the soundtrack of our friends' chatter in the background.

"Logan?"

"Hmmm?"

"... How do you please a man?"

Logan paused, pensive for a moment, before replying:

"Watch a lot of porn".

More cathedral bell/drowning donkey laughter.

"No but seriously", he said, stroking my hair, "you'll be fine. Honestly. You're perfect".

I looked up at him, struggling to keep focus as I did so. "Thanks", I smiled.

"Seriously though, I think one of my lungs has collapsed".

"Are you calling me fat?!"

"No!" Logan exclaimed, "I just - "

"You know Logan, it's time like these that I really think we shouldn't be friends. Because you're horrible to me. ALL THE TIME ... Don't look at me like that! I could revoke your friendship card like THAT!"

I rolled off of him and closed my eyes, filled with a warmth that only he could provide.



This isn't our story, nor is it my own.

This is his story that I promised him.


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Legacy

"Oh, you're the one who puked all over herself at Christina's!"

While I was doing my best to cheer up a girl I barely knew in the bathroom of a club at the weekend, she quickly remembers how it is that she knows me - being an absolute mess.

I have written about said-puking experience before - if you haven't read it, allow me to redirect you.

What she said got me thinking. You're probably aware having read previous posts that I am extremely conscious as to what people think of me and it affects me a lot. I stopped and asked myself at that moment - what will I be remembered for?

The saying goes that the good you do is never acknowledged, and the bad you do is never forgotten and I can't help but feeling this applies to me. I obsess over the things I have done wrong or am doing wrong. The good pales in comparison to the bad.

Didn't Beyoncé sing something about 'leaving footprints in the sands of time'? I mean, that's all well and good if you're Beyoncé, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not actually Beyoncé. What about me?

Will I be immortalised as 'the girl that puked all over herself at an 18th she was invited to solely because of her boyfriend'? 'That girl that kissed too many boys in one night'? 'That attention-seeking girl who asked about ass tattoos on Twitter'? 'The one who bit that girl in Senior Infants, who broke someone's heart on New Year'a Eve, who constantly told lies, was an awful friend and who laid her dignity on the line for the sake of being liked by shallow spiteful people'?

Maybe not. Maybe I'll be 'the girl that got the highest results in her Junior Cert that one time'. Or 'the girl who loved people to the point of no return'. 'The girl who would do ANYTHING for her friends and family'. 'The one who sang Ave Maria, made stupid Batman impressions and never forgot anybody's birthday'.

Maybe.

Maybe it would just be better to be forgotten.

'The girl that never was'.

My Life In Pictures #2 - Shave Or Dye 2013

Earlier this month, my friend Cormac partook in Today FM's Shave Or Dye 2013 campaign, in order to raise money for the Irish Cancer Society. I was tasked with the job of rinsing out the dye. All in all, we raised €56. Not too shabby, eh?

My Life In Pictures #1 - My friends are scumbags

Childhood memories

My friend asked me to write a piece for her with the title of 'childhood memories'. I won't name names (love you Ellen).  I wrote this in a very short amount of time about a very distinct memory I have of being young. Enjoy!




"Careful! It's not a race you know!"

Mam called for me as I half stumbled out the steps of our house into our expansive back garden. The sun was shining brighter than it had in my living memory. I wish I'd savoured that most of all: it wouldn't shine so frequently in my later years.

From the step, I had surveyed my kingdom: the circular flower bed with the stone border, Dad's numerous vegetable patches spreading all the way to the end of the garden, the fence laden with raspberries and logan berries, the forbidden shed. The question was, where to explore first?

The crunch of grass beneath bare feet was what summer was all about. Birdsong. The scent of sun-cream lingering on my skin. The whole garden was alive, which made it all the more exciting for my exuberant 4 year old self.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, all around the garden. I lost myself in the life and beauty of everything - everything was special, everything was different. Trees were climbed (though only so far - I hadn't quite conquered all heights yet),  flowers smelt, (something I miss dearly now, thanks to the joys of hay fever  Where else could you find a sheltered bush that was a home for a poor family one day, a bakery the next, and a school the day after that? The game was without end. Even on my own, I was able to find fun wherever I looked for it.

But one day it wasn't fun I found, but a monumental fear that has stayed with me to this day, because of the slightest of incidents.

My garden was the equivalent of a life-sized bouquet. Flowers littered the lawn and my mother's beds were always perfectly pruned. The colours were at their most glorious at that time of year. The air was delicately perfumed. All these conditions combined provided the perfect breeding ground for the enemy
.
Carefree, I ran through the washing line , sheets billowing in the breeze. The circular flower bed was next to the washing line, and was brimming with plants. Dotted among them were several stone statues - a hedgehog with bright red eyes, a squirrel with blue, a frog on a log with green. Time for a nose around, I thought.

I knelt down scrutinized as well as one could at such a tender age. The prettier plants were prioritized above the more ordinary. My particular favourite was one my dad had bought me at a garden fair a year previous - long skinny spiralling stems with delicate pink flowers.

Then it appeared. In all its yellow and ebony striped evilness.

The bee.

A horrendous drone filled my ears. I watched it hover precariously over my plant as I paralysed by fear of this unusual creature. It wasn't a particularly large bee - certainly not the queen bee - but it was large enough to scare the living daylights out of me regardless.  I'd heard about them. I knew that they could sting. The very thought of a bee stinging me gave me shivers. What if it stung me and didn't die and continued to follow and torment me for the rest of my life? I was paralysed with fear.

As the bee flew away in an erratic zig-zag, I ran to my mam and told her everything. She was pottering, as she normally did on days like that fateful one.

"I'll let you on a secret - he's a lot more afraid of you than you are of him", she said knowingly.
But what was that supposed to make sense to a 4 year old? What was I going to do to the little devil? It's not as if I could sting him. I went inside to the safety of the kitchen and pondered how I could continue life knowing 'they' were out there.

However, this was promptly forgotten when the next sweltering day came around, when there were many more of them out in force. Looking back, I think it taught me something important and I didn't even realise. There's no point being afraid of something bad that might happen, because you'll just end up missing out on all the good.

Mind you, I'm still bloody terrified of bees.

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Restored (*)

At last. It was hers.

Never had she coveted something so much and for so long as she had this magnificent piece. It had been calling for her from the wall of the gallery for many a year, and after a hard-fought auction she could finally call it her own. A beautiful oil painting set in a gilded frame. A portrait of a man and his wife from the 1800s, in period dress. She counted herself lucky to have found such a rare, unique work of art. Perfection.

Well, that is not entirely true. Art is not without its flaws: artists, collectors and auctioneers alike know that. Tragically, her painting was no exception - exposure to daylight and general wear-and-tear had lead to its condition being less than mint by the time it had made its way to her.

Not that that was going to stop her. She believed she had all the qualities to bring its beauty back to life. Love, affection and plenty of patience were all that were required. How hard could it be? Granted, she had never restored a painting before, but she was committed to the cause. "You were worth the wait, Lord knows you'll be worth the time and effort", she thought to herself.

She dove into the project. As she lacked the first-hand experience, she relied foolishly on the poor advice of others, who knew as little as she did, As well as that, she read a countless number of books on painting restoration. Despite her youth and lack of experience, she believed whole-heartedly she could do her masterpiece justice and give it what it deserved.








She tried. No one could deny her that. Not even the man and the wife in the painting. It became the ultimate labour of love. It is unclear as to where the emphasis lay: 'labour' or 'love'. She had underestimated the necessary investment in restoring such a damaged, but high quality painting. Weeks and months slipped away like paint on canvas. She began to see people less and less. Her own work suffered. Relationships fizzled out. Her devotion to the cause was unquestionable - enslaved by her love for the thing. How could she not be? She was overcome by its beauty. She adored it. She was the envy of all her friends for having it. Only once in a blue moon would you stumble across such a fantastic piece. She refused to give up on it, despite the hardship. They had said it would be hard, so it must have meant she was doing it right. With a heavy heart and her pupils drowned, she persevered.

Where love grows, so do feelings of inadequacy. After faltering on numerous occasions, and feeling she was simply ruining the painting, she grew disillusioned. She no longer felt worthy of owning such a fine piece when she couldn't even restore it. She grew sad at the thought of the man and wife's displeasure of being poorly restored, of being forever hidden behind a sheet never to be admired or desired again. She grew jealous of other artists with their delicate strokes, their perfect ways, their knowledge. Their eyes were filled with love and their blood filled with beauty. She had neither of those traits and she never would. Doubts permeated her weak mind. Was she not cut out for this?

The paintings hold on her was unshakeable. She agonised over its every feature. Any moment not spent painting evoked feelings of guilt within her. Any moment spent painting never felt like enough. Every mistake burned her retina and burrowed its way into her long term memory. Feelings of inadequacy continued to manifest in her mind. Slowly, she began to accept that she was not capable of restoring this priceless painting. She was not the best thing for this. The promises she made could not be kept. Tortured, she made a decision, for better or for worse.








As the furnace flickered in the dark, she thought of how happy she thought it would make her, as if she hadn't before. She had never pictured such a grim ending. Had she loved the idea more than the reality? Her love, time and effort, had it been for nothing? If so, she was entirely to blame. The heat was unbearable.

She watched her tarnished love smoke and burn and her heart ached - but not half as much as it had when she was with it.