Living is a problem

"Nadine?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do we have two mop buckets?"

My Christmas break was over. I was back in my apartment in north Dublin, ready to face the struggles of semester two and a laughable 10 hour week. My four house mates had moved back up earlier than I had, and I had arrived back to a pretty unclean apartment.

I overlooked this - until I noticed a second mop bucket sitting in the corner of the room, half full with dirty water. It looked as if it had been sitting there for days. The other mop bucket was on the opposite side of the room, sporting mysterious white stains on the inside.

Nadine laughed. "That's not a mop bucket - that's the bin."

I paused. "Why ... Why was the bin used as a mop bucket?"

"Well", she replied, still laughing, "I had used the mop bucket to bleach my shoes in. It was in my room, and I think Jun wanted to mop the floor, so he used the bin." Queue more laughter. (Jun is our Japanese house mate who doesn't speak to us much, mainly because he can't).

Incidents like this were becoming all too familar. In semester one alone, we had been through a kettle, two toasters and vacuum cleaner. (We had broken the vacuum cleaner as a result of using it to try and hoover up a flood in Nadine's room - it's a miracle we made it to college in the first place).

College teaches you a lot of things. It is slowly teaching me how to live amicably with people that aren't blood relatives.

Your days of reaching into the cupboard knowing they are overflowing with food are gone. I returned knowing that my meals would have to be made up of three ingredients - porridge, pasta and rice. Delicious.

"We HAVE to go food shopping", I said to Brid, who temporarily moved in with me last week.

(This resulted in us not going food shopping and eating at the college bar almost every night. Or just not eating).

We don't have a dishwasher apartment, nor do we have a mother that miraculously swoops in every time you leave a tea-stained cup on the draining board. Slowly, the washing builds up, forming a budget Leaning Tower of Pisa.

I mean, sure, every one was great for cleaning at the start. I even went the extra mile - I went from not lifting a finger at home to taking out the bins, doing the wash-up, hoovering and mopping the floor (this was prior to  the Bin-As-Mop-Bucket saga). Old habits die hard, however. Jun, who used to do all of the wash-up even when the delph wasn't his, soon realised that we had no intention of ever touching a dirty plate again as it was assumed he would clean it. I'm pretty sure this was the point when the entire house broke down.

We had a house inspection a couple of weeks ago. Tired and well-worn from college, naturally, we'd left all cleaning until the night before. The house was hoovered hourly, I used bleach for the very first time and cleaned all surfaces without baby wipes. Defrosting the freezer turned into a bizarre house-bonding exercise, as we all tried to remove it from the wall, unsuccessfully. Jun and I must have looked a sight, hacking away at the ice with whatever clean cutlery was about.

Living with strangers teaches tolerance ... Or lack thereof. Dealing with my house mate's girlfriend has proven unbearable. She doesn't clean up after herself - and then precedes to make snide comments about the state of the apartment. (Hey, I know where it's clean - your own apartment!)

She's also quick to apprehend us when we're being 'too loud' and when we 'keep her' up. (I mean, that's cute and all, but I'm pretty sure you don't live here).

I'm one to talk though really: I regularly have people over (not like that, refrain from making jibes please) and I'm usually the one that has parties. This was no exception during exam time - much to my house mates dismay. They usually put up with it, without much complaint. However, this week, things came to ahead.

Living with other people will teach you how to deal with conflict within your house. A discussion I had initiated over cleaning and the starting of a cleaning rota resulted in a full-blown argument and tension between my house mates and I. I had come back, and after, seeing the state of the house, begged and pleaded for something to be done about the Great Wall of Washing-Up. I left notes, which got responses of, "I didn't use these dishes, I'm not cleaning them."

Relations were poorer than America and Russia's. I was in despair. I'd ruined our fantastic house dynamic by playing tyrant and by allowing my innate housekeeper instincts to overrule me á la Macbeth. Then, a letter from campus residence came in the door.

Each of my house mate's was to be fined €50 because I smuggled Brid into the apartment during exam time. If I came forward, a €100 fine would apply to me and only me.

Well, shit.

I hid the letter from my other house mates, fearful that they would drive me out of DCU after being fined through no fault of their own. I decided I would own up in the morning, and sit down with house mates and apologise about the cleaning issue.

I sat down with Nollaig the following morning, wishing to clear everything up. It was agreed that a cleaning rota would be drawn up to avoid confrontations.

"You know the fines?" Nollaig said. "Well, they're fake. They're not real. We made them up to get back at you."

I stood there, baffled and speechless. No wonder they'd been barely speaking to me! They'd been plotting against me! For asking them to hoover the kitchen! How had I even fallen for it? They'd pull it off immaculately - the sheets bore the college's logo and all of the college's contact details. Imagine I had gone down and admitted that Brid had been staying with me - they would have laughed in my face AND I would have been out of 100 quid, for no good reason.

Initially, I was angry: fuming, even. But then I realised that really no harm had come of it, (and I was acting like Queen Bitch). I had four lifelong friends in my very wonderful house mates - all gorgeously funny people who successfully managed to pull the wool over my eyes.

Plus, I got my cleaning rota. Dishes on Tuesday, anyone?

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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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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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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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 #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.

Little

I've made no bones about the fact that I have no idea whether I want kids or not. 

I go through phases when I do - when a family member has a baby and it's cherub-like features tug at my maternal heart-strings.

I go through phases when I don't - when that same family member's little angel turns in to an absolute little shit and progresses to ruin its own life and everyone else's. 

I mean, how could you live with that? 

Children themselves put me off really. I pass a primary school every morning on my way to school. I witness, first-hand, as mother/fathers send their little darlings off with kisses, cuddles and 'I love yous', only to get nothing in return. Not a goodbye. Not even a wave. Off they scamper into school - the ungrateful little prats. After that man/woman just woke you up, dressed you, wiped your cereal off your manky face, made sure you had all your crap for school and that you weren't late, and you basically give him or her two fingers at the gate. I don't care if you're four or five and can barely form a sentence: you tell your mammy or daddy you love them! Every single morning! There's many a child I have wished to kick for their cheeky behaviour - just think what I'd be like if one of my own did that!

The toys would wreck my head too - the noises, the flashing, the small parts which 'may be a choking hazard'. It's all well and good running around a toy shop when you're five or six or seventeen pressing all the 'Try Me!' buttons on every single toy in sight to annoy the shite out of every employee and customer. I can't imagine how amusing it would be being on the other side. I mean, there's only so many times you can hear Elmo sing a song before you want to punch him repeatedly in the head.

Little kids are strange. And grubby. Realistically, I'm not exactly one to talk here, as my clothes seem to attract stains, (and my hair food), but they really are dirty horrible creatures. A former friend of mine once had a three year old stick a lollipop in her hair. Having said that, she was manhandling the child like it was some sort of handbag, so, in hindsight, I don't really blame the little thing. She deserved it.

Scenarios have played out in my head of my little son or daughter having miserable lives. Being friendless weirdos and myself being able to do nothing about it (it's not as if I could be their bestfriend - can't imagine that would do much for their 'street cred'). I'm perfectly aware that I wouldn't be able to live their lives for them, but when I imagine circumstances like that, I almost wish I could. It would honestly kill me, and I would hold myself utterly responsible. When it boils down to, it is this fear that holds me back ultimately. 

But then there are other things ...

It's the little crayon house with the little crayon windows, proudly pinned to the fridge. Little crayon mammy and daddy stand outside, holding the child's slightly disproportional hands. Smiles on all their faces.

Little laughs, at the things you now consider insignificant. The 'peek-a-boo', the 'aeroplane', the bizarre children's TV shows with their cringey presenters. The very first joke they tell that isn't all that funny and makes little or no sense. You'll still laugh. Even when they say it over and over and over again. 

The ones that say those four little words that make you feel like the best person in the world - "I love you mammy".

Little hands. Little fingers. Little feet. Little toes. 

Little tears stream down little cheeks. Little smiles light up little faces.

Watching them go from 'little' to 'not-so-little', collecting memory after memory as you go.

After all, it's the little things in life that matter most, isn't it?

Treading water

As someone who has struggled with body issues growing up, I have tried almost every diet and exercise fad under the sun in order to obtain a somewhat satisfactory physique (I'll let you know if that ever happens). I know too much about calories and supposed weight-loss techniques than any average teenager should. Seriously, I cry watching The Biggest Loser - I'm pretty sure I have a problem

So, when my sister suggested I join her and her friend at an aqua aerobics class, I jumped at the chance. I won't bore you with jargon, but basically, it's supposed to be a great all-round workout, and I was just after eating an entire packet of biscuits ...

I would HIGHLY  recommend aqua aerobics for several reasons. Firstly, you will not have the misfortune of seeing any of your friends/schoolmates at the class, and will therefore not be ridiculed for the rest of your life for going to an aqua aerobics class. In fact, you'll probably be the youngest person there. By a country mile.

Secondly, if you're in any way self-conscious, rest-assured: this class will make you feel like a goddess. You are surrounded by overweight middle-aged women (and a man, in my case), in ill-fitting swimsuits, happily bobbing, jumping and running in the pool as if their lives depended it on it. Next to them, you will look like Mila Kunis.

Thirdly, you will more than likely find the whole affair bloody hilarious. Let me set the scene: you are in the pool, surrounded by said middle-aged women and man, following the instructor, while "Maniac" from the movie Flashdance plays loudly in the background. Just before the chorus starts, the instructor orders you to sprint as fast as you can. Now visualise this group of people sprinting like hamsters on wheels for the entire chorus. In water. Yeah. Exactly.

All jokes aside, it is quite tiring and you do work up a sweat; although the last class I went to, a man swam past me, wheezing, "You're far too young and fit to be here!"

So who knows - you might even pick yourself up a hot pensioner if you're lucky!

Home

There's something about hotel breakfasts that I love.


Maybe it's the lukewarm slices of toast smeared with those measly packets of butter, cut in to triangles to increase it's deliciousness. Maybe it's the wide array of fruit juices that would never be available to me in my own home, (it's water, milk or tea on offer, and you'd be lucky to get that even on a good day). Maybe it's those miniature boxes of cereal that contain barely enough cereal to feed a small rodent. Maybe it's the fact that you have to get up at the crack of dawn just to experience the whole affair - hotel breakfasts do NOT take hungover weddings guests or screaming children into consideration.

I love everything about hotels. Everything about them reminds me that I am currently on a micro-vacation away from the stupid people and stupid stresses of my everyday life. The unnecessary bedding in the rooms? Love it. The uncomfortable lift rides with fellow holiday-goers? Just another opportunity for me to act awkwardly around human beings. The poor selection of TV channels in the room? You're on holiday, why would you be watching TV anyway?

I have many childhood memories of staying in hotels with my family. On one occasion, I stayed up until all hours with my brother, watching WWE Wrestling. On another, I ran up and down the corridors of the hotel with my brazen cousins, knick-knocking on every door we passed. Ah. Those were the days indeed ...

Yet, I think you will all agree when I say the night's sleep you have when you finally arrive home, in your own bed, under your own excessive bedding, feels like the best night's sleep you ever had.  

An open book

I've been told that my mood is infectious.

In some ways, this is a very good thing: I've been told that I'm funny, and that I have a knack for cheering people up in their times of woe. I need a license for my laugh - very loud, boisterous, often left hanging in the air long after the conversation has ended.

However, my sister made a point to me the other night that, when I am upset or angry, it is apparent. Not only that, but it affects the people around me and rubs off on them, to the point where they are put in a foul mood. Infectious? Sounds more poisonous to me.

It is not my intention to labour people with my bad moods and my issues - not at all. I can't help it. I wish I wasn't so bloody transparent. Sometimes, I'd much prefer just to be left stewing with all my angry, hormonal thoughts, unbeknownst to anyone else, without disturbance,

There are benefits, mind. Even my least intuitive of friends knows when I'm sad or pissed off, (sometimes just by how I text them back), so they can talk to me and attempt to cheer me up, as opposed to the other way around. It's reassuring to know that I don't have to struggle with whatever anxieties I am dealing with alone.

Ever since I can remember, I have been a sensitive, (some may say 'overly'), soul. It doesn't take a lot to upset me. I have a bad habit of taking other people's problems to heart and trying to rectify them as though it were my own personal mission. Prioritising is most definitely NOT one of my strong points. I am easily stressed, and, admittedly, a lot of the grief I deal with is brought entirely on by myself. It has a dominoaffect - I try to help others, leads to me getting upset/stressed, which leads to me infecting everyone else in my household with my bad vibes.


 So technically, it's everyone else's fault I'm such an open book. Haha!

Party hard, suffer harder

You know how there's always that one idiot at a party who drinks their own weight in alcoholic beverages until they lose power over the limbs? Yeah. Last night, that was me.

It was my boyfriend's friend's birthday. I didn't know many people. There was drink in abundance. I was like a kid in a candy shop, with a pathetic point to prove. It was never going to end well.

Pacing myself didn't come into it - I drank whatever I saw as if it was water. Even after my boyfriend begged me not to drink any more, I went back and had more shots with my friends. I thought I was invincible. (I'm not going to say what exactly I drank and how much, just trust me when I say it was a ridiculous amount).

All actions have consequences. Next thing I know I can barely walk, and I am after puking all over myself, my dress, and my boyfriend. My boyfriend text my dad and told him I would be home in ten minutes. I was given a lift home off my friend's very obliging mother, and was sent in home, tail between my legs. My whole family watched me collapse into an armchair, make-up and tan smeared to hell, dress soaked in vomit - I can't imagine that was an easy thing to watch.

As my mam undressed me, (I kid you not), took off my make-up, and put me to bed, I remembered all these times when I was younger. Like how I couldn't go to sleep until her and dad came up and cuddled me and chatted for a bit. Or how my dad used to tie my shoes because I could never quite get the knack of it. Now here they were, their 16 year-old daughter almost passed out on the chair. Thinking of the position I put them in last night, I could not feel any more ashamed or remorseful. Having said that, it just goes to show how much my parents love me and how they really would do absolutely anything for me. Thankfully, they weren't too angry in the morning - just disappointed, which is probably worse.

There is no cross on my back. I am not writing this because I got caught. Realistically, I'd still hate myself either way. I can't imagine what I'd be like if someone did that at my party for one thing. I ruined my boyfriend's night, a night he'd been looking forward to, because I refused to listen to him and worried him half to death. I made an absolute twat of myself in front of a group of people who I've never met, not to mention the girl's parents. I hate myself. I never want to leave my house because I am too embarrassed of how much of a show I made of up myself.

I suffered this morning, deservedly. Considering I hadn't eaten anything at the party, I was surprised how ill I was. Swimming head and stomach. Rest assured karma, you did your job and you did it well! 

I don't plan on drinking for a very long time to come, if at all. As my dad said, it's really not worth. Practically lost my boyfriend, ruined my dress, disgraced my family - and myself.

It's funny how you never see this side of the party in music videos, huh?

Dog's life

Why do people who are older, more experienced and in a position of higher authority feel the need to talk down to other people?

I am related to someone who has an awful habit of doing this. I wouldn't expect a stranger to speak down to me, let alone someone who shares the same family as myself.

It irritates me beyond belief. I accept in many cases that the person is wiser/more experienced/has more authority than me. And you know what? I am thrilled for them. I can only hope one day that I am as wise/experienced as they are. I really do.

However, that doesn't mean that everyone else is lesser than they are. Nothing makes them any less of a person. Why then, do people feel that it's ok to treat people and speak to people like they are dogs? I can't fathom it.

Respect is a two-way street, believe it or not. When I, for example, disrespect these same people, I am quickly reprimanded and made to feel even smaller than usual. Double standards, anyone?

Treat me as equal and you can expect the exact same in return - it's as simple as that.