Funeral sandwiches

 "Happiness is a drink, a fag or a shag."

Apologies if the following post comes across like a pity parade - it kind of is.

I finished my first year last week. I successfully submitted my last assignment, and I didn't even have to upload a photo to Facebook as proof. Huzzah!

To be honest, I was happy to see the back of the place. I feel like I went through a reverse emotional cycle when it came to college. I found it easy at the start, and was deliriously happy. However, I struggled towards the end. This was largely due to external factors.

I don't want to go into anything too much. Other people are involved here, and I'm not entirely sure how happy they'd be if I went into extensive detail about things that they didn't want to be discussed in the public domain.

My uncle died. It wasn't unexpected, but I don't think that makes a situation any less sad. I'd be lying if I said we were very close or we had a 'special' relationship. But he was a good man. He was always good to me growing up, and to my brother and sister. I knew he, and my aunt, would have done anything for me had I ever been in need. He felt more like a blood relative than an in-law, and it was a shame to see him go. . On the other hand, it was wonderful to see how much of a positive impact he's had on my family and beyond as we reflected on his full life.

A week later, my godfather died. This was not expected. My godfather was not a relative - I was the only one of my siblings to have a god parent that wasn't. But it made no difference.

A large part of my childhood was spent in their house. There, I would draw moustaches and devil horns on all the people in the paper. I would play with their family pet, (Ben, a beast of a dog), for hours, one slobbery tennis ball after another. His wife would give me Weetos and all the other delicious things I wasn't allowed at home, and he would tease me gently and wind me up about anything and everything.

He was good natured and good humoured: a larger-than-life character. He was well-known within the community, as a golfer, a Navy man, a good guy. I knew him as my godfather.

My mam told me before the funeral that he was delighted when my dad asked him to be my godfather. And I was delighted that it was him that was asked. He was my dad's best friend from the age of 18, and I cannot fathom how difficult it must have been to let him go.

On top of that, my dad was asked to give the eulogy. Naturally, he wrote it the morning of, (after much protest from my poor mother - he knew what he wanted to say in his head, wasn't that enough?)

He tripped up here and there - understandably - but otherwise he did a great job, and summed him up perfectly.

"If he could sing, he would have been perfect," he said.


Death and funerals are the only times when such great displays of strength are really acknowledged and appreciated. Similarly, at my uncle's funeral, my cousin - his son - gave a witty, poignant eulogy to a packed church in Dublin. I struggle to speak in public as it is, hence why I was so proud of both my dad and my cousins for giving eulogies dedicated to someone they'd loved and lost.

Death unifies us. It's the only thing that every person has in common - we're all going to die. Though its immediate repercussions are devastating and incomprehensible, death can also bring a sense of togetherness. Families following death resemble the pieces of a mosaic.

This all came to me at my uncle's removal. The way we deal with grief is so typically Irish. One branch of the family will be popping out lasagnes, sandwiches and cake like there's no tomorrow. The other battalion will sit, murmer, comment on the corpse, eat and ask you the same questions about college over and over and over.

"I mean, he looks well, doesn't he? He doesn't look ... Sick, like."

"The glasses. He's missing his glasses. I wondered what was different about him."

"And tell me, do you have exams? What are you doing for accommodation next year?

Then, all of a sudden, the two sides amalgamate. Before you know it, it's 10 o'clock, and 90% of your family are inebriated  - and still scolding you for drinking vodka-laced cocktails with your aunts, (despite being 18 and all).

It'd be difficult to capture a moment like that under different circumstances. Beautiful, raw, unique and completely unconventional. Although I still can't contemplate a life without either of them, it's nice to be able to take something from it that is positive.

"If I never see another sandwich again ... " My other cousin grumbled.

When it's salad and cucumber, who could blame him?

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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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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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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Trouble sleeping

A night is an eternity when you're dreaming of sleep. When you're thinking of the things you should have said & the things you shouldn't have done.
I watch as the hands cling to the clock, the slow rhythmic dance of the minute hand growing ever more torturous. I'm treading that fine line between exhaustion and immense sadness - when the choice between crying and sleeping is not only undistinguishable but unnecessarily difficult. My head is growing increasingly vacant of productivity and rationale, only to be topped up by neurotic thoughts.
I just want this night to fade and fall away, instead of lingering and insisting on keeping my perilous mind company.

It's just a phase.
It's just a phase.
It's just a phase.

Guidance

I need you to do something for me.

I know I ask a lot of you as it is. I can only hope that you will oblige me this on top of everything else.
I need direction. I need you to tell me - no, I need you to show me what to do, until I start getting things right. Until you do, I will only continue to falter and struggle with my decisions and actions.

It frustrates me that I have to ask for help; that I can't do things for myself without disaster following. I feel as young and naive as my short years. I would love to be as independent and sensible as I make out to be. But I'm not. Far from it.

You know what the most frustrating thing is? When I don't even realise that I'm doing things wrong. Which is almost all of the time. I continue to offend and hurt people with the decisions I make, and I am oblivious to the extent of the havoc I cause. I'm the idiot at the end of it all wondering why the hell everyone hates me.

I need you. You always know what to do and what to say. Always. You make good decisions. You have managed to navigate your way through life thus far without ruining everything you touch.
Is it really that easy? Is there something I'm missing here? Was I born without common sense? This elusive thing known as 'street smarts'? Greatly lacking in intuition? I am truly at a loss.

Some people flounder without guidance. I am one of those people. Show me the way, before I drown.

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?

Hope is a sustaining human gift

It has been said that the only real things in life can seen with our own eyes - even in the dark. How does one describe hope then? Hope is a very real thing, seen every day, every where, in everyone. It has the power to change minds, perspectives - even people themselves.

Hope is a sustaining human gift. It can be given and received by all. We, as people, rely on hope as much as we depend on food and water. We breathe to believe that things will better; that every cloud has a silver lining. Maybe there is a pot of gold at the end of that elusive rainbow.

Hope, as a gift, is a contradictory one. It is selfish and indulgent - who doesn't wish for one's own personal success? We hope we achieve good grade, good exam results, a good college course, a good job. Even more-so, we hope for the downfall of others - especially those who are succeeding in areas where we are not.

On the contrary, hope is selfless and altruistic. To give or to be given hope is a joyous experience, making it one of the greatest gifts of all. A person's reassurance in times of high stress and anxiety gives hope in abundance. 'Things can get better from here', 'the only way is up', among other clichéd phrases have been uttered to one or other of us before. Don't you feel better after hearing them - maybe even a little more hopeful?

Young, old, male, female - regardless of who we are, our capacity for hope unites us. What do gamblers and the terminally ill have in common? Nothing, you might think. You would, however, be wrong. Hope is the most common fibre of our being. Both rely on hope in grief and loss - be it of the physical or the financial sense.

Probably a more significant question then the definition of hope - "what is hopelessness?" Hopeless could almost be described as an illness as severe as pneumonia, as chronic as a cold, as debilitating as scoliosis. We tend to lose hope in the face of adversity. This is a dangerous path.  Mental illness, depression and suicide all stem from the roots of hopelessness. Hope nourishes as well as any meal that will ever pass your lips. Those who are starved of hope live unsustainable, unfulfilled lives.

How many of you reading this have ever been told not to get your hopes up, by a peer, an authority figure or even by a parent? I condemn this hypocritical 'advice'. Young people are always being preached to about having high aspirations, to set goals and achieve them and (going back to some good old clichés), to reach for the stars and follow your dreams. So pardon me if I find it hugely patronising when an adult informs me I should go against this entirely, for fear of being disappointed. Disappointment is not something that should be feared. It is part and parcel of life. It shapes who we are as people. How can we expect anything good when we don't expect anything at all? High hopes sustain us to drive us further, work harder and dream bigger.

I sincerely hope I have not prattled on for too long, and I especially hope I have not bored you to tears. I hope you have gained something from this piece. Hope is a sustaining human gift. It is free to everyone, for as long as they walk this earth. Hope does not come with terms and conditions or strings attached. hope propels us to give our best in every aspect of our lives. In the words of Albert Einstein: "Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow".

Not 'goodbye', just 'see you later': how emigration has effected me

How many of you, given the current economic climate in Ireland and abroad, have had someone close to you emigrate recently?

2 weeks ago, one of my closest friends for 10 years emigrated to America with her mother, stepfather, and two younger brothers. Hand-on-heart, it was one of the hardest things I've had to do in my short life.

The move was not motivated by the economy. There were many personal reasons for the move, and it would not be appropriate to discuss them here for public viewing. They found out shortly after Christmas that the step-father's name had been drawn for the Green-card Lottery, and had just under 5 months to prepare for the biggest move they had ever faced - individually and as a family.

To be quite honest, the enormity of it all didn't hit me until the following days. It was the little details that upset me most. It was seeing the driveway empty of the family cars. It was seeing the refrigerator stripped of the amusing fridge magnets that I was so familiar with. It was seeing the shelves bare of photographs documenting each stage of the childrens' lives. It was seeing my best friend's room turned into nothing but an empty shell, full of boxes. It was knowing that this would be the last time I'd ever be in this house with my 'second family', as I had so affectionately nicknamed them. It was realising that this was actually happening.

Emigration has far-reaching consequences, and not just for the family themselves. The childhood best friends are left with lingering memories. Their large extended families are left without nieces, nephews and cousins. An empty chair in a classroom. A cleaned-out office space. It broke my heart a little bit to see them go.

Nowadays, however, thanks to the beauty that is modern technology, I can remain in contact with my friend quite easily, (Viber, Skype, I am forever in your debt), and her step-dad's regular Instagram uploads allow me to 'oooh' and 'awwwww' appropriately at her little brothers living the American dream. I've told her I'll visit next summer following the Leaving Cert. That all depends on whether I save up enough money and get a job, which, in this recession, is proving near to impossible. The economy is clearly determined to drive me away from my friend!

I can't help but feel on edge as to who'll be next, as it is inevitable - she will not be the last of my friends to emigrate within the next year or two. Be it for financial reasons or not, more and more people are emigrating every day. Who will it be next? Maybe it'll be even closer to home? My brother or sister perhaps? I'm not sure my poor little heart could bear it. Why whether the exact same storm somewhere far away when you can do it in the comfort of your home, surrounded by the people that love you?

Perhaps I'm just being selfish. Or perhaps the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the fence. Take your pick.