Theory Of Individualism
God v Magic-8
Pluckage Of The Plumage
Girl -> Woman
I Hear The Voice Of The People, And It's Whining
Borrower's Remorse
Breaking Nails
Fancy A Quick One?
There is a lot of stuff about from psychologists, parents, teachers, etc, about peer pressure and the pressure to be perfect. This is usually right, and a lot of people have trouble in this way. But no one ever mentions the other side, when people, either forced or by choice, are different. So I advance my theory of individualism. (I haven't perfected it yet, but hey.)
Most people, at some stage of their lives, will be considered to be in some way different. Some people just are; some will go out of their way to be assumed so. This theory is mainly concerned with the ones who want to be viewed differently to their peers.
The actual irony is that most of these people are still only trying to fit in - either with an alternative lifestyle or to show that they don't care that the high-status people have blatantly or subtly ostracised them. This is great if it helps someone find out who they are, but sometimes it can only cause more confusion. People act like someone they're not simply to show that they are different, which of course just neutralises the whole thing. Basically - the thing which separates you from the common herd should be self-evident. If you have to be telling people how rebellious, deep etc you are, you're not doing it right. If you really are, you don't need to be telling people about it, and if you're not, you shouldn't be telling people about it. And if the only thing that really defines you as a goth, mosher, etc is because you're wearing the right clothing, you're not doing it right. It should be something that is displayed by your outward appearance, not created by it.
And this is why more people than think they are really are just like everyone else, and their are actually very few people who are really individual.
There. I said it hadn't been perfected - I may revise it at some time.
I just got a Magic-8 ball, and I honestly think it's great. It has been right an uncanny amount of times (I haven't actually asked about anything deadly important or anything, but the trivia was pretty accurate) and while I accept synchronicity (meaningful coincidence), I don't believe in coincidence in its ordinary, mundane form.
I believe in fate, in predestination, in karma. I don't belive in God, or at least not the generally accepted Christian God (I'm interested in New Age theories, specifically Wicca/witchcraft). I know that fate, or the idea that God has a plan for everyone decided before their birth (as well as free will - I'm not sure how this works, but I think it's probably that while you get to choose, God knows what you will choose and has planned accordingly. Or something) is a part of the Christian creed, but see above, it's all mixed up with free will and therefore not quite the same. Actual fate, Lady Luck etc, can't be changed. Everyone has their path, which can't be altered. The Magic-8 ball is simply an instrument, both of whatever higher forces control it and our own subconscious knowledge of what is in store for us.
If I had more time, this would be a much better analogy with detailed comparisons and all the rest. But I don't. So it's not.
Some people have religion. I have a small purple ball which doesn't require belief, offerings, or getting up early on Sunday. I think this is valid life choice.
Pluckage Of The Plumage
Or, Why does the fairer sex get an unfair amount of the pain?
I realise that this subject is probably exhausted by Germaine Greer etc, but I had to get my bit in.
Plucking your eyebrows isn't especially painful after you've been doing it a while (the skin desensitises in self-defense), but it hurts like hell the first couple of times. I appreciate the aesthetic value of nicely plucked eyebrows. They make your face look nice and neat and can totally change the look of your face. But while men's eyebrows are just as naturally messy as women's, only women have to spend hours in front of the mirror with a pair of rusting tweezers. And it is hours, because you can never stop. You start, intending to neaten up the shape a little, and then you just keep having just one wrecking the line. So you pluck it. and then there's another one. So you pluck that. And once you've finally finished, you start on the other eyebrow. And then you overpluck that. So you have to do the other one again so you match. Eventually, you stop, exhausted, only to find out you're not going to be able to go out again for about a month, until your poor, abused, eyebrows have recovered from the brutal attack.
It's the same with shaving your legs. Not the pain (apart from waxing), it's that, though hairy legs (I am so glad I don't live on the continent, where no girls shave) look equally disgusting on the male and female form, only woman have to do something about it. Men should just be kept in trousers all the time, even in summer, when the abundance of hairy legs on display is enough to put a girl off her strawberry Cornetto (I happen to live very near the coast, where men wander round not thoroughly dressed when it's hot. Which is great if they have something worth showing off, but the majority don't).
I haven't experienced childbirth while I could remember it (I mean when I was born, not that I've done it heavily drugged), and I don't intend to - I'm waiting 'til they can grow the whole thing in a test tube. Just not a maternal type. But, again, man will never have to go through that.
But men are complete wimps when they have the tiniest cold. Go figure.
I'm not sure if this is original; probably not, but I didn't read it anywhere.
The mark of being a woman is supposed to be a lot of things - your first period, the first time you have sex, when you learn how to take make-up off instead of putting it on.
After careful deliberation, I have decided it is in fact when you look in the mirror and, instead of wishing you look older, you desperately want to look younger.
I could be wrong. It hasn't happened to me yet.
I Hear The Voice Of The People, And It's Whining
This is about the deplorable tendency of lots of people to allow sensible, thought-out speech to degenerate into boring, puerile whinging. (I am reminded at this juncture of Alanis Morrisette).
Current guilty party (and winner of the Award for Most Comprehensive Inability to Let Something Go) is my mother, who, when my brother is home from university, goes on at him about money, the lack of time he spends at home, and when he's not there goes on about his handling of money. I appreciate most of what she says, but if he doesn't listen when something is explained to him reasonably, he's not a lot more likely to pay attention during a hysterical harpy-ish harangue (appreciate the alliteration).
But so many other people do it to. Teachers at my school do it, students at my school do it. It's completely pointless and gets you no respect, plus it's so annoying. If the world was my way, it would be a hanging offense.
Whenever I borrow things off somebody, it always makes me feel slightly guilty, as if I'm taking something from them they probably don't want to give me and should give it back really, really quickly. I don't know quite where this comes from - I don't force people to lend me things, they do it of their own free will, I don't rob anything, I don't keep it for ages, and it's also in perfect (or the same) condition when I give it back - and I have excellent borrowing karma. I lend stuff all the time - I have lots of books which are in popular demand, and I never moan about lending people them or anything else and almost always give it to them the day after they ask for it. Even my friend who borrows stuff, keeps it for ages (even after you've dropped hints, anvils, and outright asked for it back), and never reciprocates.
So I don't quite know why I feel this unexplainable guilt (a bit of tautology there, but never mind), but it seems to be a permanent bump in the dark hills of my personality quirks. Never mind.
I would love to say that this title refers to some well-thought-out and stunning theory that in actuality doesn't have much to do with any kind of nails and so the title was metaphorical, or at least an analogy, but sadly 'tis not so; this is about the nails on the hands and so I have revealed myself to be another shallow, vain, appearance-obsessed (I realise that's tautological, but I might as well do this properly) fem.
But it's a common, and valid, complaint. I used to pick my nails. Not bite them, as is usual (that came later), but pick at them with my other nails, which you can probably see becomes hard by the time you've done them all and have nothing left to pick with. With huge effort of will, I stopped doing that. And promptly started to bite them, which looks worse because at least picking at them can be done discreetly.
I stopped that. Then I had lovely nails. Then I put lovely nail varnish on them. Then I proceeded to continually pick the nail varnish off. This did even more damage than the picking or biting, because then the top layer of the nail flaked of, leaving a sort of dull bit and ugly ridges when more nail polish was applied. But this does not go away. I haven't bitten in a couple of years, and I haven't worn nail varnish for months, to try and repair this problem. Every time I think it's fixed, I have long nails, healthy colour, top layer intact, I put nail polish on, I take the polish off and that layer is mysteriously as bad as ever. And so the cycle begins again.
This has been an unproductive rant, but beneath it is honest bewilderment; if there is a higher force at work in the universe, I fail to see how its work is furthered by the stubborn refusal of my nails to get and remain healthy.
I can't remember what brought this on, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't even an actual breakage, but rather a near-miss; still, I'll take inspiration where I can find it these days.
This title refers to two things, and no, neither of them are rude.
1. A friend of mine today asked me who I fancy (for Americans and others unfamiliar with the vernacular; fancy, lit: like, dig, want to get into. Get into, lit: kiss, make out. Who said the internet wasn't educational?) My honest response was, nobody, which she seemed to find bewildering in the extreme. I realise that at fifteen I should be overly hormonal and fancying every member of the male species I set eyes on who is approximately the right age (I won't go into my unexplained passion for Sean Connery - it's the accent, I think), but I really don't, which is why my diary is just about completely boy free. My diary is boy free because my life is boy free; I don't know many lads, and those I do know, while being stellar people, I don't find fanciable because they're young, or they're lanky (nothing wrong with this, but I'm afraid it doesn't race my motor), or they're lovely, and they're cute and everything, but I just don't like them that way. I haven't actually really fancied anyone at all - I've had thoroughly enjoyable moments of pure aesthetic appreciation, but I've never had the romance novel feeling of butterflies in the stomach, thinking about them all the time, sweaty palms etc which I realise is hugely exaggerated for the purposes of entertainment, but I'm positive it can't be all that wrong. I'm not expecting love at first sight all the time, but I just feel there should be more to it than I've felt before and I think I'll know when I really do like someone - but until I do, I'm not going to get into anything because I'm not a people person and I'm not prepared to give myself and my time up unless I'm actually going to be getting something out of it other than boredom and wondering when I can politely leave.
That was the 'fancy' part - here's the 'quick one'.
2. This is another exam-based thing - it may be getting boring, but it's what's in my life right now. I'll keep it short - I wish exams didn't last so long, both the individuals and as a group. I'm ready to run screaming into the night now, please.