You're On Your Own, Kid

As a teenager, I used to act very young for my age. So much so that by the time I was 18 I felt like most 16-year-olds do. I carried this with me to the age of 21 when I started Uni, like most 18-year-olds do. Right now, I'm staring 24 in the face and often congregate with peers who are, naturally, younger than I am. But the difference there is only a fact of chronology. Inside, I feel 21 and that "life begins now" and other such uplifting ideologies of the young-adult.

During my time of living, I've come across people from all walks of life, including those who understand the concept of egotism without understanding the concept of subtlety, and those so timid and insecure in their own beings that they make 16-year-old me look like that twonk from One Direction who sleeps around with old people. Nevertheless, I embrace these humans with personalities of all shapes and forms. Then I apparently smear them on the internet, but I digress. Growing up is kind of an art form. Some manage to do it earlier than others but when it does happen, it's almost like taking that first leap into the unknown. Actually, forget the "almost"; it's exactly like taking a first leap into the unknown.

The point I'm struggling to make here is that, yes it's scary and yes it's terrifying and yes you don't want to do it alone, but unfortunately that's how it's done. The problem with life is that it doesn't come with an instruction manual. As a result, things just have to be "picked up", learned by experience and put into practice by oneself who must, somehow, learn the art of discipline in which to do it. For the first time in today's ramble o' crap, I turn to author Dean Koontz and his bestselling novel Odd Thomas:

Keep busy [...] because idleness will get you in worse trouble

Doing nothing leads to nothing. Doing something leads to something. Life's mad like that. Sorry if this seems like I'm simply stating the obvious, I haven't just happened upon this philosophy like some grand awakening or owt. I'm saying this because I've known several people in my life, and probably will come into contact with more in the future, who don't realise this. The harshness of life is that everyone is alone.

Completely.

Alone.

And I'm not just saying that because I'm perpetually single. I have friends. My friends have friends. Some friends have boyfriends or girlfriends, and some friends have friends who aren't really friends but still clog up space on your Facebook feed because you met them that one time, remember? And they said that thing about the thing that you laughed at, remember? And now they just spend their existence posting maudlin song lyrics and cat videos every seven-and-a-half minutes, right?

But the thing is, friend or lover, superman or cat-lady, not one of these other people you know in your life can live yours for you. Your life is yours alone and what you choose to do with it is your choice alone. If you want to climb a skyscraper using only toilet plungers for grip, go and do it! If you want to stay inside all day and watch the same DVD boxset you've watched every day for the last three months, go and do it! But if you lose your hold on those plungers and plummet to the ground, you're on your own, kid. And if that DVD gets jammed and you can't progress to Disc 4 to resolve the cliffhanger you already know the ending to, you're on your own, kid.

Selfishness is an art. I know I said earlier that growing up was an art, but selfishness is a part of that and contributes a great deal to the artisticness of life and that. But especially for those who don't want to tread on any toes, make any enemies or cause upset to someone, selfishness is an art, and a tricky one to get right at that. Once again, I refer you to the novel I just finished reading two days ago:

Being polite is not only the right way to respond to people but also the easiest. Life is so filled with unavoidable conflict that I see no reason to promote more confrontations

I hate confrontation at the best of times and, quite frankly, I find the idea of provoking conflict moronic and somewhat suicidal. Politeness is good. Conflict is bad. I learned that in fucking school. But unfortunately, selfishness, one of the staples of life, is a big contributor to the progression of arguments. One person has a problem and expresses it, the other person has no problem and doesn't understand why the first person does, mutual disagreement happens, CONFLICT!

Because I view myself as such a "nice" person, I find it difficult to point out flaws in others, or points at which I may disagree with them. I notice all of these things, sure, but articulating them in such a way that doesn't create some kind of verbal explosion between the involved parties worries me. So I hold my tongue, let things build up inside me, make myself feel bitter and mumble and grumble at myself about how such-and-such-a-person needs to take notice of themselves and grow up and et cetera and all that.

And I store it up to the point of breaking, where I eventually snap and hammer away at a keyboard to make my brain-thoughts known to the entire world (read "nobody at all", unless they happen to be actively seeking this out which, given the number of people occupying the planet, is more unlikely than likely) and go about my day silently cursing everyone I walk past because they're not me. Because, obviously, I'm right and I've got this whole existentialism stuff cracked and nobody else has at all. Well, maybe a few others have, but a fair few haven't and that makes me angry at their stupidity.

I promised I wouldn't write bad things about people on the internet because, obviously, that's where the future lives. But I guess rules are made to be broken. And if this all comes back to bite me in the ass, I've only got myself to blame. Nobody else. Just me. Alone. Call it life experience.

Ginger Vampires

My face is terribly red. I suppose you might be wondering what embarrassing feat could've gotten my physical appearance to such a state. The simple answer to that is more embarrassing than embarrassment itself. Instead, I have to confess that I've spent time outdoors, basking in sunlight.

Normally, I'm not this bad. Normally, I can last in the warmth of the outdoors in spring for hours without any sign of passive injury. I'm suddenly overcome with fear nowadays, though. Simply being outside on a sunny day for two hours now has the same effect that two weeks in Mexico had on me in 2005. As one with ginger hair, I can naturally blame my lack of skin pigment, but I'm becoming more inclined to blame the climate and global warming and all that.

Our winters are harsher now, and our summers sunnier. The idea of setting foot outside in the colder months is nothing but laughable to me; the only reason that's made me want to go outside is the idea that I've needed to attend certain classes to keep up with this degree what it is I'm, like, studying for, innit? Being a hermit all this time leads me to believe - in a totally non-scientific way - that I'm not used to any natural sunlight at all. Therefore, cometh the days of sunshine, warmth and social merriment, the surface of my very body sizzles and smokes in a way akin to the portrayal of vampires in Buffy.

As a result of, you know, being outside/getting fresh air/existing like what normal people do, I now find it painful to raise my eyebrows - thus crinkling my forehead - or honk myself on the nose as I occasionally like to do from time to time. On the plus side, I have a very honkable nose in a "stereotypical circus clown slash Rudolph" kind of way. Actually touching it and making a sound actually hurts a lot, though. Well, the making a sound bit doesn't really hurt, just the touching my nose bit.

The whole affair puts me in a rather sympathetic mind towards ginger vampires. After all, it's awful being out in strong sunlight for gingers; even worse for vampires. Ginger vampires probably explode upon impact with "the outside". But then again, fuck 'em. Vampires aren't real. Besides, have you ever seen a ginger one in a film or cult TV show? No, because they're all moody and dark haired in an attempt to be more appealing to lonely women and 13-year-olds. In real life, I've never seen a bloke with black hair and stupidly pale skin. Pale skin belongs to gingers and albinos. (I have no idea how I've managed to wriggle people with albinism into this blog for the second post running. I'm not doing it for a bet, I promise.) Anyway, I was slagging off vampires. Where was I? Yeah, you never see a ginger vampire. At least not a male one. Who'd want to fantasise about that. A female ginger vampire, sure, but a male?

So yeah, fuck vampires. Not just hypothetical ginger ones, but all of them in general. It's alright for people watching or reading fantasy stories to see a vampire burn when he or she stays outdoors for more than five seconds. The real-world equivalent of that is ginger people. People who carry umbrellas around on dry days and slather on Factor 50 like it's a rain mac. People who sizzle as soon as the sun's rays hit them. People with enough skin-speck to look like they've got uncontrollable acne that can tan better than they themselves. Do you still want to fantasise now?

Forgive me my ramblings. I'm very lonely and burnt.

Squinting On Sunny Days

There's something oddly unsettling about people wearing sunglasses. It is commonly spoken that one's eyes are the windows to the soul, and I quite like looking someone in the windows when I speak to them. But in the summertime when the weather is high, and you can stretch right up and touch the sky, the barriers of tinted lenses show up and adorn the faces of millions. The only problem with the content of that paragraph is that this isn't summer, just a very sunny spring.

Harsh cold weather lasts longer than it's supposed to now, meaning that any nanosecond where the sun shines is an excuse to crack out the deck chairs and disposable barbecues. Personally, I find that slapping on some Factor 50 and listening to Spanish folk-pop is a much more appropriate way to celebrate the advent of warmth, provided I can also include deck chairs and disposable barbecues. For the many, however, sunglasses are donned as well, which I find not so much scary as I find it bizarre.

As I mentioned earlier and am lazily trying to connect back to here, it's natural to look a person in the eyes when engaged in one-on-one chatter whilst the rest of the face is relegated to peripheral vision. However, when the eyes are covered up by your conversational adversary (purely out of selfishness, like their viewing receptacles need to be protected from the harsh light rays or whatever), you're suddenly locked in communication with two large, dark brown squares, rectangles or ovals depending on their preferred style of frame. Oh crap, that was really long. Basically, what I'm saying is "you can't see the eyes anymore". Instead, that rest-of-the-face bit that was once just an additional part of them is now all you have to go on.

Ever heard the phrase "their eyes were smiling"? Well as far as I know, eyes aren't crescent-shaped, nor do they have the ability to grow mouths of their own to use for the purposes of displaying amusement or happiness. It's difficult to describe, but there's a certain look in the eyes that just tells us when somebody is happy, sad, thinking, relaxed or albino. If the rest of the face was to be completely covered, as opposed to being simply peripheral, we'd instantly be able to determine if a person was smiling or not. Bringing shades into the equation just reverses the functions or the variables or whatever and I start misusing mathematical terminology. Suddenly, the eyes become static sheets of (usually) plastic and the rest of the face's features twist and contort into various shapes to denote how amused or bemused or angry or bangry a person is. Unless, of course, they're albino, in which case they wouldn't be out in strong sunlight in the first place.

I've not worn sunglasses for years, despite owning a prescription pair. That probably can't be good for me. I have no working knowledge of how corrective lenses actually function, other than the fact that without them I can't see nearly as well as I can when I do wear them. In any situation, I'd proclaim they function correctly based on nothing but pure magic. But in actuality, my ignorant mind thinks that there's got to be some kind of "magnifying glass"-like aspects going on there. This essentially means that when I wear normal glasses in strong sunlight, the light is magnified in my eyes, burning out my corneas and - slowly but surely - blinding me, and no amount of squinting on sunny days is ever going to stop that. Essentially, I should really wear the tinted pair that I own. But like I said, it's been years since I've worn sunglasses. My natural eyesight is much worse these days, possibly because of too much sunlight, too much squinting or not enough magic. My sunglasses were made according to a previous prescription some years ago, meaning that when I put them over my eyes, not only does everything go darker than I'm used too, but also slightly blurrier than I'm used to.

Is there really a point to all this? Well, no, really. Other than the observation that people sort of look alien-like when wearing shades (especially ladies who wear those giant ones that look like dinner plates on the eyes that wrap around the sides of the face and forces them to do pouty lips, I mean what the hell, humanity? Come on, you're better than this). To be honest, I suppose I could've just written that last line and not bothered with the rest of the babble prior to it. But screw you, I want to feel like I've done something worthy and lengthy and that before I go outside and squint the day away.

March Memories And April Adventures

Well Hallelujah and all that shite. Not only am I finally posting something here again, but I've given this place a complete overvamp/rehaul. Furthermore, I'm mixing up prepositions that belong in already established words. Oh dear, it's been a while. My ability to sense make bordering on Yoda-like is.

With the blog completely untouched for two months, I've clearly got some March memories and April adventures to elaborate on. I will do this in the shortest and least informative way possible. Now.

Some time ago in a Subway (the sandwich dispensing conglomerate, not the underground railroad labyrinth), a friend and I mused the idea of vegetarianism; possibly because we were bored, possibly because the Chicken Tikka filling I was gorging on smelled and tasted far too much like Angostura. This put my in the student-dilemma of not wanting to waste food but also not wanting to eat it out of sheer non-enjoyment. We pondered whether we'd really have it in us to actually shun meat as a source of sustenance. Further pondering led to the idea of giving up meat, or turning veggie (whichever way you want to look at it), for an entire month. The alliterative prospect of No-Meat March floated about a little bit. Do bear in mind this was around late January or so.

Let's fast-forward to the beginning of March. I sent the following text message, verbatim, to my dining associate:

I dunno if you remember a while ago talking about potentially doing a "no-meat March"... but yeah I just failed. On the upside, this bacon cheeseburger is so worth it

Following this, May was suggested as a potential month to go without meat, because having all those "M"s in a stint at vegetarianism is just the kind of irony we need when we won't be greeting every meal with a satisfied "mmm". However, I'm wholly reluctant to use the month of May as a framework for this culinary challange since I plan on ordering a lot of greasy and questionable takeaway food whilst watching the Eurovision Song Contest, because that's just what I do with my life. Sorry cows, pigs and so many horses, but at least there's next March.

After essentially doing nothing of interest in the month of March - or at least nothing of interest to put here - the heavy load of assignments passed in sheer agony and the Easter break arrived in sheer monotony, thus leading us gracefully into April. And with April came just the latest of ventures this year where I took to the road and ended up miles from home. After a total of sixteen hours or so travelling on a mixture of coach and ferry, I arrived in Amsterdam for quite possibly the most fleeting and pointless time I've ever spent in a foreign country. And that includes the one afternoon I spent in northern Switzerland.

I had originally planned to present here a four-part account of my four-day trip, but upon my return back to the UK, real-life took over and I was thrust back into working towards my degree and seeing family members I don't see very often. By the time I got around to being able to update this thing with praise for one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, May happened. I'd like to present my account of Amsterdam here at some point, but unfortunately feel that with the experience already a month in the past, my recollection of the time is but a slushy haze. Further, my four-day trip to Amsterdam largely consisted of a full day travelling there and a full day travelling back. Having just two days in the city, one of which already designated for sporting activities and the main focus of the trip, didn't leave much time for sightseeing. As I said, whatever I can remember at a later point will be presented here if I can actually be bothered.

My infant nephew became my godchild less than a week after my Netherlands experience and I celebrated by more-or-less finishing off a catering tray full of pork pie slices after the after-Christening-do. Well, considering my dad had paid for the catering and about a third of the buffet was left over and I'm a student who hates to see food go to waste, I would've been a fool not to. Plus pork pies are awesome. We pondered this just a few days ago.

Who's "we"? Well, it's several people, but it includes the friend who proposed a meatless month. After reading this, I've probably reminded him about potentially going veggie for May and further reminded him that he'd have to give up on pork pies. Also, since it's May already, he's probably failed the forgotten challenge after chowing down on horse nuggets whilst reading this.

But then again, what do I know? I'm not him. Maybe he's not reading this whilst chowing down on a salad. I don't know. All I know is me, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm determined to keep adding to this thing every week; especially now that it's had a bit of a facelift.