From Vigilantes To Creators To... Disney

"The accumulation of their filth will foam up around their waists, and all the whores and politicians will look up as shout, 'SAVE US!' and I'll look down and whisper, 'no.'"

Can you blame him?
Whether you're a disgusted vigilante with no concept of moral greyness, a girl sitting at a computer wondering what to write or God Almighty Himself, you have to admit there is something wrong with our reception of those who help us.

In the graphic novel The Watchmen (from which the quote above is from) there is evidence of our non-existent gratitude to do-gooders. The fictional Keene Act passed in the book's year 1977 forbids any "costumed adventuring" from taking place independently (though two men who worked for the Government were conveniently excepted). All those people were doing were rescuing families from house fires, chasing muggers and rapists and occasionally taking bullets for innocents.
And though the message the above speaker left the makers of the Keene Act was pinned to the corpse of a multiple rapist ("NEVER!"), he was still chased by police for years before being brought down with all the force at their disposal.

Even Disney have touched upon our tendency to hate those who strive to help us. At the beginning of the Pixar film The Incredibles, we see how people suddenly decided they didn't need heroes anymore, and those who fought crime were forced to step down or have people make them. A message so strong as to puncture a children's film, however briefly, should be noticed more often as a major flaw of the human race.

I have no idea what the people responsible for these works believe. It could be they are noting the same similarities of the symbolism as other people, or that they truly didn't see the connection, but the foundations to this human behaviour seem to me to be rooted in religion. Well, there's a surprise; isn't everything?
In a world where political correctness has gone mad, where we have refrained from speaking of beliefs in case they "offend" somebody...
...in a world where we have dismissed God...
In short, we live in a time when we have told God to bugger off.
We can no longer read Bibles in schools, sing hymns where anyone but believers can hear them or (in some cases) wear crosses to work. We hesitate before admitting our beliefs... and we use the word "admitting" as we speak of them.

And then we have people (no names time, but if you've caught me in a ranting mood, you might know to whom I am referring) who, on hearing you are a Christian, turn around and say: "Well where was He on September the 11th, or July the 7th? Where was He when the first troops were sent into the Middle East? Where is He NOW?!"

And amongst things like "Screw you, bitch," I managed to finally say, "did you ever ask Him to do anything about all those things?"
"Of course not, I don't believe in Him."

If you don't believe in Him, how can you expect to see any results by Him?

Confessions Of A Teenage Insomniac

"You've made your bed, so sleep in it..."

Yeah, I bloody wish.

So, here I am, bright eyed and bushy tailed after my first insomnia-related all-nighter: went to bed at 12, gave up and got up at 6:30. Not a wink of sleep between those hours.
It's been getting notably worse since the return from Slovenia; a sleeplessness (real word? Don't know) that used to get me, say, every other- or third- night has now been every singe day I go to bed. Usually it's just a few hours, I end up dead to the world anyway. Not last night.

So I'd been to my mum's friend's boyfriend's (still with me?) party. It wasn't the liveliest of dos and the worst thing I managed was being pressed to try a mouthful of flat Gin and Tonic (simply spontaneous, right?)

Cept that night I go to bed and lie awake for six and a half hours, occasionally breaking the boredom with a chapter of the phenomenal graphic novel The Watchmen (read it.)

However, it wasn't as fun as you might think. In fact it was pretty shit.

There comes a time when you realise, four hours into your reluctant all-nighter, that if you don't fall asleep now you will feel this way for the rest of the day ahead. Feel like what? you ask.
Like you are totally and blissfully asleep every time your eyes shut to blink. Then, as they open again, you're utterly and frustratingly wide awake.

Another terrible stage is when your brain splits. Not literally of course, although by this time of the night you're doing very well not to have a headache of some kind. But I do not know whether it's a human reaction to the solitude, or simply proof that I personally am insane. However, the brain starts talking back to itself.
"Don't be soft," part of your mind says. "You're obviously not tired or you'd be asleep. Logical, no?"
"But I AM tired," another bit of your brain argues. "If you'd just shut up, maybe we'd get some rest."
A third part of your consciousness is wondering vaguely how this is even possible; the brain is one organ designed to control, help (and hinder) it's host body. It shouldn't be sniping at itself and referring to itself in the first person.
A still further bit of the mind is ignoring the other three all together, caught up in a desperate personal struggle to dispel the highly annoying (and insanely catchy) voice of the lead singer of the All American Rejects from looping over and over to only it's tortured ears... while simultaneously wondering if said singer is really Kermit the frog (listen to Her Name Rhymes With Mindy, then listen to the green Muppet’s voice: IDENTICAL).

Later on in the night/morning, you don't know whether it's from the hours and hours you have spend staring into darkness, or the fact the sky is finally beginning to lighten, but forms of you familiar things start to take shape. Then, every time you blink, as well as being ridiculously disappointed when your eyes open, you are somehow always surprised that the room you are in is lighter than the inside of your eyelids.

You think about a lot of things in a tiny amount of time when you're in the same place for hours at a time. A couple of the things flashing through my mind were:
● My Year 11 Media Project ● The difference of the words Glamour and Glamorous ● The fact the Cullen's aren't actually real vampires ● The fact I really need to post a blog soon ● What the bloody hell time is it? ● Oh, only five minutes past the last time I checked ●

Stand Back, Hold Your Breath and Close Your Eyes

Yes, that's right, I'm blowing the dust off this poor little blog.
I really am sorry... but summer holidays don't generally inspire any fantastical mind-wanderings or outspoken ideas.

It was only after somebody I didn't even know read this said in passing (in a trans-British Live Messenger conversation)... "You haven't blogged in a while..."
In truth I'd forgotten other people read this - a dangerous thing to do, if I begin mentioning names - so I've decided to post something up, even if its just an explanation of why I haven't been around.

I hate busy summers.I'm going/have been (depends on when you're reading this) away from home three times this summer. Okay, I love a summer holiday away as much as the next person, and I really enjoyed this year's one (Slovenia - nope, nobody's heard of it, you're not alone. Its a tiny country just to the right of Italy).
But then there's a week in Liverpool with my Grandma, who I love but who never lets me sleep in (what are holidays for?!)
And then five days in some CentreParcs place with only a couple of people I know and a bunch of people I don't. No doubt it will be a lot of fun, but the chances of slowing down and (again) messing up my sleeping pattern, are fairly slim.

And then it's school again. And yet another summer gone. Sorry if that sounds depressing, it wasn't meant to be. I generally don't mind school, and I am looking forward (kind of... a little bit) to seeing this multi-million new school building we're being blessed with.
Unfortunately it comes with a compulsory stripy new uniform. Stripy. Will I ever live it down to people outside my own school?
No, I don't think so either.

A Rant On Tossers, Pretty Girls And A Dangerous Touch On Glasgow

It probably says something about you when, on bursting into your maths classroom yelling "You wanker!" at literally the top of your voice, nobody even raises from their own conversations to take notice. But then again why should they? They all know it's me.

So I wear a choker.
For any "goth-phobes" (oh, how I hate that word), anti-jewellery protesters or simply if you're a BOY, this is a close-fitting necklace that is worn high on the neck. Hear that? A piece of jewellery. Not an accessory for your dog.

So for about the fifth time this month I get a call after me: "Why you stealin' your dog's collar?!" Spinning around I see one of the world's champion tossers (ask anyone in my year - even his friends) standing laughing his head off. Anyone within a ten mile radius can hear his laughter's fake. He has, in fact, asked me this question so many times in the last year I can't decide whether to be flattered or freaked by his continual interest in how I decorate my neck.

Next to him, a girl I have never spoken to but looks at me like I'm a piece of shit on her "genuine Uggs!" is also laughing, gazing at me and wondering whether or not I'm going to react. No doubt she's heard a rumour I'm a depressed alcoholic who stabbed her father (there's been worse said about me, trust me there ^^). However the only reason I know her name is the rumours circulating about her, and they're nowhere near as far fetched as mine (so very probably true).

What really pisses me off about this girl, however, is how darn gorgeous she is. WHY IS EVERYONE I DISLIKE PRETTY?????
It's so cliché it's unbearable.
I'm not saying all beautiful people are bitches. No way. But everyone who I have expressed dislike on any level, and vice versa has - with a couple of exceptions - been irritatingly good looking.

Totally unfair.

If the bitch was any taller then her puny 4'10" I'd truly love to try out a Glasgow Kiss (for anyone living south of Northumberland, that's a headbutt) and wipe the lip-linered smirk of her perfectly toned face.

UGWW (United Gardens of Wet Washing)

The first mention of washing was this morning. I was slumped in bed, half asleep, eyes tight against the dim (but still cruel) daylight (if you can call the light a cloudy British morning emits "day") Mum had let into my room by viciously yanking my blinds up further than I knew they were capable of.

"We're all going out today, so you can do some revision." (Shameless hint. I don't even think it deserves the name "hint")
"Riiight."
"The dog needs walking."
"Okay."
"And keep an eye on the weather, the washing's out."
"You got it."

Two hours later, I was still in bed, Dad and Andrew rattling around downstairs. The phone bleeped, (it not being like any other phone; ringing is nowhere near annoying enough to motivate us to pick it up). Bleep. Bleeeep. BLEEEEEP!!
Someone pick up the -very bad language- phone!! I begged mentally, squashing myself further into the pillows and duvet. It was only when Dad began to climb the stairs my eyes snapped open for the first time that morning.
Bugger. It was for me. And I'm not even going to give you three guesses as to who was on the other end.

"Are you up yet?"
"No, Mum."
"Up. NOW. Walk the dog, do some work and keep an eye on the-"
"Weather, I know. The washings out."

Hanging up, I thought it was probably advisable I did roll out of bed now, for if I followed the lazy thoughts back down to the pillow, the chances are I wouldn't get up till three in the afternoon.
Upon getting downstairs and dragging a brush that has given up crying for mercy through my bird's nest of hair, I met Dad.

"When are you going out?"
"Any minute," which in Dad-speak means sometime in the next two hours. "You need to do some revision."
"I know."
"And keep an eye-"
"I KNOW!!"

It seemed everyone in my family had written me off as a hopeless case, in the way of Washing Collecting, anyway. I junked out in front of the PC for ten minutes, working myself up for the day ahead of Biology, Chemistry and Physics (maybe some English coursework if I was lucky).
Paddy the dog was sitting watching me with his huge accusing stare. That dog is the definition of reproachful** when he's in a mood.

"Okay, okay. I'm eating, getting dressed, then we'll go out."
"..."
"Don't use that tone with me."

It was obvious he didn't believe me.
Sighing, I downed 2 crumpets and hurtled upstairs to get away from my basset's eyes. After pulling on a shirt I certainly wouldn't dream of wearing to church and a pair of black jeans, I began to gallomp (my blog, my word) down the stairs.
Half way down the stairs is a window, leading out to the back garden. Our amazingly odd pond, made out of railway sleepers and currently green from lack of cleaning (we have tadpoles) was moving.
I blinked. No...
Ripples.
Rain drops.

I can't remember if I screamed out loud, maybe it was just in my head. And I want some credit here. I did not dash down the stairs in slow motion yelling: "NNNNOOOOOOOOO!!"
Instead it went something rather more like this:

"FuckshitbollocksshitfuckinghellcrapshitbollocksBALLS!"

If I had stopped to look at Paddy's face, it was probably either astounded at my moving so quickly so early in the morning or totally impassive as he hears that kind of thing every day.

Hopping round on one foot and trying to pull on a Converse boot that has seen many better days but no worse ones, I crashed into the kitchen sink which brought on the cursing again. I did look at Paddy then, and his expression could be summed up something like... "0_0" with his amazingly expressive tan eyebrows high over his head.

Scrambling out of the back door, I didn't bother looking for the washing box I knew I'd never find. Instead I grabbed about five garments and pulled, cursing yet again as the rain somehow got into my eyes and pegs flew everywhere.

All around me I could hear the other residents of neighbouring houses acting the same way, though a couple stopped to laugh as I dashed across my back garden for about the eighth time and was only half done (my back garden's dominantly stones; my steps were much louder than everyone else’s). It wasn't until I was safely back inside (Paddy lying on the sopping grass, looking hilariously sober in the downpour) that I realised that was probably the closest our lot have ever been to a sense of community spirit.
How very incredibly British.



**1: an expression of rebuke or disapproval
2: the act or action of reproaching or disapproving
3 a: a cause or occasion of blame, discredit, or disgrace b: discredit, disgrace 4 obsolete : one subjected to censure or scorn

Not What You'd Call Historically Accurate

History classes rarely go the way they're meant to.
Our history teacher says we all have strong opinions and original ideas.
Know what that means?
We yell at each other.

The question on the board was "What do the Government do for us?" (well I saw the Life Of Brian reference) as a 5 minute starter to think about and then lead on to 1930's Americans choosing Democrats over Republicans.

Thirty minutes later we were all bellowing about the Iraqi war and the chances of terrorism in the UK.
One boy comes up with the statistic that London has the more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. I have no idea if that's true and I'm also totally certain nobody else did either. But we grasped at it for another debate, I myself getting into a furious quickfire match with another girl on whether or not we needed those cameras. (I was arguing for the cameras. Did that surprise you? It certainly did me.)

The thing is, the press hardly ever print the full story, and that was the pivot the argument was teetering on. Yes, I know they said that MI5 were given information to do with the 7/7 bombings in London... well done, you've found another hole to pick at in the spectacle that is Britain. But what on earth makes the press think they know everything??!!

The Secret Services are meant to be just that - SECRET. For all we or the press know, there was an attempted terrorist attack in... I dunno... Cardiff yesterday (ooft, careful, Rachel. English and Welsh relationships do not need your input).
WOULD WE KNOW??
Just think about how often your life or that of someone you love has been saved without any inkling on your part. We like to think we wouldn't judge someone before we knew about them, yet that is exactly what we're doing in saying anything at all about the MIs (5, 6, they're both under scruitiny). The cameras are clearly there for a reason, as people in Government are (though it may surprise a few people) kind of like us. What's to stop a conspiracy theorist getting into politics, or a young rebel joining the police force?
Therefore there WILL be people higher up who have questioned the surveillance of the people not just of London but almost every city in the world have come under - and clearly they ARE helping. With the economy as it is now, would the Government really still be financing unneeded and expensive to maintain toys nobody uses?

At which point our history teacher dragged us back to the present... no, wait... the past.

Fiction Hangover: My version of Depression

So lately I've been reading too much.


But Rachel, you say, how can you read TOO MUCH? Surely it's better than loosing your brains in TV or PS2 games (*cough* guilty).

Yeah, well, some of your brains may turn to cottage cheese when you stare at a screen, but printed paper does that to me.

So I'm reading about 150 - 180 pages a day. Naturally, I start having favourite characters among the ones I'm meant to like equally, taking sides in fights that get resolved on the next page and actually getting pissed when my character gets overruled at tribunals even when there's a happy ending.

Now as I think I've said before, I'm studying William Blake at school. I have an essay (thanks, Teach) to hand in next Monday (as this week's work experience week - joy!) and I'm about half way through it.

This is where my reading habits are getting dangerous.

I keep thinking... bollocks... essay... write it... oh, never mind, this isn't real anyway.

I then have to mentally punch myself and yell "FOOL!" over and over again until I realise I don't belong in the caves/castle/seedy bar I had been reading about, and that my life is not the dream but the reality.

And the reality of my life at the moment is:
If I don't write about the flea-whispering son of a b*tch I'm in deep sh*t a week tomorrow.

Books I've gotten lost in recently: