Cassettes stolen from my dad

My dad set a tape on my desk on Cassette Store Day and it brought back the idea that I think I invented these bands when I'd been listening to them whilst still in the womb. (I was kind of shocked that dad listens to x-ray spex). We're so terrifically un-musical, but we appreciate a bespectacled singer or two. Pure critics. I grew up with my answerphone message as the intro to this charming man: just as you could hear morrissey's breath before his first note, my dad would pause it and say "you've reached the smiths". 
I still think that's sweet and pretentious and just typical of the musical elitist that is my father. 


Advice from HP Lovecraft

Recently, I've been telling myself that I'm trying to write like a real person. Not like a droning sycophant lurking behind too many thick novels, but one of those conversationalists that can transfer their thoughts to any medium they choose. 

But 'writing like a real person' is bullshit. What have I been writing as in the past? Why do I always reduce the past versions of me to something awful that I'm desperate to cleave myself from? It's far too cliched to keep casting myself off as a mask. And too insidious to over analyse and over intellectualize myself. It's odd.

H.P. Lovecraft would agree with the real person idiocy - advocating my emergence from trying to dilute my writing with colloquial cessation. 

"One superlatively important effect of wide reading is the enlargement of vocabulary which always accompanies it. The average student is gravely impeded by the narrow range of words from which he must choose, and he soon discovers that in long compositions he cannot avoid monotony. In reading, the novice should note the varied mode of expression practiced by good authors, and should keep in his mind for future use the many appropriate synonymes he encounters. Never should an unfamiliar word be passed over without elucidation; for with a little conscientious research we may each day add to our conquests in the realm of philology, and become more and more ready for graceful independent expression."

So I'm preparing myself for graceful independent expression. Graceful independent expression.
Here's hoping. 


Patience n Philanthropy

I’m beginning to understand what perilous spark creates that dystopian structure of someone’s mind when they’re young – that adolescent stage where they think they’re the only ones to feel misanthropic, misunderstood or entitled to a sense of martyrdom.

I know. This blog is testament to every sin I just listed. I guess that ‘someone’ is a lot closer than I’d love them to be. It’s fine and normal that people do feel that way. My heart goes out to the people who can’t fathom not feeling this way. Even more so my heart goes out to the people our age who can’t feel this way because, by the accident of birth, they are in the real world where they don’t have the privilege of being spoilt, able to tweet satirically about our fictitious problems. I’ve never had to deal with a single bombshell in my life. Neither have the majority of teenagers with too much internet connection and self-entitlement, no matter how much we fool ourselves into believing differently.


It’s not a new thing, and patience is a virtue, but people my age are feeling overexposed and overdeveloped when we’re these sickly sixteen year olds still acting like children who can’t wait for anything. Tomorrow feels like a lifetime away. 10 minutes? That’s forever! We forgot to outgrow these selfish impulses. 

Can I blame the internet? Or is that too hypocritical as I type these words? But, with all the enlightening ways to use the internet, it’s just fostered our instinct of needing everything now. We can’t wait. If you’re thinking that waiting for your laptop to wake up qualifies, then welcome to the club of online brats. It’s great – and we are lucky.

It becomes a segue of helpless impulse; I see clothes and lifestyles online, snippets of  inner monologue, people’s views and opinions on wonderful ideas with cohesive arguments and I’m impatient. I want it all to be mine.

Which is empowering: writing and self-publication is a step towards this, the whole ‘selfie culture’ of women being in control of their public image sends a strong message, and the only way I’ve managed to realise how sheltered, spoilt and straight up lucky I am is through internet campaigning and articles which speak of atrocities I can't imagine. Ironically, staring at my computer screen is making me less short-sighted. I can’t look at things I’ve said in the past, different personas I’ve had, or those ugly traits shared by others, without a sense of shame. We’re Generation Whatever and that worries me; albeit not to the point of unplugging my machine and swallowing the red pill. Expressing ourselves is a necessity and I advocate it... whilst wishing we spent as much time obsessing over important things as we do about the meaningless trivia consuming our spare hours, and that somehow we learn some form of patience to cultivate ourselves into better people. Or learn from our mistakes. I seem to always, without fail, choose the latter. 

(from elle's tumblr for flood victims and a good reminder)


More Bear than Bare

People have hair.

It’s a revolutionary concept. Women also have hair because women are also people. Tiny follicles rooted on our skin, catching the light and travelling across our bodies, darkening like a curfew on more vulnerable areas; starting from our heads, arching over eyebrows, rolling along our armpits, towards regions confined in cotton underpants.

There is nothing foreign or strange about body hair. Quite the opposite: it is natural and, evolutionary speaking, a survival trait. That’s why we haven’t lost the genetic information telling us we need it. Some people find it more hygienic or aesthetically pleasing to manage this hair. Others recoil at the thought of plucking an eyebrow. Wherever you sit on the scale of one to Rapunzel, you should expect to be accepted for the choices you make concerning your own body.

If you want to shave, that’s fine. If you don’t want to shave, that’s also fine. Letting hair grow out can be one of the more liberating experiences vis-à-vis appearance - keep your razor in hibernation and save yourself money, time and... chafing. Despite my highlights and groomed brows, I am able to let my armpit hair reach the length of European athletes seen on the first televised Olympics and wear a skirt when my legs are more bear than bare.  I take pride in my appearance, which isn’t a notion reserved for females, and the length of my hair in no way proportional to attractiveness, confidence or political preference.

Shaving does not equate beauty. People have been shamed into thinking their body hair is repulsive so others can make money. Never allow someone feel lesser than anyone else because they control their body - it should not threaten you. This brainwashing from advertising obscures the truth: that body hair is not the villain and we should not feel victimised by media obsessions. 

To realise this when insecurities are being manipulated to increase sales of superfluous products is a revolutionary concept... and one we should be teaching to others, so that I don't have to overhear people lamenting about feeling ugly because they are being made fun of for having body hair. There is something ugly about a situation where others can accost, and even abuse, a person who chooses not to shave and it is not the absence of shaving. 


list number one

Things I have been enjoying recently:

the obligatory it’s a video when someone films you with a mobile phone camera

forgetting that my grandad is 82 years old

when blueberries are sweet

and blueberries are sour

(so that you can realise when they are sweet)

having backlogs of work to write up so I know that I’ve done something

burning over 1000 calories on a hike

because a thousand sounds like a lot

eating two raisin cinnamon bagels because I can (gluttony is bad but so is restricting yourself)


chinese history

almond milk

impulse buying two flannel shirts

french verbs

fruit and fibre

snippets from judy and beth’s trip to germany

featuring communist mix tapes

job rejections

(because I’m trying but the universe wants me unemployed)

free time

and fear of the future

(good fear)


The Frisbee Incident

Yesterday, I got my glasses fixed and ended the final instalment of ‘the Frisbee Incident’. No longer am I staring wistfully through the scratched glass dominating the space above my right pupil, like some annoying reference to the crack occupying the Liberty Bell’s exterior. My sight is as free and unhindered as it gets for a girl as short sighted as I. However, the annals of the Incident got me thinking about the injuries I sustained (and survived) whilst stateside.

Apart from a twin pair of bruises which arrived mysteriously from the airport that landed above both my right and left knees, staying with me the entire holiday whilst I bared my pale English legs, the first injury came on my third day as I held a gun in my hand. Or rather, failed to hold the gun. I kind of dropped it as it recoiled and it slipped from my shoulder… whilst it was firing (you know you want me around in times of crisis). Painful and typical of me to injure myself whilst trying to smash a flying orange target with an instrument designed for one purpose (with the ability of operation by the illiterate) I still managed to do that wrong and award myself the merit badge of a bruise blossoming on my shoulder like an odd blood stain.

The next day, I was down at the Jersey Shore and burned my shoulder. Red and pink and pale and awkward. An accurate description of the English child.
Rollercoasters. I got into a fight with a seat restraint coming off Fahrenheit. I can survive any number of ‘coasters, stand in line indefinitely, eat chocolate to an insane capacity, but I am incapable of getting out of a seat. I busted my chin and bled, looking for the entire weekend like I’d lost a fist fight. Classy English girl. Also, for the remainder of our road trip, each time I lifted up my arms (embarrassingly, to check how my sweat glands were faring in the high nineties) another bruise had added itself to the pale underneath of my upper arms… despite looking like I’d been beaten, I can vouch that they were from rollercoasters, like a stamp to remember where I’d been.

White water rafting for a non-swimmer is almost a death wish. Spending the day on the river was a kind of indescribable fun, totally upped my Pocahontas vibes and left me with bug bites, water in my nasal cavity and a pretty sore posterior. All completely worth it.

Then comes the fateful evening of The Frisbee Incident. During a game of Polish horseshoes, having just played a successful game of conceptual badminton (lacking the net), a seemingly inauspicious moment administered this scratch on my glasses as my cousin, lost in a wave of over-competitive-ness, throws the Frisbee directly to the bridge of my nose. The same cousin who had, the day before, been legally responsible for my well-being on the river was now the reason for my calamitous exclamation of “I could get a black eye!!!” The notion that it might have been my own sense of not looking and not concentrating on the game is completely false. False. It was his fault. Forgiving the person who had driven me across states, paid for me to ride on rollercoasters and down rivers, laced up my shoes and drove me home was quite easy. However the Incident, whilst forgiven, won’t be forgotten. This is possibly at my expense, for getting hit in the face with a plastic disk is really the cornerstone of civilised company.

The rest of the holiday passed in this sophisticated manner; of falling over and multiplying my bruises. On the last day I garnered an insect bite which I only noticed as I greedily devoured a bagel in my Uncle’s car (I also gained four pounds within a week, having weighed myself in my cousin’s bathroom and again on the scales that told me my bag was overweight… due to all the candy I was smuggling into England) which I have been absentmindedly scratching for the two weeks I have been back. Perhaps this is a subconscious masochistic yearning for return to the land of the Frisbee, and the home of the bruised.



Like the fireworks that I watched post-thunderstorm in a Pennsylvanian park, I was rocketed into the sky and immortalized in far too many camera screens of my loving relatives. From seven hours trapped in a metal cage with other western-faring travelers to the seven months kept captive in that exam-prepping cycle with countless other teenagers, I felt that going to America was everything for which I'd been waiting. 

Surviving my thunderstorm of the national curriculum and excess of examinations which characterized my (very anti-climatic) end of high school, meant that my parents packaged me off to the USA as a reward. I hadn't been on American soil for five years. This is a good thing. My favourite branch of the family tree were spared suffering my awkward pubescent stages! They remember me as the pitiful four year old obsessed with dogs and running after balls my sister threw into traffic and now update that idea with an image of a (mostly) well-adjusted and freakishly long-limbed sixteen year old with a British accent. What more does any other Polish-American family hope for?

Being back home, I miss my family in America a lot but feel indescribably better for having 19 days where I felt very important (and ridiculously spoilt). Expect a few more posts where I attempt to capture my trip in my cloying, cliched manner. To kick start this, I shared my 10 Songs for Summer on Albatross Audio which you can read here and listen to here.


Goose pimpled flesh

This interview is making me really happy at the moment. Is it really lame to post this? I haven't seen these guys live for a while because waiting impatiently for the new album. Also couldn't make it to Brighton when I realised that they were impromptu playing and I mixed up my dates. Recklessly inadequate.


It always seems really safe to post information on the internet

Sometimes when tags go around blogger, I feel like I've been picked last for the team. But lovely Maddy, of http://thatgurlmaddy.blogspot.co.uk/, tagged me! So I'm getting ever nearer to abandoning my 'no one likes me' self-pitying routine. I remembered that I'd neglected to writing this when I saw Maddy as I was coming back from the gym this week - after bodyattack - which I can't even make sound more ridiculous than it was. Totally masochistic is the time spent at the gym.

Here goes with the Liebster Award...

1) What would your dream job be?
I would love to write and read books and do so without constraints or having to conform to anyone else's standards. Like a kid forever. I'd like to work for a charity doing relief work or humanitarian aid awareness. 

2) Who is somebody you look up to or aspire to be like?

I admire Margaret Atwood's way with words and intelligence. I also admire Angelina Jolie's intellect and kindness that she's being a really cool mother with allowing her kids to be transgendered and not defining who they are... I think Florence Welch is visually stunning. Ezra Koenig is ridiculous and smart, I think my history teacher is my image of a well-lived life and, overall, I think I'm always enraptured by the qualities other people have or the things they do.

3) What is a product you just could not live without?

I definitely think I'd be a lot less happier without my moisturiser. It's just a Simple one. I plan to use it till the day I die and not subscribe to the advertising insanity that, as a woman, I need a bunch of different creams to stay 'young'. As if. 

4) What is your favorite piece of clothing/ pair of shoes you own?

I'll go with my doc martens because they're my longest lasting shoe and fail-safe. A lot of good times had in them. Also, I kind of love that fake fur coat I got for christmas.

5) What is something you feel proud about?

I'm proud that I started going to see bands on my own. It's really empowering because I don't need to meet anyone to introduce me to new things and make me become more wonderful in a kind of coming-of-age modern fairy tale way... I think I have my lonely, angst-ridden young self to thank for a lot.

6) If you could be in any TV show what would it be?

My So-Called Life. Or Adventure Time.

7)  What is your favorite quote?

Two quotes I have on my walls that I can see right now are Maya Angelou's "nothing will work unless you do" and Edvard Munch's "from my rotting body flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity". On the back of my phone I have "FIDLAR". I've probably internalised Derrick Brown's "don't text anyone while talking to anyone" from his poem Grocery List. I think that's important. I just read Brave New World and I quite like those lines from the Tempest. 

8) What is something you wish you said to people more?

I wish I waited to say some things, even as seemingly mundane as a 'thank you', so that they sounded sincere. My Dad and I are good at sincere conversations as we're both quiet. I get a bit desperate in social situations and I really think I'd have more to answer if the question talked about wishing you said less.

9) Where do you wish to see yourself in 10 years time?

Hopefully moved out of my parent's house. If I achieve that, the rest is a bonus. 

10) What or who is the most important to you?

I think self-respect. That manifests itself in a lot of different ways - like interacting with the people I love. But yes, I think respecting myself is very important. 

If you're not bored to death... my eleven facts:

  • I'm edging ever closer to becoming a francophile and it is one of my biggest goals to achieve fluency in french
  • I've been to see almost thirty bands (at different times and venues!) in the last two years
  • I am a vegetarian
  • I'm mildly lactose intolerant
  • I am inadequate at swimming
  • I have a comic book signed by Gerard Way
  • I am terrifically short sighted
  • I have a bass in the corner that belonged to Fatboy Slim
  • My arms are out of proportion with my body and make me look quite orangutan-esque
  • I'm an American and British citizen
  • I'm going to wear a dress to prom I bought for £6 from a charity shop
My questions for other people are:
1) What's your favourite book?
2) Which director's films do you most enjoy?
3) What one thing would you do if you had one day left to live?
4) Who is your favourite superhero?
5) Guilty pleasure?
6) If you had to eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?
7) What would you like to change about your life?
8) What is something that never fails to make you happy?
9) What do you think is most attractive?
10) Spots or stripes?

Sadly, I don't think I follow eleven active blogs on here! What a sheltered internet life I lead. Also, most people have done the tag already. Therefore I welcome any of you who have made it this far to do the tag! If you're reading this, you've already committed to doing it.*

*It's probably legally binding. 


Train appreciation post

When I reflect on my four years at a girls school, I mostly remember train journeys. I'm not entirely sure what that really means...

1. All trains end at Brighton. Or London. Personally, my morning trains are all-stopping (because East Worthing is the equivalent of that one eyebrow hair left unplucked on many of my fellow commuter's brow) so they are always Brighton-bound. I like this. I've aligned myself with Southern rail so much that I'm also Brighton bound! Which is hideous when thought about too much. Brighton is my favourite place within a certain distance due to all the best memories I've had over high school there; predominantly made up of seeing bands, but that's another list altogether. So yes, hopeful places to be taken.

2. Forced bonding due to train delays, lonely mornings, only one spare seat left to claim. I've made one of my closest friends through sharing train journeys. The story I love to tell is that she followed me around, walking up trains and sitting next to my early morning bear-like self until I finally stopped trying to ignore her and actively engaged in conversation. I love to tell this, because it's completely true. I'm shocked that someone could be so dedicated to spend time in my company... which is as unappealing as those early morning commutes.

3. The independence of buying a ticket and being able to travel. It's really empowering to a 12 year old and I still feel the remnants of that early high school self-importance that, despite living adjacent to the biggest high school in the area, I chose to cross town to the girl's school. Fickle. 

4. The conversations to be overheard!!! These are my favourite things. From left wing politics to absolutely embarrassing secrets, it's perhaps the major factor in why I get trains all the time. I probably can't retell any of them out of kindness to the people, and it is a total 'you had to be there' situation.

5. Looking out of a train window, the south coast looks quite nice. Strange that it's from a seat of gross communal spaces that I've kind of reconciled myself with the place I've grown up. Maybe I'm just happy to be leaving it! 



Lately, I've been going to Chichester University to study. As many people are aware, I'm serially allergic to 'revision' so, under the guise of studying, I spend my time looking at uni boys, bumming cheap cups of coffee and sitting on these ergonomic chairs that are worth the whole train journey and trek to the campus library. 

I go to the Bognor Regis campus as they recently put in a new library (so clean!) and I've never seen them check for student IDs. It comforts me that while I read / make notes - or rather, listen to music and eat chocolate - the dread that sets in when I realise that my final exams are properly near and I've not even picked up a single textbook is eradicated. Sitting in the air-conditioned atmosphere, I look around at all the students doing long essays and know that what I'm doing now is of such little importance that it's barely worth thinking about. It's a luxury that's short lived. GCSEs are just this laboured spring board up to the next level and, as long as I pass, there is no point in bending myself out of shape to fit into the structure of exams that are so formulaic that you just have to hit the criteria and you're fine. 

I'm jealous of the uni kids, but that might just be that they can just roll out of bed and bum around in the library. When I'm there, I feel part of this clique of failures. No one at the library seems on top of stuff, I think there are numerous deadlines pretty soon, so everyone hunched over at the desks are cutting it close... and I associate with this culture of being a slacker. I like the library because it appeals to me that you're always ignorant no matter how old you are and that it's just the desire to be less ignorant that keeps us in education. 

I think I'm going to go to University. Spending time with the foolish ones who live intravenously off of caffeine  and go in pajamas to the library (not kidding) makes me feel less of a failure when I compare myself to my classmates who have revision timetables. Revision timetables???

Someone once said that you must never let your schooling get in the way of your education and my only goal in life is to be the aimless patron saint of that adage. 


Swim Deep

This is so lovely. I think Swim Deep are great. I managed to see them at the Concorde 2 in October and they were wonderful, both playing and as people. Despite the intelligence of this song, they were actually lacking seriousness in a very big way... this song seems to be a step up from the rest of their stuff. I recommend them as a band and, just like Bastille, I don't mind if they get more notoriety - I welcome it very much - as they both deserve it and, most importantly, have the talent to back it up.

It really comforts me to see these bands that have obviously drawn from 80s/90s influences, harnessed that, and taken it into a new type of music; in a the same way that the smiths or nirvana were doing with the music from the 60s. A lot of popular music is really discomforting and disconcerting but that's how we tell the differences between good and bad music. I think swim deep make good music: listen to the portrayal of adolescence and I'll resist anyone who thinks I'm incorrect in that judgement. I need more bands of this calibre.


17 Filles

I live my life in the hope that I'm not the only who spends their Saturdays watching french films about pregnant teenagers. "17 Filles" is a really fun and heartwarming, almost life-affirming, film (based on a true story??) about a group of girls.

It shows the girls as wonderful and devastating characters, their personalities being most important as the narrative centres around their interaction with the world they are in. Understated and overwhelmingly pleasing, the direction is reminiscent of all my favourites - from the opening scene when the lead character listens to blood red shoes over headphones on the beach in France, I knew it was worth my time to watch. 

As one girl gets accidentally pregnant, her group of friends decide to join her to make her feel less isolated. It sounds like an odd episode of skins, but the girls are shown as such fascinating and multi-faceted characters that it's really impressive. Also (the endless reason why I love films like this) the realism is really comforting. 

The aesthetics!!!
(shout out to the prtScn key)

What I like best is that it begins to suggest what it is to be a girl, and what growing up means, the tribal aspects of teenage, and is more of a coming-of-age film than a shocking drama about pregnant teens. 



I did another french mix for the last of the french lessons I've been running this year. I adore french music, good or bad, it's like a parallel where taste doesn't really matter. 



It's well known that when I talk about Taylor Swift and, inevitably, someone tells me they that they hate her, I will reply with "I used to be annoyed with Taylor, but then I saw the light.. and that light is Red."

What I fail to mention when someone discusses their disgust with Taylor is that I regret ever being against her. Too many people place blame and shame onto the 23 year old like it's a rare accolade to hate her, when it's actually just conforming; worryingly, as  her personal life and relationship status is increasingly treated as public property, the reaction Taylor Swift receives for her actions is patriarchal nonsense distilled with too many years of trying to keep women from doing what they want to be doing. I couldn't care less if you didn't think much of her as a recording artist, all taste is subjective right? But if you tell me that you don't like someone, anyone, because you brandish them (or have been told by all the media/someone else) that they're a slut, then I have a problem. 

It is so wrong for countless reasons. First up is that you shouldn't judge anyone for behavior you deem 'slutty', especially when it seems that the category of young women that Swift falls into is the age and gender which is most afflicted by the backwards mentality that if you have a relationship, or relationships, wear tight clothing, talk about things both frivolous and important to you, etc, then you are a slut. It makes no logical sense.  "For a female to write about her feelings, and then be portrayed as some clingy, insane, desperate girlfriend in need of making you marry her and have kids with her, I think that’s taking something that potentially should be celebrated—a woman writing about her feelings in a confessional way—that’s taking it and turning it and twisting it into something that is frankly a little sexist.” For Taylor Swift to even have to stand up for herself and defend her choices in the 21st century is disappointing. Even worse are that people like Michael J. Fox get involved in this issue by saying stuff like "No. No ... Just back off. I don't keep up with it all.... but Taylor Swift writes songs about everybody she goes out with, right? What a way to build a career." Why is he getting himself involved when Taylor Swift is linked to his son? That's kind of creepy. 

This has all been inspired by Anaheed's post on Rookie today which has led me to some really relevant quotes, best of all from Kathleen Hanna, catalysing the fact that I wanted to write about Red/Taylor Swift without posting numerous pictures of me sobbing on my bedroom floor clutching her album (read: without appearing like an emotional wreck/creepy fan). Kathleen Hanna said "I’m totally into Taylor Swift. I think she has super-clever lyrics, and I love that she writes her own music. Some of the themes she writes about are stuff I wish was there for me when I was in high school, and I’m so happy she really cares about her female fans. She’s not catering to a male audience and is writing music for other girls. I don’t care if she calls herself a feminist or not. There is something that she’s doing that feels feminist to me in that she really seems to have a lot of control over what her career is doing. She’s 23. People say she’s dating all these guys. Well, yeah, she’s a young person and is dating all these people ’cause that’s what you do when you’re young. John Mayer can fuck 84 people in one day and nobody calls him a slut. I think that’s the subtext of some of the things she’s said recently." I feel exactly the same way about Taylor Swift. I like her music and am endlessly annoyed by the treatment she gets for being herself. Why can't she date people? What kind of example are you setting to Taylor Swift's audience, many of whom are younger than myself?

Since Taylor Swift strides an issue of sexism simply because she's a woman doing what she wants, dating who she wants, and singing about what (and who) she wants, she is the example in my biggest argument when faced with more negativity when the word feminism is mentioned. It's an excerpt from Rudy Francisco's poem chameleon, in which he says "what will the boys learn from us?" and that's what is most important to me: you've got to create these positive attitudes and social awareness so that ignorance is left where it belongs, forgotten in the past. I like Taylor Swift because I think her fourth album is good and appreciate her as a person for writing music that I like. When I tell other people that, I wish they would tell me their opinion on her music, rather than her personal life. 


Girl Talk

I want to be in Kate Nash’s girl gang. I want to wear short black dresses, bleach my hair and play bass. Luckily, whole summers spent listening to Hole and Pixies haven’t been wasted! My dreams of being the perfect mix of Kim Deal & Courtney Love (and Angela Chase, because I always want to be Claire Danes circa 1996) have been realised in Kate’s third album.

It’s a good album. I’m not surprised: I went to see Kate when she came to Brighton last year and as soon as she started on the bass, I knew that she’s playing the kind of music I need now. The third album discusses stuff that’s important to me; and rap for rejection was the clinching argument when I saw her live. I like it that it pairs totally sound issues that need to be talked about with the absence of pretension/preachiness and that holds true for the whole album. Oddly, seeing her at the Haunt made me look into the band on her guitar which was FIDLAR, who I saw in the same venue last week and their new album is a favourite of mine. It comforts me that cool people know cool people.

So I like Kate Nash. I was kind of undecided on her based on her other stuff but I’m happy that’s changed (although mansion song was always cool). Apparently, not everyone is as into this new material as I am (like what? People have different opinions to me??) and express this by chastising Kate for changing and ‘pretending’ etcetera, which is so heart-breakingly predictable. If anyone is actively hating Kate Nash for Girl Talk then it comes from that rotten place where people can’t stand seeing old friends change; annexing them off for betrayal when why can’t people allow others to grow up? An interesting issue when you think that Kate Nash was always considered fine and friendly, but now she’s more outwardly controversial than the girl she was, it’s scary to people who want to keep artists occupying the same space you carve out for them.

Of course this transcends down to why I need Kate Nash with her new girl band. I want to be Kate Nash when I grow up. I need to have people with attention who can be different and just keep doing that even though it’s not unanimously accepted.

Girls on bass forever, Kate. 



I get terribly embarrassed with this blog at times. The temptation to pack it in and delete it seems very desirable as, honestly, looking through my archives give me this deep gut-clenching cringing at just how I expressed myself. I'll probably look back at this and feel ashamed by the self-importance that made me think I really need this outlet to "free my inner emotions" or whatever I pretend I'm doing here.

However, if you gave me the option to blank out the memory of 13-14-15 year old me, I might just take it.

But that's ridiculous.

Ridiculous because being a self-important teenager, rife with all these feelings has allowed me to become self-aware which, if we're comparing the suffixes of self-, is not the worst thing to be.

I'm justifying myself. Maybe that's all I'll ever end up doing. I think that's okay.

Apologies if I ever give you eye strain for how many times you'll roll your eyes at these posts. But can you imagine how hilarious it will be for future me to reflect on this little blog? Just humour me. I'm feeling an affinity with just being, being myself and being young. Those take-for-granted epiphanies that you pretend to have known all along. All these words I record are testament to the fact that I don't know it all, will never know it all and have no intention to seek knowing it all.

And that's embarrassing? For sure. But I'm going to stop decluttering my social network sites for fear of, if I stop being so annoyingly omni-present, I'll have an existential crisis in later life.