I’m bad at keeping to schedules. I created this blog two weeks ago with the promise to myself that I would post twice a week.
Hm. That didn’t quite happen, did it?
Anyway, I’m here now, and that’s what matters.
I’m here, and I have a story to tell, because this is supposed to be a place for me to tell stories, and I haven’t done much of that yet.
I had a very busy day yesterday. By yesterday, I mean Saturday the 8th of October, because I’m writing this on Sunday, or starting to anyway. It’ll be a miracle if I post it today. (It’s Tuesday as I come back to this to edit. Step up your game, Mima, you’re a plonker.)
So. Yesterday. The 8th.
I spent the best part of the day on a yacht, trying to remember how to sail, because sailing is brilliant and yachts are awesome. The reason behind this was that in a couple of weeks I’m going away on a youth holiday, which involves living on a boat with some people I don’t know very well for a week, and this year, as an old and responsible and mature young adult, I have been given the position of a mate, meaning, in the crudest of terms, that if our skipper -aka, the token responsible over-18 who knows how to sail- falls overboard or dies, then I’m in charge. And, along with this wonderful position, comes not only the unspoken agreement that I get the best bunk, but the brilliant day of banter that is mate’s training, with all the other wonderfully mature 16 and 17 year olds who sort of slightly know what they’re doing.
This does all sound really sarcastic and cynical and pessimistic, but I assure you that this week away is the highlight of every year for me, and I love it to bits. Spending yesterday at training has made me desperate for the actual week to arrive, because I can’t wait to get on a boat and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a week.
A downside to pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist for a week means that I have to give my Snapchat login to someone so I don’t lose my streaks while I’m out in the middle of nowhere with no signal, but whatever, I can deal. It’s called taking a break, right?
Anyway. This wasn’t my story. This was a little bit of background, to explain my lateness to the party that the story is actually about.
The sailing trip, and the training for it, occur in a place which is a three hour drive away from where I live, so, after spending the night before at my grandparent’s house nearby, my brother and I embarked on this drive back to our town, in the rain and the dark, both aching from a day of actually moving and not just sitting in a chair. I say my brother and I, but what I really mean is my brother, because he did all the driving. I just sat there and struggled to navigate. Thank goodness for Google Maps, otherwise we’d probably be dead in a field somewhere by now.
But, thanks to Google Maps, and despite my unhelpfulness and adamant belief that I can direct better than a computer, we got home, and, after a 20-minute turn-around in which I changed and slapped more face-gunk on, I found myself at my friend’s birthday party, which was supposed to be a handful of close friends sitting on the floor and getting quite tipsy. By the time I arrived, only an hour or two late, still before 10 o’clock, there were three people upstairs not wearing much except each other, about an eighth of one of the two bottles of Vodka left, and an excess of empty champagne bottles.
My friends move considerably faster than I had anticipated.
For about an hour after I arrived, I allowed myself to get to the afore-mentioned state of quite tipsy, and rolled around on the floor with the others laughing about the regrets our pre-occupied friends in the bedroom upstairs might have in the morning.
Spoiler alert – their only regrets were how much they drank, not what they did because they were drunk.
Anyway, two out of three friends re-emerged, and the other was ‘not passed out I swear’ in the bed upstairs for the next three hours.
I understand that this isn’t a very interesting story, and more just an explanation of a teenage party, but I have a point. I’m just not entirely sure what it is.
Tell you what, I’ll go and do my homework and see if inspiration strikes.
I stopped for half an hour, stared at some Philosophy notes, and now I’m back here, because, while this doesn’t get me out of detention, it does make me feel productive, so it’s better than procrastination.
Actually, it is procrastination. Oh, joy.
(Update from Editing Mima on Tuesday: I didn’t do that Philosophy homework, had to spin a web of lies to my teacher as to why it wasn’t done, including ‘oh no I forgot to hit save,’ and wound up with a behaviour point and a very poorly written essay to hand in. Sigh.)
Anyway. I have realised, in the last half an hour, that I have no moral for the pathetic excuse of a story I just told you. There is no reason for me to tell it, especially in the poor amount of detail that I used in an excuse to maintain the dignity and privacy of my friends. If I gave a full account, then the story would be considerably more embarrassing for everyone involved, including me.
But, despite it’s pointlessness, I really enjoyed telling that story, because writing is something I really enjoy doing. Even if I’m just writing down events that have occurred, events that I experienced less than 36 hours ago, I enjoy writing, and I have some interesting reasons why. Allow me to expand.
I am not a funny person. I am not one of those blessed individuals that can think of a witty comeback to an insult in milliseconds. I am not one of those great people who can turn anything into a joke. I am not one of the lucky few that can say something thoroughly un-funny, and still get a laugh, because, hey, they’re a funny person.
No. I am one of those people whose quips fall flat. Who kills the joke. Who fails miserably to illicit even a giggle from those who hear them.
I am not a funny person, because I don’t have the real-world qualities for it. I am not overly confident, nor does my presence fill a room. My laugh is not loud and commanding, and my humour is slow.
But. When I write, I can take my time. I can stop, and think of the funniest way to say something, and since, when I’m writing, there’s no one to make a funnier joke right after or before, I’m always the funniest in the room.
This is gonna be awkward if you don’t think I’m funny.
Now I’m going to awkwardly clear my throat and rock backwards and forwards on my heels before launching into another equally embarrassing bragging monologue of my faults.
I am not a loud person. I believe that in every relationship, of any kind, friendship, or romantic, or whatever, there is a Talker, and a Listener. I have the kind of personality that lends itself to being a Listener. This means that when I spend time with people, they end up doing all the talking, and explaining, and the wonderful lovely and healthy these-are-my-emotions-please-help-me kind of positive emotional expression, and I have to listen and pat their shoulder and advise and encourage. Now I’m not saying that I do this well, but this the role that has been given to me in about 90% of my relationships, so I’ll take it and run before I find myself with no friends to listen to, which is probably what would happen if I started trying to be the Talker. Shudder.
But, sometimes, it’s good to be alone with our thoughts. And since I never do get to fully express them at other times, I may as well write them down and post them on the internet, right?
Wrong. This will probably all come back to haunt me when I apply to university or accidentally tell someone about my secret blog, but whatever. (Hi, if you’re a person reading this and you reading it will result in me being haunted. Please don’t be mean to future me, she doesn’t deserve that.)
(She probably does, actually, but she definitely doesn’t want it.)
Anyway. I’m not loud, and I’m not funny, and I’m also not very happy. I’m not depressed, or in denial, or anything as dramatic or awful as that. I’m just your typical angsty teenager who hates school and ‘The System’ and life in general, right now. Really, this whole blog is the result of angst.
Which is exactly my point; I am a teenager full of woes and troubles and cynicism, and a strange sort of love for Jane Austen, but also for Jesus. I’m on track to become Crazy Aunt Mima who sits at the end of the kitchen table on Christmas Day eating mushy peas and acting like there aren’t five cats eating from her plate, whilst spouting about the true reason for the season, y’all.
I don’t even like mushy peas, and I’m still on track.
I’m not even southern, and I’m still on track, for heaven’s sake.
However, I do not want to be that person. I would like to be perfectly Normal, thank you very much. Which means that, to achieve normality, I must supress my inner Crazy Aunt, with all her angst and cynicism. However, Crazy Aunt Mima has been supressed for too long, and so I can stay on my way to becoming Normal, I am expressing her in the form of a blog – words on a laptop, safely secured by absolutely nothing, because they’re on the internet, for everyone to read.
Anyway, this largely pointless second blog post has succeeded had doing what I wanted it to do – kill time, lift my spirits, and give me something to write about. It has taken much longer to write this than that first post, which only took three hours, but they were an ambiguously-more-than-three hours well spent, in my opinion. Hopefully I’ll post again in the next two weeks, because that’s far too long to keep all of you adoring fans waiting.
Have a lovely week, and don’t die before you come back, please.
Lots of love, Crazy Aunt Mima xox