These Are Restless Times

A few days ago, I was just going about my daily business, reading posts, listening to music, trying to stop my cat from leaving me, etcetera etcetera. It was a mediocre day, and I was feeling thoroughly mediocre myself. How uninteresting and boring my life seems.
I came across posts about politics, of course. Mainly Trump and his stupid freaking wall. Posts about people’s personal lives – their birthdays and boyfriends and best friends and demons. Posts about projects and things people are doing, challenges they’re undertaking, mistakes they’re making. Posts about life, how to do it and do it well, how to ensure you get good grades and good hair and good everything.
It was all very unremarkable, as I said. Very mediocre.
Not that the posts weren’t great, I’m sure, but nothing really caught my eye, you know? As I said, I was feeling very mediocre.

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Why I Write

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.

Dammit.

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.

Oh, joy.

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

Not An Introduction

I’m not going to pretend I know what I’m doing.

I don’t.

But, I do enjoy writing, and starting a blog is something I’ve been considering for a while. Goodness knows how many times I’ve written a ‘first blog post.’ This is the first time I’ve ever posted one though.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m even going to say, in posts to come. But I’m sure I’ll find things. I feel that this is going to become a sort of diary that I’m sharing with the world. A document of the experiences of a sixth form girl with all of her own strange kinds of experiences. Stories from my life. Hence the name – hopefully you, my unknown and probably non-existent readers, will come to look forward to my posts as your weekly story-time. An escape from your life, and into my very problematic one.

It’s like when you read a book about someone with an awful life, and it makes you feel better, because yours no longer seems so bad. Except, my life is not quite John-Green-novel-worthy. That said, I’m not sure anyone’s really is. Either way, my life is not awful, but it is, as previously stated, problematic.

It is also, however, real, and laughing at other people’s real problems is so much more fun than laughing at other people’s fictional problems.

Now, as previously stated, I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to blogging, and nor will I pretend to. But I do feel that the best way for me to approach writing a blog is as if it’s a piece of fiction in first person, and the narrator just so happens to be exactly the same as me, because I seem to be able to do that kind of thing. Writing fiction is, for me, one of the most enjoyable and rewarding things to do. And, rather conveniently, I seem to be quite good at it.

Blogging, however, is something that I’m new to. As I said, I’ve been considering it for a while, but how I’m going to go about this is unknown to me. So, like any normal person would do, I’m going to pretend that it isn’t, because denial is one of the things that I do best. Maybe if I pretend that this is something I’m good at, and not something horribly new to me, then I actually will be good at it. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway. Otherwise this might just turn into something awful, and nobody wants that to happen.

I feel like I should introduce myself, but that makes me feel cocky, and being less cocky is something I’ve been working on.

Yes, and starting a blog to talk about all your problems isn’t cocky at all, Jemimah.

Hey, I introduced myself. That’s my name, Jemimah. Like the woman who stares at you while you make pancakes, but with an ‘h’ on the end. As you probably already realised, though, I go by Mima. Only I much prefer the way it looks without a capital ‘M’. (mima, if you wanted to compare.)

Now, introductions. Or rather, just one introduction. If you feel like it, though, you can introduce yourself in the comments. It would probably make my day, or something. Anyway, instead of a boring ‘this is my life and here is who I am,’ kind of introduction, I’m going to tell you some things, and you can come to your own conclusions about who I am.

As I write this, I’m sitting on the bus, on the way back from sixth form (which is pretentious British speak for ‘last two years of high school’) wearing a leather jacket and clunky shoes, and listening to The Smiths with too much eyeliner on, whilst attempting to look all cool and like I’m not writing a blog post on my aggressively-not-Apple-because-that’s-too-mainstream phone, because there are lots of people around me who might judge me if they know I’ve started a blog, and, despite my ‘you shouldn’t care what other people think of you’ attitude, I care a little too much what other people think of me.

Over the course of the last two years or so, I seem to have become one of those ‘alternative kids,’ despite my very best intentions. Leather jackets and The Smiths just reek of teenage angst and rebellion. In my defence, I am wearing a beanie with the word ‘Happy’ plastered across it, but it’s still a black hat pulled low over my forehead, and, as a logical result of this, I look thoroughly grungy. I also just caught sight of myself in a reflection, and my face is sending the message that I want to kill someone, which doesn’t help. But hey, it isn’t my fault that this is my writing face.

Oh, and the song changed to ‘Demon Days’ by Wild Wild Horses, who you probably haven’t heard of. I’m so indie and hipster and alternative, yo.

My reason for saying this all is because I feel that it is a better introduction than telling you about my life, because, if I actually manage to keep this up, you will hear far more than you want to about my life. Although, you would probably just stop reading if that were the case.

Also, what better way to get to know someone than by reading their description of what they’re doing, written in a way that they desperately hope will be funny, in order to make you subscribe? Yay for desperation and social incapability.

So that’s me, anyway. Uncool, sometimes grungy, and reluctantly chucked into the indie/alternative pot. I feel that after I was thrown in, I was left to simmer for too long with a bunch of kindly metal-heads, over-zealous TØP fans, unexpected drama nerds, secretly insane genius’s, and premature crazy cat ladies.

What an excellent description of my friends.

I feel that I’m exactly what you would expect to come out of a group of friends like that, except that I also love Disney princesses more than is healthy and spend significantly too much time reading.

I am, in terms of the delightful high-school cliques that we are all much too aware of, a wallflower. I observe the drama, am greatly entertained by the drama, and, as of beginning this blog, tell the internet about the drama, all the while never being involved in it myself. All around me, people are being exciting and getting involved in wonderful situations, and all the while, the most exciting thing I can say that I’m involved in is frequent visits to the hospital (n0, I’m not dying, I’m not John-Green-novel-worthy, remember?) and helping make the coffee at church.

And yes, I am one of those people who looks forward to getting up early on Sunday more than staying out late on Saturday.

As if on cue, my music just changed from Halsey (oh the irony) to Rend Collective, who, if you aren’t aware, are a stellar Christian music group.

And now, I have run out of things to say.

As I finish proof-reading and adding to this for about the fifth time, it’s gone 7, about 3 hours after I started, back on the bus. This has taken far too long, and I probably just broke the illusion or something by divulging my timings, but hey, this whole thing is a mess anyway.

Have a lovely week, and don’t die before you come back.

Lots of love, Mima xox

TL;DR (ahaha I’m hilarious): I’m another weirdo with a blog, looking for a creative outlet and some affirmation.