I cut my own hair because I don't trust hairdressers. First time when I was 3.5. Without a mirror. Grandma decided to check up on me when I was about halfway through, but thought the locks laying on the floor were doll's hair. "You're cutting doll's hair? It's such a pity, that's some lovely hair!". Mother was petrified when she came back home. Made me wear a beret for a few months, because I looked like an ungodly creature. Well, I still do look like an ungodly creature now, but at least I have hair.
Not worn anything above the knee from the age 9 to 19. All because when I was 9 and wearing shorts, a lady behind me made a very mean remark about my legs.
I don't read Vice. I don't read NME. Hell, I don't even read pitchfork. I fail at socializing and networking. I just don't have patience and/or shallow approach towards people to handle that.
My presence in the blogosphere passes unnoticed. It's more like private notes than anything else. I don't have a paper diary, so that's fine.
I did have a diary for two years in elementary school. It was mostly filled up with my aching over "being in love" with one of my best friends. He, quite obviously, wasn't interested. After the feeling passed and I re-read all that soppiness produced, I had to tear out the pages and burn them. Yup, I was THAT embarrassed with what I had been.
I don't like being asked if I'm sick, which has been happening pretty much ever since. I'm just pale. I don't understand how people can't comprehend that. I may have shades under my eyes, but it's just in tune with my regular martyr attire. And oh, I don't have anemia, thanks for asking. I actually got tested and my iron levels are in upper-norm zone. I'm just that awesome, you see.
I wanted to play violin when I was a wee kid. Never happened. When I read a novel every 9 year old kid has to read, about a little boy who wanted to be a fiddler so much, he actually made his own fiddle from a stick or something, I cried. I also cried when he got beaten up to death in the end, I don't remember why did that happen though.
Speaking of novels you have to read at school when you're 9, there was another one. About a boy making little windmill models. His sister fell sick (something like a violent cold), so they put her inside a stove for 40 Hail Mary's. She died in the end too. And that's what 9 year olds are forced to read at schools. Novels about their peers dying. How can you grow up to be normal after such a trauma? You can't.
When I was 5, a new girl joined our gang. Her name was Maggie. I casually mentioned to my friend that I didn't like the way her name sounded. I was very specific about that, I didn't say I didn't like HER, I didn't say I didn't like HER NAME. I said I didn't like the way her name sounded. Needless to say, idiot friend burst out loud and clear "GONIA SAID SHE DOESN'T LIKE MAGGIE" and I got banished from our playground. It didn't shake me, I went home and when my mum asked what had happened, I just shrugged and said "people are weird". I have not changed my opinion since then.
I hate it when I read something interesting, don't bookmark it or save a link and then can't recall where the hell it was posted, when talking to someone and wanting to share (uhm, Stella, sorry, I know this always happens). Oh yes, and then spend 15 minutes trying to locate the source, but failing miserably.
The only time I was involved in raging physical violence was when playing basketball in P.E. class. Me and my good friend were always put in the opposite teams due to our heights and there's no such a thing as "friendship" when you're in opposite basketball teams. Things got nasty, we didn't talk for 3 weeks after that. She started the fight, but I had to be the one to say "sorry". Damnit. After that, I bailed out of any team/contact sports. It's just not for my temper and fragile psyche.
Sometimes, when I see wasted teenage girls on trains, with their far too short, ill-fitting skirts/dresses, torn tights and smudged make up, I feel a mixture of embarrassment and sadness over the possibility that I may be missing out on something. And then I remember the excuse I used to throw around in order to avoid cleaning the house and I try to focus on that. "I was made for better, bigger, more important things". It never worked on mum, but hey...
Happy birthday to me, with the apple cake I baked for myself because I had to.
0 comments:
Post a Comment