Hello Again! Books, books, books, Garp!

Me, greeting you all:

Well everyone, I'm back! I've been back ages now but I've been on blogging holiday as well as actual holliers.

Now, where did I leave off...

No idea. Anybody? Oh well.

Books! I've not been writing, but I can't say the same about reading. I've been devouring lumps of books at home and away, and struggling to make myself stop staring at paperbacks all day. In England I read The World According To Garp by John Irving, which definitely goes on my top fave books of all time. Not to mention inspiration for wanting to write! It's about Garp, who has always wanted to be a writer, his life and such, so a lot of the text talks about churning out novels, short stories, and a writer's life in general. I have never really read a novel about writing novels, but what better book for silly little me? The little lassie who buries her head in books all day and wants to write for living (yes I know I need a steady job mom, yes, yes, I will, I promise... *sigh*). Anyway, after reading Garp and never wanting to put it down, but having to reluctantly because it's time to go see Big Ben or something, I want a typewriter so bad. No kidding, I really want one. I used to have one when I was little but I foolishly gave it away. Now I wanna write novels on a typewriter all the time.

There was one line in Garp that had an impact on me. He was talking about a character who is one of those people who just don't finish things. Y'know, they start loads of new projects, but never ever persevere until the end. We all know someone like that (some silly little ladies are like that too...). So Garp comes out with this: "You only grow by coming to the end of something and by beginning something else." His point is, if you wanna be a novelist, you have to strive for an ending, as much as you enjoy the process, the middle, the start, you have to live for the end, and let that drive you. Novelists want to finish, so they can finish their next. For someone who has a nasty little habit of being interested in everything, therefore starting everything, not having enough time, and finishing nothing, it made me think. If you restart and restart, each time coming up with a better beginning, what happens after that? Say you have the ultimate start, after so much practise, and then what? You never practised the middle, maintaining the plot, developing the characters, tying up the plot, and the most important bit, the end. Isn't it better to churn out a non-masterpiece novel so you can grow and learn from it, rather than never coming to an end?

Aaaaaanyway, in conclusion, The World According To Garp has definitely been my favourite book this summer. As much as I loved Wild Swans, and as much as I enjoyed English Passengers. Not that I'm finished reading for the summer, or anything. I'm nearing the end of the Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell trilogy by Susanna Clarke, and I have enjoyed it but I really think they are dragging their feet nearer the end. I mean I just want the plot to wrap up already, it's getting stale. Clarke could have easily, and should have ended the book at least 100 pages earlier than she did.

In other news:

I'm still trying to find the balance between reading, portfolio (to get into an animation course), bass, chores, teaching my little sis piano, and y'know, seeing people. There really aren't enough hours. Please. Please increase the hours. I beg.

And I'm gone vegan, so there's quick and easy meals out the window. It's not half as hard as I expected though, I only am very apologetic to, and sorry for, anybody who has me over on a regular basis... Pizza without cheese here I come, even if it is an abominable idea, it'd probably still be tasty. I'll never touch raisins though, that'd be criminal. I had to touch one the other day to remove it from the top of the toaster (cinnamon and raisin bagels, yuck) and I nearly died. It was horrif.

Over and out.

P.S. Back to my normal every other day blogging routine, until school starts... ugh... school...

I'm Off To England, and a Review of English Passengers!

Last post before England! As le boif keeps reminding me. I'm still struggling to heal myself of this fun-filled cough, before I away, but time is running slim. And yes, I'll be a good girl and do as granddad tells me: "be careful of pickpockets, they're rampant there" (in London). It's such a hassle changing currency. "That's why we have the Euro" yeah, I know, I know. But I'm just moaning, I'm not for us little Irish having Euro really. Being a part of the EU, sure, but the Euro is a bit much. Saying that, do they make wallets bigger in the UK? The feckin' £20 notes barely fit in mine. Pickpockets, come at me bro. Even before my granddad's warning, I was already expecting thieving folk, I mean, I've seen Oliver. It's not like England has changed since then or anything... In fairness, the accent hasn't. As I've said before though, I'm a sucker for an English accent, so I'm not complaining. As long as my Irish little self doesn't go around bursting into fits of giggles every time anyone speaks... It's such a funny accent like... Le boif will have to control me, if I can't manage to restrain. That, or make some sort of excuse that I've got an illness, or a mental disorder or something. You can't blame me like. For a silly little lady who thinks accents are hilarious to go somewhere foreign, what do you expect me to do?

Anyway, I finished reading English Passengers by Matthew Kneale today (I was determined to get it done before England). I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed it. I loved the mixed narrative and hearing all the different accounts of things; it kept it interesting, even past the plot, as the book, in my opinion, is all about the characters. Whether you love them or hate them (mostly the latter), it's very entertaining to read. The plot was interesting itself, what with its close association to the truth, but what I probably enjoyed the most, apart from the very unique, polarised characters, was the way in which Kneale connected everything. You know from the beginning it's gonna happen, but it's just the way he ties it all up in a ribbon, the perfect linking up of characters, plots etc. It actually made me say "aahhhhhh!" out loud a couple of time, in a 'that's how it relates' type of way. The story unfolds very neatly, no strings left untied, and by the time you're finished, you're at peace with it all, everything making perfect sense. All in all it was a very cleverly written novel. Very quick and witty. There were a couple of small parts where I lost enthusiasm slightly, and read less, but these were very slight, and towards the end, after reading 50 pages, you barely notice and you want more.

I'd say my favourite character was Renshaw, which I felt I sadly didn't get to hear enough of. However, my favourite narrator would have to be (after a lot of thought) Reverend Wilson, because (no spoilers, I promise) the way he put things is just fantastic. Not the English he used, just his way of looking at and thinking of things. He has an amazing talent for making something so ordinary out as something extraordinary (you could argue it's a religious thing, but to a point; Wilson is way past that point). For anyone reading this, who hasn't read English Passengers, I'm flattered, but I'd strongly advise you to read it.

Mainly, to summarise, I'd have to say it's a story about a journey, while there is a more exact plot, it's the journey that steals the show, and within the journey, the mixing of characters, that often would usually never mix by both choice and lack of opportunity shines though. I'm a sucker for good solid characters, even more so than for a good solid plot, and this book didn't fail to deliver. I may sing praises, but trust me. Or don't. Either way, read the book.

Team America, or Should I Say Team Stupid (My least Favourite Movie)

Today, as you can see from the title, I've decided to share with you all what I think is the worst movie ever. Now I'm a silly little lady, so anybody who assumes Team America is too silly for me may assume again. If you knew me, and knew my choice in boyfriend, you'd understand that I have nothing against ridiculously silly. But just plain stupid is a whole other story.

Let me give you a brief synopsis of the plot of the movie. Team America: World Police is "an American satirical action comedy film" which centres around the lives of these purposefully stupid and badly worked puppets. The director and writers of this film are also responsible for the series South Park, which is a bit more bearable. It basically takes the mickey out of high-budget action films, and plays up stereotypes, and clichés for giggles. I never thought I could hate anything so much, even though I don't mind that type of satire. In essence, it's all about Team America, a sort of police force who employ an actor to help them take down Kim Jong-il.

Now let me tell you why I was forced to sit through this garbage. It was le boif's birthday, last summer, and he had a little get together with some friends. It was winding down time (in other words, movie time) and everyone gathered around the TV, allowing the birthday boy to choose his flick. You get the picture... To my horror, every terribly stupid (stupid being the optimum word to describe this movie) joke or badly worked puppet scene had le boif and his bromantic friend in stitches, while all I could manage was to stifle a growl. The look on my face during this abomination was one of such fury and despair that le boif thought I was angry at him, and I couldn't even manage to speak from the shock. And now my explanation and slating begins...

Firstly, I didn't even know if I could bring myself to share any links from this movie, as the language is so vile and so is everything else, but I will share a couple to illustrate my point: this movie sucks.

Let's take these video as examples. What even is there to say?

The first video: So much disgusting, so much lowbrow, very stupid, so damn much stupid. And it takes so long too. Good Jesus. Help me. It physically injured my soul. How is this funny? Why must they hurt me like this? The prolonged horror is just... What? How?

The second video: Even worse that the first. Nothing even happens! Yes they make fun of the "here's the offer, and here's the door" choice where everyone chooses the offer, but it doesn't work! Just because you mix it up doesn't mean it's good! I know, I know, "it's satire, it's supposed to be stupid, that's the point", but people actually find this funny. That's what confounds me. It's so painfully bland and tasteless. How can boring and bland be entertaining? And the vast majority of the movie is like this.

I'll share with you one more video, that's the intro to the movie, and it illustrates my annoyance in regards to the "puppetry" in the fighting part, and the lame, unintelligent, trying so hard to be witty, and to show off a shoddy budget ($32 million to be exact, don't ask me how they managed to spend all that, or where it's all gone to). The entire thing is a masterpiece of abhorrence. It's genius at its best, and by genius I mean idiocy, and by best I mean worst.

Enjoy! And pity past me for having to sit through hours of this nonsense.

Packing Dilemmas, Holiday Excitement and English Boys

Packing is hard. It's not natural. How is a silly little lady like myself supposed to know what she'll feel like wearing every day for the next more than two weeks? C'est impossible! Nílim ábalta! I know some humans out there get their clothes ready days in advance, or at least the night before, and some of those inhuman humans can somehow pack confident in the knowledge that they aren't forgetting anything and have everything they need, but I'm not of these people. Yes, occasionally I know what I'll wear in advance, for an occasion! Not a whole fortnight... But usually I spend at least 20 minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe, completely dazed and incapable of choosing. There's never anything to wear. As a female, the words "I have nothing to wear!" being screamed every time I look for an outfit, are acceptable, and it is my right, as a lady, to have a mini tantrum or breakdown every time alongside this exclamation. Saying all this, le boif seems to think he's a lady in the clothes choosing department too... But no matter how many "should I bring a shirt and tie"s or "I don't know what shoes to bring"s he gives me, I have enough of my own packing dilemmas, I cannot play mummy and pack for him too! I don't mind his little clothes interjections every few minutes though, he is le boif after all, and a lovable one at that.

So, how about I help all you packing people out there with a few tips I came up with all on my own?

1. If you're going on a plane, pack at least 3 big bottles of nail polish remover, shampoo and conditioner, along with your machine gun, hand grenade and blades, just in case customs start giving you any trouble.
2. Also if you're going on a plane, don't bring your passport, nobody cares about them anymore, I mean technology has taken over, your iPhone will suffice.
3. Bring as many suitcases as you want, it's not like they charge you extra to bring another.

That's how aeroplane packing works, right?

Anyway, as you might have guessed, I'm not going on an aeroplane - oh, and the destination is England by the way - because ferries all the way. My favourite bit will be the 5 hour car journey in the Nissan Micra with us three kids in the back. It'll be so roomy. I can't complain though, le boif's family are pretty much treating me to a holiday, and even surprised me by extending the holiday so we can go to a Japanese festival (wannabe Japanese nut over here). Aren't they so cute?

Even if it's only across the water, to England, we're all still very excited. I have never been, believe it or not, and my fears of going are trying to remember which side of the escalator you're supposed to stand on, and which side to walk on (Ireland doesn't have any of these silly little rules that make sense, we don't like social unspoken rules, we like Guinness), that I'll get extremely lost and accidentally die, and that I'll fall in love with every single person there with an English accent. I'm a sucker for a cute English boy, ask le boif, and even he is worried about silly little me cooing, giggling and fangirling every time I meet a young fellow with a cute accent, especially his silly little friends! I'll try to restrain myself but I am a girl after all, you can't blame me. I will end up with an English accent after being there for a while though. Camouflage and all that jazz. Gotta be careful so I won't get the "no dogs or Irish" response my granddad did... I kid, it's not the 60s anymore. But I do tend to develop an English accent when chatting undilutedly to English people (and by undilutedly I mean only). My Japanese friend has ordered me to Skype her when my accent reaches its peak. Even Japanese girls love an English accent... I'd say le boif will get a top up on his little London-Irish accent (the Irish part obviously, I jest, I jest) and that'll keep me entertained for at least the rest of the summer. He'll just be stuck saying the words dance, France, girl and bad-ass for my giggles, but he's aware of these terms and conditions.

Just as I'm aware of the terms and conditions relating to le boif's clothes shopping, and over-excitement. I will be playing in suit shops all day, and I will be given at least one headache from rapid loud nonsense speak. But such is love, eh? I put up with his silliness, while he puts up with mine. Happy out.

G.B.F. Jump Street

It is 01:20 and technically it is not today but tomorrow, but y'know, same difference. Yesterday was very nondescript apart from much movie viewing of the 21/22 Jump Street variety, both in cinema and home environments. Enjoyable I must say, but honestly, doesn't everyone, or at least every girl have a huge soft squishy marshmallow-y spot in their hearts for Jonah Hill. However, there is one problem with watching both movies in a row: confusion in the memory department. But then again, one forgets that when they see Channing Tatum (my Step Up fellow) with his shirt off, doing some parkour or something else impressive and muscle-y fit of that variety.

Today, not only have I been slightly creeped out and made jumpy by The Purge, but I was also miraculously cured by the gayest, jolliest, most quote-worthy movie that's ever been directed. This movie was indeed G.B.F. which of course stands for Gentile Bumbling Fish (I joke, Gay Best Friend of course), which I wouldn't be surprised if the four of us watching the amazing flick are the only ones to have ever seen it. It is beautiful, and the most intelligent, least predictable movie ever. While I may hate, I can't help but adore, I mean it's pure genius.

As short as this blog post is, I think I should return this iPad (which is totes awky to type on), and stop speaking to the internet before I blurt out something insane in my sleepy stupor (I love how that's a word). So Internet peeps, I'll play it like a Casanova and love you and leave you. Goodnight and such.

A Splash of Poetry

It's a terrible moment when you can't taste your coffee. I can smell it, and it smells as divine as always, but it sits there teasing me. I can feel it there lounging about in my mouth when I take a sip, but nope, no taste follows.

Anyway, today is quite an uninspired day, with a quiet me, so I've decided I'll share my writings from two more inspired days, when I had so very much to say. In other very hipster words, you can read my poetry.

The quintessence of beauty, tranquility and peace, to the foreign eye,

Is to me, a given, a burden and frankly, a bore. 

I long to be occupied, to be amongst a different species of breath,

A more active, more involved habitat, where swiftness is daily. 

But another variety calls, a more seductive, serene surrounding.

Salt, pine, sand or blossom; I suppose I could rest my head there with the same ease.

Until then, green will keep me captive in its manufactured wilderness.

And one more, in a sonnet type style.

A droplet patiently awaits its cue,

Suspended within a cotton-like fluff.

Its call is sudden and it falls when due,

Its force is gravity, its journey, rough.

As it falls, along with its brethren - quick,

What exhilaration they must enjoy!

They race one another, boasting their shtick,

With blatant disregard, like bombs deploy.

Sights the human eye can't hope to behold,

Stretch on for what seems to them a lifetime.

Each generation of droplet grows old,

And the view of the next is smoke and grime.

But each ending won't alter, just remain,

The death of a droplet, lost in the rain.

I have no titles, nor headings, forgive but don't forget me. 

I apologise for my silly little lady self today. 

My Boyfriend Loves to Shop for Clothes... Help me.

Growling laptops are quite off-putting, I must say. My chance to use the lovely Mac keyboard was destroyed due to unpredictable circumstances, and instead I must try not to provoke this growling, grumbling Acer, which I do fear may blow me to pieces if I anger it in any way.

Aaaaanyway... Today, has been... interesting. I went to Swords in Dublin with le boif, and his mummy and sissy, for some holiday shopping. Now, the usual circumstance for couples clothes shopping is quite simple, and the stereotype is rarely false: the girl drags the boy around Next, TK Maxx and Penneys, and his duty is to answer the "does my bum look big in this?" question correctly, and carry the bags. I say this stereotype is rarely wrong, but in our case (le boif and silly little me), this is severely reversed. I have long accepted the terms and conditions of le boif's admittedly camp obsession with clothes, and knew I'd have a thrilling shopping experience. 

Le boif is also aware of his oddness, and in preparation, or foresighted compensation, I was first brought to Tiger (a shop of knick-knacks), and received treats of sunglasses and a sketchbook  to keep me quiet for the next few hours. We also went to one of those fun photo booths, to be all retro and hipster, with our couple silliness. Thus ended the compensation. And so it began. After many complaints of "it's the wrong material", "they're too low cut", etc, and the trying on and modelling of the various items to be bought, I will admit, I was quite exhausted, and slightly losing the will to live. Coffee and chats did the trick though and I recovered gradually, but it was touch and go for a while, and I very nearly perished due to the overload of shopping coupled with uncomfortably warm sleepy weather.

The rest of the day was one of sunshine, sand and sea. Not bad for an Irish summer. With ice cream cones in hand, we all headed onto a Skerries beach, to soak up and relish the vitamin D we can usually only find in Super Milk in this country. Now, I'm not one for sandy beaches; yucky, dusty, microscopic annoyances getting all over your clothes and hair isn't my cup of tea. I'd much prefer a nice stony beach, on a not too hot day (so I can exist peacefully). But saying all that, I did enjoy my beach time today. 

I will admit it was quite cute couple-ish, the whole scene. Le boif lifting me, giving me piggy-back rides, falling on the sand together which sparked fits of giggles, and sharing sandy kisses, all of which are quite rom-com movie-ish. You won't find me complaining about having a movie style relationship, or anyone else out there for that matter. It's hardly a bad thing. It is incredibly cheesy and ridiculous, but so is love when you think about it, and that doesn't stop everyone from participating and enjoying the madness of it all. 

Sadly, we had to leave the beach at some stage, and no matter how long you stay, leaving isn't something you want to do. But we managed, and had a sleepy, bumpy road journey home to le boif's. Since then, we've been even more hipster cute couple-ish, playing guitar and bass together, while singing. The fun accelerated though when we relived our childhoods by playing Rayman Raving Rabbits on the Wii with le boif's lil' sis'. 

While I'm running short of new news, I gotta say, even with the growly laptop (who is behaving relatively well at present), and the lack of Mac keyboard, sitting up here in le boif's room, writing while he reads The Catcher In The Rye (thanks to my influence of course) unintentionally looking so damn cute and handsome, life is pretty damn sweet.  

Nervous Nintendo Types, Mario Stress, A New Wii, and Reliving A Childhood

Good evening, yes, it's that time again. That time where I fill you in on all my antics and musings. Welcome (back, if applicable) to The Life And Times of a Silly Little Lady.

Not a lot has drastically happened in the past couple days, except my lil' sis' has acquired a Wii. Y'know, those crazy Nintendo things where you have to move to play video games. It did surprisingly well for something forcing you to exercise. Saying that, I only know of a handful of people who haven't trading their Wiis in for some other less daring console. But there are Nintendo people, and not Nintendo people. I, am what I guess I'd call a "Nervous Nintendo" type. Don't worry, I'll elaborate.


While Nintendo are known as the good guys of the gaming industry (by good guys, I mean, for all the nerdy kids out there, no matter what age you are), I am a bit of an oddball when it comes to gaming in general. That's not to say I didn't have my nose constantly stuck in GameBoys and DSs throughout my (admittedly short) growing years (when it wasn't stuck in a book), bec- *was interrupted to do yet more chores, while my tea went cold*. Anyway. What was I saying? Yes, I was a complete Nintendo worshipper, but the games I frequented weren't Mario... I spent 100% of my GameBoy days playing Tetris, 80% of my DS time playing Animal Crossing (I nearly went out and bought a 3DS recently just so I could play the new Animal Crossing which seemed to have taken on board all my silent childhood suggestions and made them reality. I want New Leaf so baaaaaaddddd!!!!), 15% Nintendogs, and 5% 52 All Time Classics. And on the Wii, when I had one (before I traded it in...), I played 50% Rayman Raving Rabbids, and 50% WarioWare Smooth Moves. If you notice one thing about all those games, it's the fact that you don't constantly worry about dying, virtually, and having to redo the whole level all over again. This is why I was never a PlayStation or Xbox lady.

I did own both PlayStation and Xbox, but truthfully, I only played Lego games and Guitar Hero. I've often attempted to branch out into normal games, I tried to play Tomb Raider, and nearly had 7 cardiac arrests within the first level. Stupid wolves... So that didn't succeed, and I stuck with Nintendo. Now, most Nintendoers have completed Super Mario Bros. at least a handful of times, and most children find it easy, Nintendo are after all, all about the kids. Not me though... The amount of times I've fallen down those holes (ahh! fall!) and been killed by spiky fellows, I couldn't count. The amount of times I've completed a level I could. I'd estimate about 5 levels I've completed in total, and even some of those levels overlap due to me dying multiple times on the next level. I swear, it makes my blood pressure sky-rocket, and leaves me exhausted from all the stress. This is why I'd call myself a "Nervous Nintendo" type.


However, challenge me on the Super Mario Bros. mini-games and you've got a challenge, I'm such a mini-game type kid. Because I don't have to worry about death! It's enough to worry about in reality, I don't want reality invading my gaming time, especially not baby Nintendo! It's always fascinated me to watch all those proper gamers (even the not so proper Nintendo nerds I love so much) play their tension filled, thriller type games, and enjoy it, or even to watch children (or make-believe children) get through a Mario level with ease. The amount of "what? Mario? You can't play Mario? It's like the easiest kid game ever! How can that stress you out? Show me!"s I've gotten, and each time, I oblige, and fascinate them with my skills of stress and dying.

Only one person in the world, have I met, who understands this Nervous Nintendo disposition (I'm enjoying this term I've coined). And this person, happens to be my little sister. She, like I used to, watches her father play hours of terrifying games (in my day it was Resident Evil), and yet wouldn't play them herself with a ten foot pole. She actually comes to me if she's stuck on a Lego Batman level. And yes, I do feel like a boss when I succeed with ease (or without for that matter). She's gotten herself a Wii now, and no, she hasn't touched Mario yet, well, Super Smash Bros. is the closest she's come. Instead, she's been playing Just Dance (you've no idea how much I've fallen in love with this game), Wii Fit and *drumroll* Rayman Raving Rabbids. Ah childhood... My sister is just mini me, I'm aware of this.

I have definitely been reliving my childhood these past couple days, what with all the Rayman and the dance games (sadly, the latter were not present in my actual childhood). The cute thing is, my sissy rarely plays Rayman, but instead, watches me, the pro (hah!) play it. I have to say though, those dance mat style levels, step aside and make room for the champion. I used to restart the game if I missed a single Rabbid. I used to get my cousin to do any of the racing, flying or shooting games though... The shooting games were too stressful for me, even though I really wanted to rescue the baby Globoxes so much... And as for Just Dance, well, let's just say when my sister went to school, I played it for literally hours, no joke.


I think that's enough Nintendo talk. Apologies to all those grown ups and non-Nintendoers out there for my nervous nerdom.

A Lot Of Puppy, Butterflies, Poor Donkeys and Irish Mosquitos

Before we get started, hello, and welcome. But mainly, I'm trying this thing I hear tell people do, which involves having music on whilst writing... Weird. Normally I want quiet, because I'm speaking (virtually), and I don't want anyone else interfering with my right to speak, or distracting silly little me, or changing the tone or mood when I don't intend it to be altered. I don't know how long this horrific experiment will last, I can't hear myself think here.

Yeah. experiment over. I'm more of a speech giver than a conversationalist.
Ahhh... Peace...

So ladies and gentlemen, let's fill you in and get you up to date on everything you've missed these past couple days. I'm just warning all you cat-folk out there, my Puppy will be centre stage during this blog post, so relax and enjoy the canine.

Puppy is, in a sentence, a bundle of galloping energy, with the kind of fur you just want to ruffle and give scrunchie-cuddles to. He also happens to run so fast, and have such big paws (and a big self in general), that admittedly, he does sound like a horse when he legs it around the field. And in regards to his puppy-dog strength (he's nearly fully grown, but he'll always be my puppy), he could drag you down the road as if you weren't there at all, if you let him, on a walk. Ask le boif, who despite his cat-lover self, enjoys being hauled down the road by Puppy. Oh yes, and Puppy has a "real" name, but I don't like real names, and I like Puppy better.

While you may imagine this big doggy to be wild and relentless (which is mostly true), you have yet to hear about his adorable puppy-self. Puppy may sound like a horse, but when we went for a walk down to some local real horsies, poor Puppy was frightened out of his fur, but sat there like a good boy, albeit, quite far away from them. But perhaps the cutest thing of all, even beating his sitting beside me when he's finished galloping, while I read my book, is his adoration of flying creatures. If that dog had wings, he'd be dangerous.

Puppy's all time favourite hobbies are chasing and snapping at butterflies, battling and vanquishing bees and wasps, and watching the birdies fly around the sky, and galloping underneath them. I swear, you give him a butterfly in flight, and he'll give you a spectacle. He can never catch them though, he's too big to jump high enough, but that doesn't stop him of course. However, as cute as this pastime of his is, if you have him on the lead, taking him for a walk, and a butterfly crosses his path, Puppy's gonna chase that butterfly, with or without you attached to him. His battles with bumbly bees are very "kawaii" also. At first, he attacks, and snaps at them, jumping back after he delivers each snap, for fear of receiving a sting, and this dance continues until the bee's wings cannot support it anymore, and it falls to the grass, in despair. This is not the end however. Puppy will lie down, watching that bumbly bee, making sure it stays inanimate, and doesn't try to be a hero. If that bumble so much as twitches a microscopic leg, Puppy will pat him with his paw, to make sure it won't happen again, feeling like he is in control of nature itself. When Puppy is certain of his victory, he celebrates. He does this by flopping onto where the bee is lying, and rolling around, on top of him, with the happiest face you've ever seen. I am also certain that Puppy wishes he were a bird, because he stares up into the sky for minutes on end, and runs with all his might underneath the swallow he spies, swerving here and there, replicating the bird's exact flight pattern. All in all, what is he trying to do to me, this Puppy, kill me with cuteness?

One more thing, I'd like to share with you, if Puppy's actions aren't cute enough for you, allow me to introduce to you, Puppy, as an actual puppy. If that's not totes adorbs I don't want to live in this world. It's so strange to think, all those years ago, when we first got Puppy, he was so small, he would curl up on my chest and tummy and fall asleep, with his big baby paws. Nowadays, I could use him as my pillow.

Enough about my puppy (I'm done now cat-folk), on our walk today (I swear, not about Puppy), we came across a sad little donkey a few fields down from our home, all overgrown hoofed and little and neglected. It's enough to break a heart. We've called the ISPCA, and they put a notice on the gate, telling the owner to sort it all out, and the owner obviously just took the notice off his gate so nobody else would see it. We're going to call the ISPCA again soon. The poor little guy. Flat out braying he is.

I was being so attacked by flies and all those other flying insects that buzz directly around your head, that I couldn't stay with the donkey for long, sadly. These flies though. Holy Mary. Phew. Much buzz. Very bite. What is it with me and mosquitoes? Why do you fellows love my blood so? This is Ireland, not Spain. I did not sign up for this mosquito deal. So much itch.

I have to say though, the weather really has begun to behave itself. It's sticking exactly around my 17-19 degrees Celsius requirement.  

Oh and here's a picture of my cat as a kitten, for all you cat lovers out there. 

Scalding Liquid, Evil Cherry, A New Allergy and Le Boif's Bass

As we (I) speak (type), I'm struggling to drink my lovely mug of Nestle Matcha Latte, from a mug that looks very pretty and all that, but I must say, it cannot be called practical. It conducts heat like crazy! Especially the handle and the rim! Much burn, ah scald! If only I had a nice desk (well, I do have one of those) and a lovely computer with one of those lovely Mac keyboards, and le boif being somehow quiet in the room with me. Ahhhhh... My idea of heaven...

Anyway, back to business. I think I should re-title my blog "A Series of Unfortunate Little Lady Events", as within the past week, I've been scorched out of my being, my wrist went all bat-siúcra, and yesterday my first ever consumption of a single cherry didn't go so well...

As per usual, allow me to set the scene: it's a lovely, not too hot morning, and I'm over with le boif. As I glance at the table, I see a bowl of handsome-looking cherries, nearly as handsome as le boif himself, practically inviting me to try one, before leaving the room. Also on my mind was that 'tying-a-cherry-stalk-in-a knot-with-your-tongue' thing, so I decide it must be done. I munch the yummy cherry and slip the stalk in my pocket for later antics. Not long after, I began to notice my top lip grow all weird and tingly, and half of it was suddenly swollen. Immediately I thought: allergy, having witnessed my silly little younger sister's unfortunate peanut allergy not even a year previous, that resulted in a pyjama clad trip to the emergency room. So I scanned my brain for everything I'd eaten that morning. Nothing out of the ordinary. But I forgot that one casual cherry, and I mean, who's ever heard of a cherry allergy anyway? So I tried to forget about my puffy lip and hives I'd developed, and my nauseated tummy, and enjoy snuggly cuddle time with le boif. It took me the entire day, and some of the evening to cop on. It wasn't until silly little me was lying on her bed, fiddling with the cherry stalk in her mouth, that she saw the light.

So now I'm allergic to cherries. Darn. I thought I'd gotten away Scot free from all the bad genes of asthma and allergies. And the crazy thing is, I'm not allergic to anything most people are allergic to. Oh no. I could each tonnes of peanut flavoured shellfish and I'd be fine, but one little cherry. Who'dda thought, eh?

*unintentional real life gasp* I just remembered I've been neglecting my Matcha. Ahhhh, ver' taste.

In regards to today, I've been a lazy little lady, besides socialising with our guests over from England, I did naught but bass, and my weeny baby tapered fingies hate me for it. Blisters galore. And by galore, I mean I may possibly have a tiny one. I don't have a bassy of my own, but I have a boif of my own, with two bassies of his own, so, by extension, and have a temporary bassy. It's quite handy having le boif around. He's a keeper alright.

Traumatic Injuries, Wrist Wraps, Paper Doll Mise, and Summer Sleep

Hello all, your favourite silly little lady is injured.

I remember the day well, like it was yesterday (which it was). I'll paint the scene for you. Picture silly little me being an amazing granddaughter to her grandpops, lifting crates and tyres from here to there for him. So there I am, lugging these monstrously heavy car-shoes, with my delicate lady-like wrists. Now these wrists may be dainty, but they've had their warlike hours.
*Flashback* Last year (ish) I attended Wing Chun Kung Fu lessons, and even invested in a punching bag, for home-time beating sessions, and a few weeks in, my sifu told me that all the little ladies had to wear wrist wraps nowadays, and that I ought to buy a pair. I did, like a good girl, but some of the pride that can be labelled 'foolish feminism' never let me wear them, or my boxing gloves. *Flashback ends*
      Long story short, now I have a dodgy wrist and a now-healed cyst on my knuckle. So back to my epic tale: whilst hauling these tremendous tyres around my garden, my dodgy wrist did something it likes to do every time it lifts heavy items, a form of protest, so to speak; it clicked. I didn't notice the pain for a while, but by the evening it was extremely painful to move, and achy in general. I also couldn't stop fidgeting and moving my left hand, since it's so accustomed to being an equal with my right hand, (note: I'm not ambidextrous, but I do use my left hand practically just as much as my right, except in writing, and my sifu thought I was left handed when I started training). So my left hand got jealous and wouldn't sit still, and in the end I turned to my old friend, Wrist Wrap (I have no picture to commemorate the experience, nor the times we shared, so my outline-y silly lady sketch will have to suffice, please ignore my skills, the sentiment remains). Wrist Wrap (I've lost his brother) had been neglected, and shoved under my wardrobe, and when I turned to him for help, despite his taunting, mocking and sneering (he's still sore that I boycotted him), he provided a very snug and supportive home for my little wristy.

Conclusion: It's not so bad anymore, but I'll take more care of Left Wrist in future.

I also had a go at recreating younger me's drawing style yesterday  (ignore my tapered finger, it's merely holding the wardrobe closed, and hiding the envelope containing mini me's clothes), and accidentally made paper dress up doll me, while attempting to make a cute little lady.
Therefore, the equation stands:

A Cute Little Lady = Me

Maths is on my side, le boif must be right. He has chosen wisely. 

I must say, if all that wasn't riveting enough for you, I've had the most eventful day. In fact, I even spent most of it being unconscious. Yes ladies and gentlemen, you know summer is here when all us lazy cat-like teenagers sleep in until 2pm. At about 3:30pm I decided it was time for breakfast, so I traipsed all the way next door, to le grandparents, to have a couple of lovely eggies. Ahhh, life is sweet. 

Irish Heatwave, Bass Guitars, AUB-1, and a Little Mandolin

I may have mentioned before that it's summer, but allow me to repeat myself: it really is summer.

Not only have all us lucky students gotten our holidays (yay!), which marks the usual Irish summer, (as we don't normally have the weather to match) but we're also being scorched off the face of the earth. I don't mind a nice warm day, with a light breeze, around 17 degrees Celsius, in fact I'd welcome it. But there is warm, and then there is 'ouch my lungs can't breath from the excessive sun'.  Why? Why is there such a need for 27 degrees? In Ireland of all places! The entire nation will be sunburnt and riddled with freckles before the week is out! I know we Irish love to chat about the weather, and moan about the lack of sun, but honestly, we never expected the sun to come down from the heavens and nest in our backyards. What are we, dating?

I'm aware that at least 70% of the country are cursing people like me (non-sunworshippers) for our putting a downer on our Spain style weather, and are enjoying the scald for the time they get to keep it, but what about all of us delicate flowers? The difference of a couple of degrees for us is traumatic and downright scandalous. I don't even own a fan, I was under the impression that this was a non-scald country. I need to breath, over here. I wouldn't mind if I had a swimming pool (well, I would a little), or at least lived near the sea where a breeze could exist, but an inland area, I don't know how long I'll last. Even my Puppy/giant dog mutt, has no desire to go get the ball, that's a basic doggy right. Not that I could go out and throw it, I fear I'll get frazzled like a little egg on a pan. Suggesting sun cream isn't an option, I would go mad if I had to wear that slime, I'm only human.

Due to my sudden aversion to going outside/inability to leave my cool home, I have taken to playing le boif's bass, and reading le boif's The Bass Book. It does what it says on the tin, and concerns itself with shiny and crumbly old basses that belonged to music-y people, whilst providing pictures and educating helpless and clueless little ladies like myself, in the world of boom. I'm not implying that when I'm finished I'll retain much information, but I enjoy brushing up on my awareness of my ignorance.

From the little amount I've read, I appear to be more of a Jazz Bass lady than a Precision, and I've also fallen in love with the most handsome bass in town/around. I will show you him now, but bear in mind that he's mine, and you can't have him. (As if I could get my hands on one *cries*) Looooooook at him! In'he a beaut? The one on the left is the AEB-1 (Ampeg Electric Bass), and the one on the left is MY AUB-1 (Ampeg Unfretted Bass). I love him. He's so pretty.






 Look at him sitting there, with his lovely scroll cranium (headstock), his f-holes right through, his quirky bridge, lack of frets and his mystery pickup, why is he not mine? We all know he's supposed to be mine, it's a given, so how's about we speed up the painful process? Or else I'll storm up to Mr. Ampeg and tell him to quit all this amp manufacturing malarkey and make me my bassy. He can't say no. What could go wrong? I know I ought to get a bass of my own, of some description first, in the meantime, but NIH.

I also happened upon a sheer piece of joy yesterday in my Google Images searching. To all you people out there he may just look like a normal mandolin but I beg to differ. I've never seen anything so pretty. I was so delighted with the world for making this 'un, that all faith in the human race has been returned, and I forgive you all for all your nonsense. So here's a picture to brighten your day.

Disaster, Cute Couple Time, Common Sense and General Knowledge

Home at last! But not without calamity!

My mother broke her finger in a foreign land and has been flitting from doctor to doctor in search of adequate medical attention ever since. Also, my state of sanity is being tested by the scorcher of a day it is turning out to be. Not to mention I left my phone in le boif's car, and feel naked without it.

Regardless, the weekend came to a close on a positive note for me, myself and I.

Yesterday I had a very cute couple-y day, consisting of painfully giggly giggles, us two goggly glasses teens reading our books together like old age pensioner married couples, coffee, flicking through guitar, bass, Beatles and album cover books, and cinnamon buns.

Now, my boif ain't known for his common sense, but it's a whole 'nother story when you end up in his neck of the woods, topic-wise. He may have trouble applying butter to a slice of bread, or even toast for that matter, but ask him the year >insert name of some guitar< came about, who played it, and ask him to draw it and you'll find he's more than capable to make you feel like you're the one lacking in common sense. I'm not complaining, I find it quite an endearing thing. I'm aware of my lack of knowledge in the matter, and especially because of that I love to hear someone chat knowledgeably in their niche that is so foreign to my ears. To me, it's fascinating to hear le boif recite a load of specifics, and years of albums, makes/models and artists, that even if I read 10 books on each, from cover to cover, I wouldn't know a single solid fact, never mind any dates or years. But I guess that's the way my head works.

While le boif lacks common sense, I lack general knowledge. Don't ask me who Rolf Harris is, I couldn't point Alex Turner from the Arctic Monkeys out of a line up, despite the fact that I love them (I barely even know the lead singer's name), but I could recite whole script (or at least whole scenes) from Anchorman, Napoleon Dynamite or The Breakfast Club, and I'm quite adequate at solving equations, if I do say so myself.

I guess oddballs fall for adorable fellow oddballs; I'm not complaining.

Whilst looking through/looking at the pictures of the book Fab Gear, a very unexpectedly large book about the clothing of The Beatles, I began wondering how the authors could possibly fill a whole book with descriptions and such of the clothes, when all you need are the pictures. So I ventured into the dangerously comical world of reading the descriptions of each photo, and I was not disappointed. The analyses were splendidly hyperbolic and melodramatic, to the point of inducing stitches of laughter in both myself and my other, nearly wakening the entire household.

(All doodles are courtesy of le boif, thanks for that!)

Crying Habits, Extreme Situations of Youth and Baby Impression Skills

Hello bloggy. As I type, I am not in the regular comfort of my own home, but sitting at a Mac I cannot use, and had to be literally brought to the Google part of the machine, for fear of accidentally deleting everything, or crying in Apple frustration.

During my stay in le boif's family home, we've been discussing (discussing being hyperbolical, it was closer to being briefly mentioned) the crying habits of us individuals. I, myself, being a particularly easy crier, who will certainly be crying from an overdose of any emotion, be it happiness, sadness, frustration, anger, you name it. This is a terrible inconvenience for a silly little lady to have to bear, as I happen to have a lot to say on most topics, but barely scratch the surface usually, due to the loss of ability to be taken seriously from the gaining of tears, and a wobbly baby voice.  But, I do enjoy a good cry every now and then. You'd think that with my tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, I'd be very skilled at crying, and very suited to this state of salty moisture, however, this is far from the truth. If I allow myself to shed more than three droplets, I start to gag, and can't breathe. Very convenient, I must say. On the other hand, I'm aware that there are people out there (one I'm particularly fond of) who can't cry at all, and have gaps of tears lasting years, as opposed to my usual interval of approximately a week.

A blessing or a curse, I don't know what I'd do without all those annoying drops of sea-like uisce (water).

I have also discovered an extremely beautiful talent hidden deep within my abilty. Along with my skill for taking extraordinarily young baby pictures of my somehow 17 year old self:

I also have the ability to act, and sound completely like a baby, and I mean the squishy, gurgling, speechless, freshly baked, grabbing onto your flesh and pulling your hair with no regard for your threshold of pain, type of baby. Y'know, the ones that giggle and then start crying heart-wrenchingly. Well, yes, I am equipt with these characteristics when pushed, or when it's requested of me. I would attach a sound clip, but none of you would believe a 17 year old is making the noises, and it's late, and well, the world wide web world just isn't ready for such antics.


As I type, on this entertaining but foreign keyboard, I realise that I'm due to leave the lovely presence of my handsome fellow in the morrow, and must return to my usual place of residence. My mother is flitting home tomorrow, and she best have smuggled some expensive gifts home with her.


To sum up my weekend (so far):

     1. Cute doodles for my journal courtesy of le boif
     2. Cuddles and kissies
     3. Was deafened/lost my hearing
     4. Lots of sing songs
     3. Yummy food
     5. Meringues!!!
     6. At least 5 glasses of water, and 3 cups of coffee in about an hour
     7. Nutty Pictionary
     8. Boif-girlf time
     9. Happy happy
    10. Joy joy

A Typical Day, Sleepiness, Chores, and Messy Rooms

Well, after an exhausting but amazing yesterday, today arrived too soon. As my mother flitted off to her computer-y course (only after giving me a mini chore list), and I drifted back to sleep, all too soon I was violently forced to stumble reluctantly out of my bed to answer the home phone I so seldom touch for fear of having to talk to strangers, or anyone I know for that matter. But alas, stumble and groggily answer I did, managing to show off my skill of sounding refreshed and awake even when I hate everything but bed and can't yet fully open my freshly baked eyes. I have developed such a useful skill from years of pretending I'm awake for school, while sneakily catching 3 more Zs. Anyway, I did my moral duty to take a message for my mother, while sounding perky and pleasant, and I ran back to bed for some more dozy moments before having to arise again, one final time.

All too soon that time did come, and my enjoyable but slightly mundane dreaming ended, as I was obligated to vacuum up non-existent dirt, whilst wrestling with irritating cables, and trying to balance the vacuum on each stair, and to dispose of all the fresh, warm clothes to their appropriate places of residence. (I promise I'm finished describing boring things soon.) After all these duties were finished, only a handful remained: 

Packing

Tidy My Room

Blog

Now I have mentioned my mother in this post once before, briefly, and I shall do so again. This morning she was flitting off to her course, and tomorrow she'll be flitting off to Prague, for a weekend away, like the lucky duckling she is. I say "flitting" because that's what she does. My mummy flits. She's always in a busy busy rush, hence the quickness, and she's also a little lady, like myself, hence the littleness. Quick+little=flit, like a little birdy flitting from branch to branch, singing his songlings. As I was saying, she's flitting off to Prague, so I must pack, for I shall be residing at le boif's family home for the weekend, thanks to a kindly invite. 

Usually packing is a tremendous difficulty for a silly little lady who never knows what she'll want to wear a day in advance, always has a messy room and can't find any of the clothes she wants to wear. Today's episode was different. It's summer! And along came the warm weather! And with the warm weather, out comes bright colours, skirts and long socks! I'm so accustomed to cold Irish weather that if it's sunny, I must dress nicely, I feel it's an insult to the day if I wear jeans. 

After packing, I helped my mummy fill out a form, so we can hopefully (cross your damn fingers for us) be a host family for an exchange student. Within the form however, we had to give brief descriptions of each family member... I was summed up in a few words, one of which being the unfitting term 'outgoing', which I'm far from. Chatty and talkative I may be in the company of loved ones, but only when I have something to say, and usually, in that scenario, I'm silent up until I deliver a speech, or participate in a debate, and then resume my quiet state. The task got me to thinking about how difficult it is to sum up a loved one in a few words. The usual positive words such as 'caring', 'kind', 'funny', 'chatty' and 'honest' are thrown around very often in this context, but they never do much justice. They can't possibly paint a picture of the person, the way we know them to be, in all their uniqueness, because no word is unique. We'd need to make up a whole new word for each quality they possess in order to get it right. Words are too universal for changeable, sensitive creatures like humans.

The only obstacle left in my day was my disgracefully messy room. Clothes were strewn all over the floor and I had been avoiding properly tidying my wardrobe for a number of years. I proudly say 'had' in that sentence, as opposed to 'have', as I have finally tackled the outstanding issue. 2 black sacks, a cloakroom full of coats, and much hanging and folding later, I found my bedroom floor and could breathe again. 

After a shower, and after trimming my fringe terribly as usual, here I am, completing my checklist. 

Blog=done.

Morrissey, Oscar Wilde, Irishness and Books!

Today, within my reminiscent fangirlings, I stumbled upon something that made me very happy indeed. Doesn't it feel marvelous when two things you adore associate with each other, all on their own?
Look at my Morrissey getting all cozy with my Osky! I'm so proud of him! Getting in touch with his Irish roots! As Osky once said "If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised." Now I know my Morrissey hasn't been the best boy in his outright denying his Irishness, despite his ma and da, and I don't forgive him for that, I'd give him a right telling off if I got the chance. But he entertains me, and at least he can appreciate a lovely Irish writer like my Osky. I know I may sound like a crazy patriotic Irish lassie, but I guess I am.

Apart from crazy Irishness, forgetfulness is a trait I carry at present, as I forgot all about my intention to blog, like a silly little lady. But we sillies get distracted with books, chats, and horribly sweet white wine. Also, due to the late hour (1am), we sillies apparently happen to lose our ability to ramble. So when all else fails, books!

Earlier this evening, my mother and I were engaged in the age-long debate of books: to break the spine, or not to break the spine. Having gone through phases of both, I am partial to being very gentle with my books, and under no circumstances creasing any part of the head-wrecking flimsy covers. Especially if the book isn't mine! I understand the argument that a book is for enjoyment, and that people like to use their books, and dominate by way of marking their territory, so to speak. I however, am of a different view:

             If I were a book, would I want to be used and abused? Certainly not. I would want to be treasured, stroked, and caressed as if I was the most precious thing to that reader, who craves every word in my sea of sentences. I would like to be taken care of with the utmost respect and care, and would not stand for being ravished or visibly used to the point where everyone can see I've been violated, and that I will never be my lovely perfect self again. I would want to remain forever young and beautiful (as I do in reality), while being secretly devoured with relish by a reader hungry for my knowledge. 

Such is my reasoning of my peculiar reading style.
Such is why you may see me peeking into my favourite book.
Such is why I miss the normality of hardcovers.
Such is why I could empathise with the narrator's laboured, pained fingers in Wild Swans, as my fingers began to ache also from the awkward position I had to assume in order to preserve the youth of the lovely chubby book's spine.

Such suches mark my goodnight.

It's Summer! Books! Wild Swans Review! China! But oh... storms...

Yes, it's here at last folks! And no more whining about school bothers shall I partake in, at least for 2 months. Although the weather in Ireland hasn't fully copped on to the fact that it's actually summer for the next couple months, I am enjoying the surprising (but not surprising for Ireland) contrast between blue skies, warm sunny days, and crazy rain-thunderstorm days in between. And now that it's summer, I have time to do everything! So you'd think anyway...

In reality, all I want to do is have mo shrón sáite sa leabhair i gcónaí (or have my nose stuck in books permanently, for the 99% who don't speak Irish). Yep, books, cuddles, and food take up most of my time, but I'm not complaining. Going abroad would also be lovely, but in time, in time. Last night I finished Wild Swans by Jung Chang (FINALLY-it's a big book) and I felt utterly lost and helpless without it. I'll miss the tales of woe, love and determination that permeate the three generations of little Chinese ladies. Despite the long amount of time it took me to read the middle section of that book (when the politics really kicked in), I adored every second of it, even though it deeply saddened and shocked me to hear about the horrific conditions of olden day China. I'll even miss the ridiculous political slogans, all the 'capitalist roaders', 'class enemies', and 'bourgeois' this, that and the other, that were so off the wall and just insane that in the end I couldn't help but laugh at the hypocrisy and mangled logic and sense that a whole country could 'function' under for so many years. That book has brought me many smiles, a handful of tears, and given me a huge insight into China's past, in particular, the first few decades of Communism.

Even after reading it all though, I'm still extremely shocked, and quite outraged that the book is banned in mainland China, even to the present day. I mean, even for a country that has been riddled and ravished with messed up politics, I assumed that in the 21st centrury (nearly 38 years after the death of Mao), complete freedom of speech would be allowed. Especially one so important when it comes to world trade and business. But perhaps my shock is due to lackadaisy Ireland, where practically no books have been banned since 1998. That's one of the reasons I'm glad I live in Ireland, as much as I'd love to see the rest of the world, and one of the reasons I'm so proud to be Irish. I mean Salinger's Catcher In The Rye was banned in 1951, and has since appeared on the Leaving Certificate curriculum, we've developed that much. Now I know it's different with China, because political parties everywhere hate to accept their past mistakes, and Communism is still a thing there, but I am still quite disappointed with the world. So if the banning of one book in China irks me, you can imagine how I feel about North Korea. It vexes me. I'm terribly vexed. [If you didn't get that quote, I shake my head, sigh and strongly advise you to rewatch Gladiator]

As I type, thunder is rumbling so loudly, that some theoretical god must be rearranging whole houses up there, not just the furniture. I've always enjoyed the gentle, boomy lullaby of thunder rolling across the sky, but that loud bout was more like a growl or a full blown roar rather than a lullaby. No doubt my poor grandmother is hiding underneath the sofa or something at this stage, or managed to squeeze herself between the cracks in the floorboards, or has built some sort of makeshift cellar in the past few hours, for urgent shelter safety needs of course. And my mother decided that today of all days she would go for a drive in the countryside, it's not like we live in the countryside already or anything... Anyway, the rain is so bad my internet is flickering, and even the static in the air that calms me during a thunderstorm isn't fully cancelling out my slight nervousness from the violent bursts of sound of electrostatic discharge.

Scrap all that, it's all escalated so quickly that if I didn't know better, I would be completely convinced that multiple explosions had gone off in my back garden. I'm serious! I've never heard or seen anything like this before! I generally love thunderstorms! They actually relax me! And I've only ever seen lightning a handful of times before, all off in the distance, that I had to strain to see, followed minutes later by soft thunder; I mean Ireland is a very safe, uneventful place. But a few minutes ago, my small window was lit up with bright light, which I saw accidentally even while looking at my computer screen, and then the explosion occurred outdoors, making me feel like I'm in a badly written book by the name of How Many Miles To Babylon, or in an even worse film adaptation with a mentally and accent-ly challenged Alec who apparently watches too much Napoleon Dynamite  and was severely influenced by Napoleon's brother Kip.
Link to a clip of Kip (in Napoleon Dynamite)
Link of a clip of Daniel Day-Lewis (in How Many Miles To Babylon) [Even from the first few lines...]

Anyway, I got a bit shaky, and nervy, and went downstairs. I looked out my back window just to check that it was thunder and lightning and not some bloody atomic bomb going off outside. I didn't anticipate to be blinded by a bright light, that must be nearly directly over my house, and at the most 2 seconds later another deafening roll to assault my eardrums. I'm very surprised my electricity is still working, and has only gone off once or twice for a few seconds.

I haven't heard anything in the past few minutes, perhaps it's clearing, or it's the calm before a bigger storm. I hope it's the former, but I'm really enjoying the storm on another level, don't ask me why.

I was planning on learning some French in a little while but after all this commotion perhaps I'll just curl up with another book...

Snoofles, sniffles and silly sickness

Day 3 of a bad immune system, and I fear I won't make it out with my nose intact. So much sniffly coldness. So much watery dopey eyes. So much constant desire for bed. 

    

       It's also the day before my end of the year exams, and I think if I crammed any harder I'd get lost inside my head along with all the formulae and phenolphthalein indicator. 

Cramming < structured studying, but cramming > failing. Such is maths in effect. The funny thing is, I've only studied for one of my 9ish exams (religion doesn't count), so I have much more cram to look forward to! 

*At present, my left thumb won't quit twitching, so typing is a heavy task to say the least*

Probably due to my sickness, back/shoulder/neck pain and stress of exams I have very little to say, unless it involves expressing how many I'd injure for a massage right now.

If only school exams consisted of my snuggling up in bed with my cuddlym'n and reading books all day, feasting on meringue and cheesecake... 

Mmm... Cheesecake...

Sickness, exams and lack of entertainment

I woke up this morning, after a terrible night of nightmares, and realised that I happen to be sick. Very soon I realised I have exams on Wednesday, in 3 days time, and that I desperately need to study. I then realised I'm in no fit state to revise and that I should just accept a lack of As and Bs in my exams. After these successive realisations, I had one final one: I am frightfully bored and have naught to do. This was by far the worst realisation of the day.
   
        So after forcing down brunch, here I am, with a lack of entertainment. I cannot watch TV, as I can't stand it, reading will irritate my eyes, drawing takes too much effort and eye strain, and anything outside of my leaba (bed) is out of the question. So, I have accepted the fact that the majoity of my day will be spent probably learning Jayp'nese, trying to make my laptop STOP FREEZING and trying to make my phone and internet work, while also perhaps watching some J-movies, anime or the likes, if my internet stops being a hormonal teenage girl and begins functioning as it ought to.

      I also have an intense craving for meringue, which is more than likely due to le boif's mummy making delicious ones yesterday. I wouldn't kill for some meringue, but I would seriously consider maiming.

      I've also recently discovered the really sweet, adorable Japanese community of Instagram, and been chatting to some people, practising my horrific lack of Japanese. It's a great way to practise I have to say, because you get to see the everyday speech used in Japan, and it forces you to at least recognise kanji. The only problem I have with Instagram is that you can't copy the text within in the app, in comments and so on, in order to translate, and kanji, being tricky and bastardly, are very hard to look up without the copy function. For example, every time I come across a kanji I don't know on Instagram, I first try to enter it into a dictionary using radicals, but I'm terrible at that, so I usually go on to drawing the kanji into a handwritten kanji recogniser, but due to not knowing the stroke order that often doesn't work either. Then finally, when I have no other options I try to go onto the web/safari version of Instagram, which you can copy from, if you copy practically the entire page, and on that version, you can't view your notifications, search, or on my iPhone, scroll down too far on your feed before the whole app crashes.
Such are my woes of Instagram.

Such are my woes of sickness.

Baked goods of the day!

Well, as I've been off school sick today I figured the best way to spend my time was to make fattening baked goods and make my stomach even sicker. So, I did. And after decluttering the kitchen, washing up a ludicrous amount of delft and closely avoiding serious burns, I'm finished, and stuffed with nummy foodlings. I was quite keen to use up some of the thousands of Cadbury's Easter eggs that lie sprawled along my kitchen counter, so I made these nutty brownie yummy fings, that are cooked in ceramic mugs, and served warm. Heart stopping, artery clogging goodness, at its best. Oh moma, were they tasty. End result: stuffed stomach and these fellows:

Oh and I never want chocolate again, thank you very much. I've had more than my fair share. I wish the Easter eggs would hurry up and evaporate or implode or something. 

    

I also made lemon shortbread biccies with a lemon glaze that look quite pretty sitting there all cute and starry on my cakey standy thingy. 

Not that there's much left to look at. My family have been scoffing them all. I still have a handful to share with my schoolmates tomorrow though (and a mug of brownie stashed away for me for later). But the recipe I used to make the lemon stars made waaaaaaaayyyyy too much dough, so I have loads of dough in the freezer for whenever I feel like adding some more inches to my waist. 

Conclusion: I love/hate food. 

Schlemiels and Schlimazels

A schlemiel spills soup on a schlimazel.

    What a fantastic sentence! A schlemiel is a Yiddish word meaning a clumsy or awkward person, who is prone to spilling soup. A schlimazel is also a Yiddish word derived from the German word 'slim' meaning crooked, and the Hebrew word 'mazzal' meaning luck, and translates to an unlucky, accident-prone person who is prone to getting soup spilled on him. Hence the sentence 'a schlemiel spills soup on a schlimazel.'
 
   Interesting eh? Yiddish is quite an entertaining language, it has some brilliant words, that sound exactly like what they mean. The onomatopoeia is amazing. To me, some of the words completely sum up what they stand for. Now, I don't speak Yiddish, nor do I know anyone who does, but I would love to learn it one day. I'm a bit of a language nerd. I'm studying French and Irish in school, but the Irish education system still hasn't figured out how to teach languages yet, sadly.
 
   I'm very fond of the Irish language, although not many people can say that. In my estimation about 80% of people learning Irish in school hate it, and nobody can speak it properly these days, apart from the very few Gaelgoirí left in the country. It saddens me really. As an Irish lassie, I'm quite patriotic and proud of my little island, and whatever we have left of our culture, since being invaded by Britain all those years ago, is diminishing to the point where I have to wonder, will there be any left? I believe the Irish language to be very poetic and beautiful, and while most see it as an unnecessary chore to learn it in school, I love it, and hope to learn it fully in college, and to become fluent one day. It's a tricky little language, because it's difficult to put into practice due to the lack of fluent speakers, but I think it's worth it. As the Irish saying goes "tír gan teanga, tír gan anam", meaning a country without a language is a country without a soul.
 
   I'm also learning Japanese at present, on my own, (it's not like I have the option of lessons where I live anyway) and I would love to study that in college too. Finding a career out of language is tricky business though, but I'm sure I'll get by.

I'll be a polyglot yet!

Just a spot of art.

As of late I've been doing a bit of drawing, as you can see, my focus has been on hands and eyes, I find they have the most humanness in them. Plus, hands are so tricky to draw, and it's very difficult to capture the emotion in eyes, so I've been practising. 

An Introduction Perhaps?

Courtney is my name and I am indeed a silly little lady. 

    

I also have a frightfully bad habit of sounding like a poncy little lady when I write, for which I apologise. I'm no ponce, although I am partial to the theatre, tea, classical music and fellows with posh English accents (especially one in particular that I'm happy to call le boif); but I suppose when one lives in the arsehole of nowhere, surrounded by farmers, cows and unpleasant smells, one wishes they were in the company of aristocrats, dining on caviar, after being at the opera. 

    Anyway, instead of wearing some dungarees, and shoveling muck, I generally spend my time reading the occasional book (loving Wild Swans at the moment), drawing, watching many movies, watching anime, and learning Japanese. Oh, and cuddling, drinking green tea or listening to records. I decided to start a blog because I'm prone to bouts of speech, and I enjoy writing (and ranting). I'm 17, at present, and I'm an Irish lassie, still dragging herself through the schooling system, longing for the taste for freedom.

Feel free to comment, email me (check out my profile), and I also have an Instagram account (@korkny) which I frequent. Lordy I hate introductions. Now that's over and done with I'll be less oddball.