"I don't think that being a strong person is about ignoring your emotions and fighting your feelings. Putting on a brave face doesn't mean you're a brave person. That's why everybody in my life knows everything that I'm going through. I can't hide anything from them. People need to realise that being open isn't the same as being weak."

- Taylor Swift

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

1000th Post.

Whoa. Like...whoa.

What can I say? This is the thousandth time I will hit 'publish'.

This is soooooo cool.

Thank you! A big thank you to anyone who's reading this, whether you've been following from the beginning (very, very brave of you) or if you've just started reading now. Thank you, for reading what I have to say. Thank you, for boosting my ego with a cute rating or a comment or a sweet email. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. Thank you...thank you for reading my diary! You're either very brave or very stupid.

A lot has changed since I  first sat at my computer as a twelve year old, awkwardly tapping out my first post. I've grown up, and you've followed that, and that's amazing. But I'm still a baby! I've still got lots to learn, lots to see, lots to do, lots of people to meet. I'm not done with being deliriously happy, I'm not done with falling in love and getting hurt. I'm not done with laughing and crying. I'm not done with loving life.

Is it weird that I've made some friends through this blog? People I know in real time, obviously, but people who have gotten to know me, taken the time to understand me...I'm not that scary! I just have a lot to say. A thousand ideas.

Thank you for believing in my weirdness. Thank you for putting up with my whiny rants and bad poems (some of them are tragic), all the weird and wonderful things I've written on this big rollercoaster that I'm on. I've blogged in seven different countries, for nearly four years, in two different schools, in countless different moods...one thousand times.  

Stay beautiful!

All my love,
Lady Solitaire.

Not all that impressed.

Now Playing: Fearless by Taylor Swift (my hands shake, I'm not usually this way but you pull me in and I'm a little more brave, it's a first kiss...it's fearless) 

Being disgusting seems to be the new cool.

I don't know why so many Australian boys suddenly think they become chick magnets by pretending to be sexist/racist/otherwise revolting. Chauvinism...is really not the new sexy. So stop flicking glances at my direction to see if I've gone all goo-goo eyes. I haven't. We have this thing called an education. Start using it.

You're not a superstar if you can fit 'fuck' into a sentence 234098 times. You're never going to get laid if you start announcing to all and sundry that it's okay to rape a prostitute, or that you've tried every illegal substance out there.

Just sayin.

Monday, July 30, 2012

The Better 1%

Now Playing: Yellow by Coldplay (your skin and bones turn into something beautiful, and you know, you know I love you so...)

Only 1% of women think they're beautiful.

Isn't that tragic? Only 1% of women look in the mirror and like what they see. It's truly heartbreaking.

I've never been conventionally beautiful. I'm all of 5'3". I've been wrestling with acne since God-knows-when and I put on a lot of weight, growing up (which I have lost, mostly; 51kg! I haven't been this light since I was twelve years old!), and I have scars all over my arms and legs, as well as several surgical scars on my chest. I have the fuzziest eyebrows that are far too troublesome to try and pluck into submission, and there are just so many flaws and things that I wish I could change.

And yet, now I finally can look in the mirror and like what I see.

I've never been able to do that, before. I've never liked how I looked. I wanted to be perfect; I thought the only pretty people in the world were perfect. Even now, when I'm jealous of someone, I will never say that they are 'pretty' - I think that they look perfect, and I wanted to be perfect, too. 

We've confused pretty with perfect in this world. I was so disappointed that I wasn't tall and white and flawless and glamorous that I couldn't see the little unique things that made me, me - the way things curve, the colours and shades, the shapes...I even love my scars.

Having a pacemaker...the first thing that comes to mind is painful. Not a day goes by when there isn't a little nip of pain, a little twinge. And it's not the most aesthetically pleasing thing in the world - it does kind of look like my body is a host for aliens or something. But hey, it's this little computer that keeps me alive. And provides my doctors a highly amusing record of how many times my heart has skipped a beat and begun to race recently.  

My body is a diary of where life has taken me. Scars...they're battlescars, reminders of how strong I've had to be, of dark times that I pulled through alone. There's no point in being self conscious of something that is such an intrinsic part of me. I remember when I was little I saw my mother's C-section scar (I made a rather dramatic entrance into the world; emergency fetal distress) and it was the first time it hit home how much my parents have done for me, would do for me in a heartbeat. I've always been different; I've always done things a bit differently. So I guess it makes sense that I look a little different, too.     

And then we have to realize that we all have so much more to offer than our physical bodies. Kindness, intelligence, sincerity, compassion...inner beauty, beauty that age cannot decay. Why do people waste so much time and money and energy and resources trying frantically to cling on to youth and beauty when they could do some soul-searching and try to find some inner beauty? The girls who bullied me the most were the pretty ones, the ones who were never content with themselves and were only satisfied once they'd pushed me down in their attempts to pull themselves up.

What is the point with being so discontent with ourselves? Whether I like how I look or not, this is how I have to present myself to the world. It's this body that people will see, love, hate. After a lifetime of being told that I'm not good enough, never good enough, I think I'm strong enough to love myself. There's nothing wrong with feeling beautiful.  

I am not flawless, nowhere near. I will never be a model, I'll never be perfect. But I am beautiful in my own way. 

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #60

Now Playing: Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine (and all this devotion was rushing out of me in the crushes of heaven for a sinner like me, but the arms of the ocean delivered me.)

#534: Just casually freaking out a very naive friend

#535: Florence + The Machine

#536: I'm a sinner, I'm a saint...I do not feel ashamed. 

#537: 'For saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss...'

#538: Do people even say that anymore!?

#539: I know they say that you shouldn't believe what people say about you, but I can't resist an ego boost. 

#540: Dear Massage Chair. I know I'm short, but it's very insulting when you give me a 'neck massage' and start bashing away mercilessly at my head. 

#541: I haven't had lunch and I'm not hungry....o_0

#542: Look at the person in the mirror, if it smiles back you know you're doing okay. 


A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #59

Now Playing: Bedroom Hymns by Florence + The Machine (this is his body, this is his love, such selfish prayers and I can't get enough)

#523: What, nobody else sits down in the shower? 

#524: Of course I don't wash my hair when nobody can see me. I am fundamentally lazy, you know

#525: Sick :(

#526: A sweet friend checking in on me

#527: First cup of tea in three days

#528: Pain I can handle. Sometimes, I even like it - there's nothing like the sensation of nails gently digging in, or raking softly across bare skin. But pain to the point of exhaustion...not so pleasant. 

#529: Finally stabilized my temperature. Suck on that, Advil. 

#530: I've run out of clothes...

#531: How long does it take to ship soap from Dunsborough?

#532: So apparently iPods don't like being played full blast on speakers for hours on end...

#533: RSC 
Now Playing: Cut by Plumb (I may seem crazy or painfully shy, but these scars wouldn't be so hidden if you would just look me in the eye)

The tables have turned again.

I've always liked the company of men. I feel like I get along better with men; I like how simple and straightforward they can be. I love brutal honesty, I love the sheer incapacity for them to not say anything that's on their mind; I guess my guy friends are lucky that I have quite a strong stomach for the more grisly things. I like how men can be cold, and hard, and manipulative and cruel, but they're distinctly lacking the inner bitch gene; girls...really can't say the same.

I've been friends with boys my whole life; it never ended well for either of us, because I would have the annoying tendancy of falling in love and getting jealous. But I've had the time of my life just being one of the boys; and, later, when I grew up, playing favourites...

All that being said, I have to bite my tongue a lot with men. Sometimes the things they do cut deep and leave a scar, but I have to forgive and forget, always; because I know they cannot help it. The deepest, darkest secrets of my heart...it's not exactly good conversation, and sometimes it's very tiring being endearing and enchanting and enigmatic. It's hypocritical for me to say that I don't particularly like mood swings, sudden changes in atmosphere; but I think one unstable, volatile emotional state is more than enough, don't you? I never know how they're going to react; the men I know don't talk, and you know me...I talk, a lot. Sometimes they can be very...insensitive. It's like they can turn their emotions off at will and, well...I can't. 

Is selfishness an innate quality? I feel like women have been trained, from little girls, to think of others, to be the nurturer. I'll never be hard up on compliments and sympathy. Men don't really buy into that kind of stuff, though... 

And so I've turned once more to the company of women. I love how girls can keep secrets, but more than that, they can talk about them, too. Anything that's happened, anything that's hurting, I know I can say to a woman. I don't have to pretend to be okay when I'm not.

What am I even talking about? I'm sixteen. I'm still a baby. I don't know anything about men.

Don't take this seriously. I'm just rambling in between coughing my lungs out. 

The greatest wisdom is to accept that you know nothing. 


Now Playing: Hardest of Hearts by Florence + The Machine (there is love in our bodies and it holds us together, but pulls us apart when we're holding each other, we all want something to hold in the night, we don't care if it hurts or if we're holding too tight)

It's a week into school and, surprise surprise, I'm sick.

I don't get sick very often, and for the last couple of weeks or so I've been very high, which tends to keep me quite fit. But I think suddenly going back to school full of sick people (people don't understand that just because you're knocked out with avant-garde painkillers doesn't mean you're not contaigious or, ahem, NOT SICK) plus just all the academic and emotional blah blah of things really got to me. 

It's the term three blues that has been making the rounds lately, and so I've been eating exorbitant amounts of food (when you're small like me your body tries to increase intake in the vain hope that treble helpings will boost immunity), sleeping at bizarre hours (waking up at ten, passing out at one, waking up at five, going to bed at nine, then wondering around the house at three in the morning), and shivering despite wearing what feels like half my wardrobe.

So, yeah. I'm having a very sexy week.

I hope to be back to my usual shenanigans tomorrow. 

Sunday, July 29, 2012

The Forbidden Fruit.

I was scorned by those afraid
Those who listened blindly
Faithful, and gutless.

Eve always knew
Adam was not good enough for Eden
That he could not resist a taste

A kiss of innocent ambrosia
A bite of virgin flesh

Adam turned his back on Lilith
For the greater good

But I see the blood of the decaying world
And wonder whether a broken woman
Is better than a fallen one.

I have spent too long
Cast as the Serpent
When I have always been

The fruit that tastes the sweetest.

Click here for a discussion of The Forbidden Fruit

Saturday, July 28, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #58

Now Playing: No Light, No Light by Florence + The Machine (you can't choose what stays and what fades away)

#510: Work is refreshing, and a welcome break from all the crazy confusing emotions of being a teenager.

#511: I wanted love without the build up

#512: My dog has the most charmed life, and my favourite TV show The Vampire Diaries has the most beautiful cast. The moral of the story? Even the most contented can be discontent, and even beautiful people have insecurities.

#513: Hot tea in the morning

#514: It's a grisly reminder of the dangers of being a woman

#515: It's weird, but you get the hang of washing your hair with a bar of soap. BUBBLE EXPLOSION.

#516:  In a weird nerdy twist on things, if I didn't understand psychology I'd be much more hurt

#517: Midnight chats with a Texan friend

#518: Franca and The Sound of Gravity

#519: Considering I spend my whole life biting my tongue and faking a smile and flicking splinters out of my heart, I really have no sympathy for people with tempers

#520: A gold hourglass in the mirror

#521: Breakfast with the principal. Our school really has become a fucking bureaucracy. Glad to be getting out of it. 

#522: When I was younger I would either cling to the past or lunge for the future. Now, I've learned to take things as they come, and treasure memories instead of lamenting what is lost. 


Friday, July 27, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #57

Now Playing: All This and Heaven Too by Florence + The Machine (and the heart is hard to translate, it has a language of its own)

#501: Talking to a friend. Psychopathic Justin Bieber doppelganger drags you away from anyone of Y chromosone. FML. 

#502: Yes, I'm one of those New Age hippies who thinks butter is good for you. That being said, I changed my facebook name already. Stop calling me clarified butter. 

#503: Breakfast with the principal. Oh, joy

#504: Get well soon, Josephine 

#505: Forgive me for being human


#507: So I take it that it's a good sign that I can somewhat follow what's going on in Ancient History? 

#508: Weirdest relief teacher ever

#509: So freaking cold...getting up in the morning is almost as hard as falling asleep... 

Thursday, July 26, 2012


Now Playing: Heavy In Your Arms by Florence + The Machine (and is it worth the wait, all this killing time? are you strong enough to stand, protecting both your heart and mine?)

Reactions are meant to be involuntary, right? Instinctual. Something happens, somebody does something, and you react. A laugh, a scream, a shriek of ecstasy or terror. A gasp, a shudder, a whisper, a sigh...the little things that make us human. 

Why is it, then, that I always end up reacting inappropriately?

I don't mean inappropriately in that I don't react how people expect; I don't really care what people think of me anymore. I mean inappropriately in that I don't mean to react that way; I don't mean to overreact to the petty, insignficant things, or to nothing at all - and I don't mean to sit in stunned stupefied silence after something big and huge and momentous has happened.

Is it weird that I can never tell when people are joking or not? Sarcasm...I know how to use it, and sometimes I get it, but sometimes I miss it completely...which leads to pretty awkward moments, especially when people are under the (somewhat false) assumption that I am supposed to be vaguely intelligent. But lately I've been doing things the other way around...sometimes I think people are joking when they're being deadly serious...

What can I say? I'm a freak of nature.

Sometimes I know I confuse the hell out of people by taking umbrage at the most random things (it's my paranoia - sometimes I just get a feeling and it's totally unjustified but I can just feel it), or people can say the most paradigm-shifting, life-altering, existence-questioning things and I'll just shrug. I don't actually mean to shrug; it's just that when I got overwhelmed I think I have a safety switch that sets in before I get electrocuted by emotions. I also have no idea how to react to compliments - especially when I don't think I deserve them, which is most of the time - or getting presents, so forgive me if I seem a little apathetic. I am very rarely apathetic, unless I am on the verge of collapsing of exhaustion. But if I showed what's really bouncing around in my head I'd explode, and you'd explode with me.

If I bother to spend time with you, talk to you, get to know you, do things with you, fall in love with you, do anything for you, listen to you, smile at you, throw tantrums and make a loving cup with you, laugh at you, kiss you...you mean the world to me. No matter what I might do or say or how I might react.  


Now Playing: Environment by Franca and The Sound of Gravity (click here for really cool music from my classmates Franca, Harrison and Tobyn)

When I say I am very bad at keeping secrets, I'm only bad at keeping my own secrets. If you tell me something and tell me to keep it quiet, I can take it to the grave. Scout's honour.

I don't know why it's so hard to keep my own secrets. Partly, I think, it's because when there are secrets there's something preventing people from understanding me, and all I want is for people to understand me - which is why I have this blog, I suppose, and which is why I talk to people. It's also because when I have secrets I feel so incredibly vulnerable; if things fall around me, I have no one to turn to. At least if I tell one person, one person I know will never tell a soul no matter what, at least I have someone to hold me as I go under. But it's also because I'm just one of those people who needs to talk. I just have to...get it out, somehow, in some way. Blogging. Emailing. Talking to people, texting or facebook. Writing in my diary, publishing poems, listening to my life in songs. Anything. I need outlets; a lot of them. I don't know how to live without my heart on my sleeve.

We all want to be understood, but we all maim ourselves with our insecurities. This was the year when I decided fuck it, it's time to be brave - I have to be fearless. I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not; and this was the first year where I've had people genuinely love me for who I genuinely am, and it's beautiful. But if you genuinely love me, if you genuinely understand me, you'd know that I am the kind of person who needs to talk. We've never really had much time, and that's okay; quality over quantity and all of that. But it kills me when you keep your distance - not in a literal sense of the word, I'm sure you know what I mean. Can't we be as we were before?

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

All This and Heaven Too

We've walked a long way together
Hand in hand

I remember
As you remember
Every word and every touch

A piece of my heart for
Peace of mind.

The heart is hard to translate
But you must be the first
To look me in the eye
And forgive me for being human

Stand back and admire your work, painter
Admire our very own hue
A drop of blood in a bowl of milk

I will never again be as white as white can be
For what is done can not be undone
Things are set in motion...

I do not miss the longing
Lost in an epiphany
Of my new-found optimism 

I am quite my old self again
I can drink to my heart's content
The innocence of anticipation
A piece of my heart for
Peace of mind.

You will always have a friend in me
And although I will lose
I will find, and find, and find

All this and heaven too.

Inspired by All This and Heaven Too by Florence + The Machine

Click here for a discussion of All This and Heaven Too  

A Woman of Conversation

Now Playing: Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine (though the pressure's hard to take, it's the only way I can escape, seems a heavy choice to make, but now I am under...)

I will tell you that the single most important thing I've learned from high school, from living amongst some very intelligent people (although, to be fair, some very unintelligent ones too) is the art of conversation.

Sometimes words fail me, and I have no words to say what I want to say. Normally when I'm alone with just one or two people, and emotions are running high. But otherwise, I've begun to pride myself in my conversation.

Going to a school like mine, you spend a lot of time around very sharp people; people unafraid to take what you say and totally pull it apart, merciless to your feelings or to such alien concepts of decorum. It really takes guts to voice your opinion to such a hostile audience, but it's also enormous fun, and I've perfected the art of standing my ground and proving my point. I've made boys twice my size and with three times my ego meekly cease and desist and concede defeat.

Throughout history, women have made their mark through conversation. I like the power of intelligence, I like having the upper hand, I like games I know I can win. Beauty of the body fades, but beauty of the mind is eternal. I should like to become a woman of conversation; the kind of women who made men think.  

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #56

Now Playing: Firework by Katy Perry (you don't have to feel like a waste of space, you're original, cannot be replaced. If you only knew what the future holds, after a hurricane comes a rainbow)

#489: Monday...

#490: Getting my head in the game

#491: Coco Pops and sugar rushes

#492: Being fearless

#493: Feeling pretty

#494: Bubbly new soap 

#495: Missing Ms Liddell

#496: That moment of absolute high when your work is used as an exemplar (I am a stuck up know it all, after all)

#497: I don't know why you're pretending to be nice to me, but I'll play along whilst it lasts.

#498: Girl talk. I don't know why you put up with me, Belephant, but I love you muchos. 

#499: If I had the chance I'd do it all again, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

#500: I regret nothing.   

I regret nothing.

Now Playing: What the Water Gave Me by Florence + The Machine (would you have it any other way?) 

And, in the end, I regret nothing.

I know people think that I'm making mistakes, that I'm not thinking things through, that I'm letting my heart rule my head and I'll be broken afterwards.

But these people only know half the story. They only know what little I can tell them. There are some things that I can't put into words, some moments I cannot describe, some times and some people where words utterly fail me. I try, I try so hard to take a picture of it, commit it to memory, paint it with words in my diary (yes, I do have a diary now. I kind of need one now), but I can't capture everything. Other things I have sworn myself to silence, kept to myself, some things that only some people know, some things I dare not utter to a single soul. After a lifetime of being utterly incapable of keeping secrets I now know how beautiful it is to have something that nobody knows of, even if it's hard sometimes to only have one person who can look you in the eye and honestly say 'I understand'.

If other people were in my position, would they have done the things that I have done? Maybe. Maybe not. But it doesn't matter, as long as we all put thought into everything we do and say, and prepare ourselves for the consequences. I know the consequences, trust me, I know. I know it's hard for people to understand, especially when they don't know the whole story, but I know what I'm getting myself into, I know I can handle it. I've always said no to things that were too much.

I've thought long and hard about some things I have done, some things other people might object to, some things other people might never have done. But I'm not other people; I don't believe in doing things, or not doing things, just for other people, and it's me that's living this life, having these experiences, making these choices, not other people. I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not. I genuinely cannot make myself feel bad about anything, I genuinely regret nothing. If I had a second chance I'd do it all again, I wouldn't have it any other way.

All this being said, this will have to go on hold, for now. After battling with it I've decided that, at least for the next few weeks, my academic life will be pretty much all I can think about. I regret nothing, but it's time to move on, move on to bigger things. I know I will have my friend by my side, but in the end it's my life, and now is the time to make something of it.

I will live my life how I choose. I'm growing up, changing colour, as it were. I'll make my own mistakes; I'll pick myself up. I'll collect a heart full of beautiful memories and I'll treasure them all, as unorthodox and bittersweet as they are. I will live my life without regrets.

Friday, July 20, 2012

No Poo Update: I haven't cheated, right?

Now Playing: Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift (it's just wrong enough to make it feel right)

I washed my hair.

With bubbles.

I didn't spend ages slaving away in the kitchen making a potion.

But I haven't cheated!!!

No-poo has been getting on my nerves lately. I don't think my hair loss has gotten any worse, but it hasn't really improved.

And then there was a vicious cycle. Bicarb soda gets your hair squeaky clean, but leaves funny waxy grey residue, which is no fun, but you can get rid of it with honey, but (raw organic) honey is suuper expensive and only works in conjunction with sugar, which I keep running out of, or apple sauce, but apple sauce has an annoying - and gross- tendancy of going mouldy (I swear, nobody else worries about their shampoo going mouldy)...

Not to mention, hair changes. It isn't static. It's not like washing a wig - you get it right and it stays right. What gave me brilliantly glossy, clean locks one week made me look like Bob Marley the next week. Not to mention, whilst all this stuff is very fun, it's also very messy and time consuming. 

No poo is very simple and frugal if your hair is happy with just bicarb/ACV. It is not particularly simple or frugal when your hair chucks a tantrum on a regular basis.

Last night I realized that the bicarb residue had come back, and the very thought of apple sauce and sugar and honey made me cringe. THERE HAD TO BE AN EASIER WAYYYYY. Not to mention...I miss bubbles. 

Then I remembered, randomly, out of the blue, that you can wash your hair with castile soap. And you can get castile soap...at the markets.

At Fremantle Markets there is a stall called Corrynne's, which sells clays, old fashioned cold-pressed soap and natural body products from a soap factory in Dunsborough. I haven't bought anything from there in a while but I love their passion for wholesome, organic bodycare and their diligent soap manufacturing process which involves no harsh chemicals, and how they diligently source their natural oils, essential oils, clays and herbal extracts. You can smell the stall from a mile away because the soaps all smell AMAZING.

And so I bought two Shampoo Bars, which is a castile soap bar made out of coconut milk, olive oil, castor oil, lye, green French clay, oatmeal, rosemary, lemongrass and mandarin and lime essential oils. It smells heavenly and two washes got rid of the bicarb residue and made my hair squeaky clean. I followed that up with my usual 1/4 cup ACV in 400mls warm water with 3 drops tea tree oil.

Why castile soap? It's all natural - no nasty chemicals. It has a really thick, rich lather, smells amazing, and is good for you. It's also relatively cheap, especially compared to 'natural' shampoos which are sulfate/paraben free - $5 a bar, and a bar lasts much longer than liquid shampoo. 

Soft, clean hair. 

Soo...that is now my current hair routine ;). Castile soap, I love you.

Thursday, July 19, 2012


The sun rises on white
A sparkling diamond dawn
Flawless, untouched
Trembling in the cool kiss of breeze.

Can you feel it?
Lush and shyly blossoming
Like the bitten lips of a virgin blush
The palest, softest, sweetest glow.

And then
She grows darker
A thorn, and then another
Watered by tears and the bitterness of time

The most irresistible tyrian
The colour of a bloodstained sword
Or a harlot's toga
Stained with spilt blood and broken dreams.

But she is content
The sun sets on red
A violent, passionate twilight
Painted with the balm of love.

Click here for a discussion of 부용화

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #55

Now Playing: Falling by Florence + The Machine (because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace, it's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief)

#478: There are some things you can really only say to your best friend ;P

#479: Don't worry, my dear, I'm perfectly capable of understanding your hidden message: Like her or else

#480: Awkward phone calls

#481: Open Horlicks jar. Realize you haven't had Horlicks for months and you are now attacking a solidified lump of Horlicks fossil with a spoon. Give up and sulkily sip plain hot milk instead. 

#482: I know Cranberry and Pomegranate Tea sounds weird but LOOK! it's PINK!

#483: Milo and chocolate taste completely different!

#484: Spaghetti sandwiches <3

#485: Typoes. You're lucky I have good deduction skills or I'd have no idea what on earth you're banging on about, 오빠

#486: Swallowing my pride. Again. 

#487: Tea baths = silky skin! and hours of scrubbing the bathtub :(

#488: Stubble ;)    

Tuesday, July 17, 2012


And so I have learned the sin of selfishness
I dared to spread my wings too soon

I am reminded yet again
Of humility;

Of how utterly undeserving I am of you.

I will pay my penance in good time;
A thousand silent tears
A thousand screams you will never hear.

Forgive me if I flinch
At my martyrdom

I will never forget to smile
Even if I am burning on a pyre

It is easy to concede defeat
To those far greater than you will ever be

I love you enough to let you go.

And in the bitterness of altruism
I pray that I have found atonement.

Click here for a discussion of Atonement. 

Sunday, July 15, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #54

Now Playing: Breaking Down (Acoustic) by Florence + The Machines (all alone on the edge of sleep, my old familiar friend comes and lies down next to me)

#469: I'd rather not kiss someone with anyone's permission, you know?

#470: Towering slices of cake and mountains of whipped cream. The sheer decadence of it all.

#471: 6km uphill hike. The views were worth it ;P

#472: Let's just be glad that it's sixteen year old sensibility and not thirteen year old giddiness that is handling the here and now

#473: My best friend <3

#474: Is it weird that I celebrate losing weight by...eating?

#475: Late night brie binges

#476: Talking to Belephant: quoting Taylor Swift lyrics as conversation

#477: So what if I have weird comfort food? Nobody's gonna see me pigging out in my pyjamas. 

Thursday, July 12, 2012

the lies we tell little girls part deux: am i not feminist, then?

Now Playing: Fix You by Coldplay (when you try your best but you don't succeed, when you get what you want but not what you need) 

Women are a little hypocritical sometimes. Or, rather, we're forced to be a little hypocritical.

We all have this fantasy that we'll meet someone wonderful who will love us, warts and all. But then we never let anyone see us, warts and all. We're never allowed to.

I first started shaving my legs when I was eleven, and I've been dutifully living up to social expectations ever since. Well...not really. I can't stand plucking my eyebrows, and my eyebrow razor is dead, so that is that. It's winter, so I'm wearing jeans and tights a lot, plus I cut my knee, so I haven't really shaved my legs in...a very long time.

Now, you'd think that this would reflect on the idea that personal grooming is for aesthetic purposes - i.e. for other people, because I've only slacked off because circumstances dictate that nobody's gonna see me in my Chewbacca glory. Which is not exactly the case. Point the First, I am very, very, very lazy. If my eyebrow razor is broken, no amount of insecurity is going to motivate me to fix it. Point the Second, I'm too busy getting vinegar in my eye and washing sugar out of my hair that by the time I lay eyes on my razor I'm bored, incredibly lazy and the water's starting to run a little cold. Point the Third, I love the feel of shaved legs, really, I do. Eventually I'll shave them, even if it's not sundress season yet. But I am experimenting with feeling good despite the fuzz. And it's working, so why break the chain? Point the Fourth, I'm not really a very hairy person. Nobody can see my eyebrows, much less a few stray hairs that I haven't singed off yet. And you'd have to be pretty alarmingly close to see how lazy I've gotten with shaving my legs, and I didn't even know I had arm hair until I held my arm up to a light.Which leads to Point the Fifth - even in summer, if I can get away with it, shaving is not a mandatory daily ritual, where slovenliness is punishable by death.

Am I a bad feminist for shaving? Some might argue yes, because I am - shock horror! - succumbing to social norms; hypocritical social norms, because I'd never judge a guy for not shaving (actually, that's not true...stubble is amazing).

It has been ingrained into my head that hairlessness is beautiful; feminine. I know for a fact it is not. Everything feminine, we are born with - hair included. Just because I have body hair doesn't mean I can't be a woman. But it's not me that I have a problem with, it's society. The people in society have been raised to believe that women look a certain way, without considering what it takes to look that way. Think about it. Anne Boleyn seduced Henry VIII and never touched a razor in her life. Our forefathers managed to get the deed done before Schick razors were invented. 

I wish I was strong enough to be like Mayim Bialik, who is a kick ass feminist who has proudly told the whole world that, despite being a red-carpet-strutting actress, she's never touched her body hair. But I'm not. I'll put a razor to my legs eventually. You'll probably never see me in au naturel glory. But...I'd like to think that, one day, I'll meet someone who not only loves me for who I am, but also for how I want to present myself to the world. 

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #53

Now Playing: Set Fire to the Rain by Adele (I let it fall, my heart, and as it fell you rose to claim it)

#454: It's so sweet that you thought of me. Despite ten blisters. I missed you, too.

#455: Girl talk! Estrogen rush! Sushi picnics!

#456: Sweet little smiles from prams.

#457: Jew in the City. Fascinating.

#458: Suuuuper cold

#459: I know...the exit...is here...somewhere...

#460: Snow White and the Huntsman. 

#461: If you ever see me attacking my hair with a paintbrush, I haven't gone insane. It's my way of begging my hair to hold out for another day and behave.

#462: I'm so very proud of you, mummy

#463: I got your birthday present ;P

#465: I burned my tongue on ramen noodles. I'm not such a good Korean, after all. 

#466: I'm not above giving up my seat for little old ladies. Especially if they ask nicely. It's the ones with attitude I would help along in a different way. 

#467: Warm puppy hugs

#468: Sitting by the pool reading a book and soaking up the sun



On Modesty

Now Playing: Sparks Fly by Taylor Swift (the way you move is like a full on rainstorm and I'm a house of cards, you're the kind of reckless that should send me running but I kinda know that I won't get far) 

It's no secret that, when I'm not in frumpy school uniform, I'm normally dressed to impress. I'm not above designer lipstick and a push up bra. There are many reasons for that - I don't think people realize how exhilarating it is to feel comfortable in your own skin when you've spent so long battling with demons like depression and insecurity. Secondly, when I look good, I feel good, and I'm not the kind of person who thinks that everything that is remotely pleasurable is a sin. Thirdly...dressing up, flaunting what you've got and being comfortable in your own skin is part of respecting your body, and that is the core element of modesty.

Modesty, to me, is about self-respect. It's not about what you can and can't wear, what you should and shouldn't do. It is about loving, trusting and respecting yourself, and this should reflect in how you choose to purvey yourself to society. I'll wear pretty dresses and low cut blouses because I know I look good, and I feel good. The times when I hid myself under layers and layers of clothes, I didn't love myself. I tried to hide, and that is never a good thing. I respect myself enough to show myself, just as I am, to the world.

But modesty is also about saving a part of yourself for, well, yourself, and for the people nearest and dearest to you. It's not about how much you save, and who you save it for; the act of doing that, of taking the time to think about what your physical body means to you and to the people who are special to you physically, spiritually, emotionally, etc. Of course there are parts of my body that are sacred. I decide that, because it's my body.

I love attention. We all do - it just depends whether we choose to kid ourselves or not. I know I dress for attention, but not all of it is how much I show - it's bright colours, crazy prints, daring to dress outside of the petty trends and fashions that are made for anorexic mannequins I will never be. I'll never be a wallflower. Not with bright red converse sneakers, anyway.

If you've got it, flaunt it. I'm sixteen. How many more years do I have to enjoy my hourglass figure unmarred by childbearing or age? I'll enjoy it whilst it lasts. Beauty is a transitory possession; but it's a possession nonetheless, and it does nobody any good if you keep it hidden away.   

There is nothing wrong with loving attention. There is nothing wrong with being told that you're pretty, or enjoying the fact that people think you're pretty. There's nothing degrading about people admiring and enjoying your physical beauty, just as there is nothing degrading about someone admiring and enjoying your intellect or wit or humour. In fact, I find it equally, if not more offensive when people constantly harp on about how clever I supposedly am, and totally ignore that I am a living, breathing person with plenty other faults and virtues, and not just a walking dictionary. Only loving someone for how they can arrange words on paper is just as insulting as only loving someone for the shade of lipstick they wear (flutter by Calvin Klein, by the way). When people love you, they love you as a whole. Including what you look like.

Women - actually, anyone, but seeing as I am a woman I'll stick to what I know - who dress immodestly are those who don't respect themselves, and don't garner respect from others. There's a difference between flattering and flashing, tasteful and tacky. Immodesty is when you mistake a severe dependence on public opinion for independence. Immodesty is not loving yourself enough to trust that others will love you for who you are. Immodesty is not reserving some part of your physical and/or emotional self just for you and for the people nearest and dearest to you. When I dress, I have great respect for my body. I know what looks good, and what doesn't. I know that how I dress attracts the kind of attention that I like, but then again I know that the people who mind don't matter, and the people that matter don't mind whatever I do and whatever I look like.

I think you can dress modestly and still wear bright colours, low necklines and figure hugging dresses. It's not what you wear, it's how you wear it; the attitude. I wear what I wear not because I'm desperate to keep up with fads or because I believe that people will only love my physical body and not everything else I have to offer. If you ever see me out and about, I'm never quite with the times; but everything I wear is bright, and cheeky, and colourful. Because that is who I am, and, at least for me, the mirror doesn't lie.


Tuesday, July 10, 2012


Now Playing: In My Place by Coldplay (if you go, if you go, leave me down here on my own, then I'll wait for you)

After my Modern History essay we all stumbled out of the class to stretch our legs, massage our fingers and pray futilely we'll never spend another hour clenching sweat-slippery pens whilst trying to remember what happened in 1962 apart from the formation of the Rolling Stones. Despite that...I took one look at a baby and melted, and gleefully held him in my arms, ignoring the stabbing pains in my shoulder as I cooed at his sweet sleepy face and cute purrs of baby contentment.

My shoulder still hurts, but I don't care.

When I was little I was pretty small, because hospitals are a fast lane to sudden weight loss, so I was kept in the nursery at daycare when I was a toddler. I think my infatuation with babies started then. I have spent so much time playing with babies, rocking them to sleep, chasing my cousins with bottles of formula, holding them in the car, giving them bubble baths...it's exhausting, back breaking work, but I love it.

Baby talk is the cutest. I can spend hours and hours singing to babies, talking to them, reading to them. I think babies are the cutest when they're about a year, maybe two, years old - they have their own little personalities, it's adorable. I love having huge eyes on me, I love tiny little wrinkly hands clenched tightly around my fingers, I love soft kisses on my cheek and affectionate baby chatter as I tuck them in or read them a book.

In some ways I love everyone else in the same way. I've learned, perhaps too soon, how to love unconditionally. Altruism...sucks. Seriously. 

One of my relatively unknown talents is that I can normally make any little kid smile, just by smiling at them. It works! Every time I see a little kid in a pram, I can't help but smile, and when they smile back - and they always do, unless they're asleep - it's the cutest thing in the world.

I love how innocent children are. This year I saw innocence as a liability, a vulnerability, something too dangerous to keep with me for very long. I...have grown up a lot this year, and whilst it's all very exciting it's very sad to let go of your childhood, to let go of a time and place where you believed in fairytales and happily ever afters, trading simplicity for the sordid. I love how trusting children are, I can't help but smile at their gullbility, their sweet and simplisitic attitude towards life. I wish...I wish I was like that again.

I was one of those girls who was born a mother. It didn't matter how angry I was at boys, how often my heart broke and all my happily ever after dreams crumbled in my hands or how angsty my (admittedly, very brief) period of 'boy germs' were; I always knew that my destiny was to be a mother, to get married and start a family, and, feminist or no feminist, successful career woman or not, I know I will be inconsolable if that doesn't work out.

Women live in a time and place where we are caught in a void; it is wholly unacceptable to be the driven, career minded woman with no room in her life for men and babies, but it's also equally unacceptable to want to nurture house and home. We've always lived in a world where women who enjoy sex and intimacy are shunned and persecuted; but now we also live in a world where the word 'frigid' exists, too, to further discriminate against women. The balance is, I think, harder than is appreciated by the male dominated world of politics, academia and the corporate ladder; all of us girls have done the math over and over in our heads, but we all know that the numbers don't work in our favour; something's got to give, and whatever choices we make will be condemned by someone or another. I want to chase my dreams; I want to go to university, have a sparkling career, write books and be famous. But I also want to fall in love, fall in love with someone willing to give me what I have always given and received nothing in return for, I want to get married and I want to have that domestic, homey bliss. Both ambitions are my worst-kept secrets, because I know most people will look down on one or the other or both, and I know I can't have everything. But is it really so bad to want success and accomplishment and a sweet baby cooing in my arms and a ring on my finger? It is exceptionally hard, as a young woman still trying to find her feet, to find the balance between increasingly differing expectations - from myself, from my friends and family, and from society as a whole.  I don't know what I want, who I want to be. I don't know if I can live up to expectations when they are so contradictory and confusing and not at all clear cut. And I know that, no matter what I choose in my life, both personal and professional, there will always be one bigot or another that will accuse me of being less of a woman.

This year is the year when we're meant to forget that we are living, breathing human beings; to forget that we are emotional, vulnerable, sexual people, to forget that we think and feel and dream and crave...anything and everything. I feel like I am forced to deny myself, deny who I am, how I feel and what I want; I feel guilty when I indulge myself, allow myself too many moments of being too human. I can't turn it off. I know how important this year is, but I also know that, in the grand scheme of things, everything is important, even the things we try so hard to supress and turn a blind eye to. I can't explain away the way I feel; more importantly, I can't put it off until later. It's all happening, now. I'll only be sixteen once, I'll only fall in love for the first time once, heartbreaks happen in the here and now; and they'll happen later, too, but I can't save the worst till last. I can't put any part of my life on hold, for now, at least. I know it will happen sooner or later; I'll have to choose to prioritise either my professional or personal life. But for now, I won't put anything on hold.  

Saturday, July 07, 2012


Now Playing: Cameo Lover (Live at Sing Sing) by Kimbra (this is non stop baby, you've got me going crazy, you're heavier than I knew)

I must confess, I've never really liked my smile.

I don't mean that in a glib way; I just never understood why people choose to compliment my smile of all things. It's not the most glamourous or graceful look. I've seen my smile in the mirror. It's not the prettiest thing in the world.

I've never quite mastered the subtle, innocent, graceful smile. When I'm not grinning like a gleeful five year old baboon I can only really manage that kind of coy, sexy, flirtatious smirk that I imagine Anne Boleyn employed to disasterous effect - I guess you could say that the disasters I inspire are of a very different sort. Which is all very good fun, but sometimes it sends the wrong sort of message to the wrong sort of people, you know?

I'm getting sidetracked.

Despite not being a huge fan of my infantile, cheeky smile, I smile a lot. You wouldn't think it, but normally I'm just a happy sort of person - I haven't been of late, because the end of term blues caught me, so do forgive me if I haven't been my dapper old self recently. Smiling, for me, is very very involuntary, but I'm very very self conscious of my smile. Because in that split second, you're not in control; you're looking right into someone's eyes and they're looking right into yours, and for half a heartbeat you're letting your guard down and letting someone in. For me, that just seems a little too vulnerable.

Some people have the most amazing smiles, you know? The kind of smile that just takes your breath away. I love how everyone, from the wrinkly old grandfather to the even wrinklier baby has that kind of sparkle in their eye, I love the little winks, the subconscious gestures, the tingles down your spine. When my best friend smiles at me, it doesn't matter how tired I am or how angry I was at him, it melts my heart, just a little. It is most unfair, actually.

I'm sure there are other people who don't love their smile, don't like how their faces scrunch up very unflatteringly and shows too much of themselves, but I suppose the people who love you will always think you have the most endearing smile in the world. 

Friday, July 06, 2012

A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #52

Now Playing: Something In The Way You Are by Kimbra (you're breaking me in the best way)

#443: Trucks in a river ;P

#444: How the hell am I supposed to stay mad at you when you smile at me like that?

#445: I got a hug from Sherlock Holmes

#446: The rain washed away your footsteps, and mine

#447: If you really want to know why I like you over him...you don't have his temper.

#448: Ten minutes being clucky with the politics teacher's son. Adorable!

#449: I'm sorry if I'm being cranky.

#450: Dear uncomfortably painful zit. Please go away. 

#451: Extreme dedication to no-poo = quite a few bad hair days. In my defence, also quite a few good hair days, too

#452: Disarmingly sexy? 

#453: Running down the corridor near the gyms. Little year eight boys make zoom zoom noises and stare blankly in your direction. You ask them what they're looking at and they reply 'you have...really...nice...hair...'

Thursday, July 05, 2012

why I'm a blogger.

Now Playing: Two Way Street (Live at Sing Sing) by Kimbra (and I think I'm ready for you to get under my skin)

A lot of people ask me why I am a blogger. Why I bother. How I can even begin to find the time, or the energy, or the motivation, to write.

I know I have a pretty low traffic blog. I know exactly what it takes to get a high traffic blog, but I don't do it. I always knew what I wanted for this blog; I wanted a place, just one place in the whole world, where I could just be me. Where I could voice my opinions, anything that is on my mind, and have the comfort, the solace, that someone, somewhere is reading them.

What I have on my hands is so, so much more than I ever thought possible.

A lot of people think I am wasting my time, writing on my blog, because I don't print out my blog, hand it to my teacher, and get a grade for it. As an English student, I know that is not true. Any writing is better than no writing. The freedom of unassessed work, of writing things with the exquisite liberation from scrutiny, is bliss. Truly. I love it. And, to be perfectly honest, it has helped a lot with my writing. This is the kind of writing that I know, that I love best. You have no idea how comforting it is, to eagerly pull out the writing section of the English paper, and relax as I write a blog post. A blog post that nobody will read, sure, but I'm in my element. When I write, I've had four years of practice. I like to think that I know what I'm doing.

I write on a blog because I wanted people to know that it doesn't matter how much you push me around, how cruel you are to me, I still have a say. I still have eyes and ears, and I still have a tongue. I'll send that text message without any qualms, and I'll dish out all your dirty laundry with a clear conscience. I like the power of a blog, even a blog as small as this one. It makes people sit up and pay attention to you.

I've always had a pretty good memory, but I've always had a very selective memory, too. There are some beautiful moments, and some very heartbreaking ones, that I want to record, somewhere, in a time capsule of my life. I am writing from a fascinating, and often very troubling time, and it will be interesting to look back at the growing pains. Nobody else can say that they can remember exactly what was going through the head of their twelve year old self. 

Blogging is also very personal. I'm not the kind of person who can bury secrets deep in their heart; it would slowly kill me. I need to talk, and blogging has been a much-needed outlet. It's very theraputic, to sit here and whinge to my heart's content. It would make for amazingly selfish conversation but, amusingly, pretty good reading. Ain't that a bitch?

Blogging has also had a very unexpected consequence. When I blog, I am myself. I'm not dressed up, I'm not wearing makeup, I'm not wearing a blank courtier's grin, I'm not fighting back tears. Blogging is sometimes as daunting and revealing as stepping on stage nude, but it's something we all should do from time to time. It's through my blog that I've had the courage to say that this is me, and I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not; and it's also through my blog that I've met the people who have taken a long, hard look at me and said 'you know what? I love you for you, too'.

I'm a blogger because I'm the kind of person who's head is always swimming. I'm a blogger because I'm that kid who's always spinning, forever spinning. I'm a blogger because I like to think that I'm not that kind of teenager lampooned by Hollywood and the mass media. I'm a blogger because we all have things worth saying, and ideas worth sharing, and there's something very healing in the deeply altruistic process of wearing your heart on your sleeve and putting all cards on the table. 

Wednesday, July 04, 2012

Now Playing: Hardest of Hearts by Florence + The Machine (There is love in our bodies and it holds us together, but pulls us apart when we're holding each other, we all want something to hold in the night, we don't care if it hurts or we're holding too tight)

Sometimes I genuinely prefer the company of boys. Because even though there's all this business of falling in love and getting your heart broken over and over again, I can live with that.

Put it this way. I'm good at being a bitch, but I don't particularly enjoy it.

I'm done with the petty playground politics of high school. I'm done with the bitchy backstabbing, all the lies we tell each other, how we play with the status quo to see what it takes to make it fall in on itself. I hate how some people treat others with total disdain and no respect, and how selfish we have all become.

But I know exactly how to play this game. I know you all think I've forgiven and forgotten everything, but some things are just too easy to remember, especially when you try and repeat the same tricks on a different person.

So go ahead. Lie to yourself that it's all for the greater good, that you're not really doing anything, and that you don't believe in prolonging the inevitable. You learn a lot from the bottom.

Surely you would have known that I know the ropes by now. Surely you know that I don't take sides.