I am so tired of cliches.
I am so tired of people thinking I should be good at what I'm not.

I am so tired of expectations.
I am so tired of people thinking that I don't want what I do.

I am so tired of misconceptions.
I am so tired of people thinking I don't understand what I do.

I am so tired...
I am so tired of being judged.

Girl.

Asian.

Smart.

Bookish.

Feminist.

does not equal

Inferior.

Math.

Undateable.

Bad dress sense.

Man hater.

I got a problem.

If you haven't figured out I'm a fan of Tudor history then you're an idiot.

Sorry.

There's this Tudor TV series that drives all the historians crazy called The Tudors, known for including 'too-beautiful and too young' actors, copious inexplicable sex and graphic violence, historical inaccuracies and elaborate (but still inaccurate) costumes. I've been watching it on YouTube, and it's quite good. It aired four seasons, starting with the divorce of Katherine of Aragon (I love how they always start there. Wasn't her marriage interesting enough?) and ending with the death of King Henry VIII.

I just got a problem.

The King Henry.

King Henry is portrayed by actor/'I've only had one girlfriend I havent cheated on' douchebag Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Firstly, he doesn't look anything like Henry VIII. He claims that nobody knows what he looked like and we can't trust Holbein who only really painted Henry in later life and even then they're 'works of art' and 'probably don't look very much like Henry VIII.' Let me tell you something. If Hans Holbein was commissioned to paint a portrait of the King of England and it looked nothing like the King of England knowing Henry Holbein wouldn't have many more opportunities to get any more commisions (if you get what I mean). And we have detailed descriptions from the Venetian ambassador who, in Henry's youth praised his fair skin and golden red-blonde hair. This is Jonathan Rhys Meyers' 'I totally look like Henry':

Loving the 'golden red blond hair', Jonathan.

But I can look past an inaccurate dye job. It's the fact that Henry is portrayed as so one-dimentional.

Historically, Henry VIII claimed that he had been 'wronged' by Katherine of Aragon's 'sin' because they had never truly been married becasue she had been his brother's bride before being his, blah blah blah. I know historically Henry VIII was an idiot and self centered and his conscience was easily adaptable, but they portray him as being so gullible he manages to convince himself so easily. He never shows any second thoughts of setting aside a good woman, which historically he did, he never showed any restraint against blantantly accusing Katherine of Aragon (which he did historically - he only spoke bad things about her because Anne Boleyn and Cromwell and the Reformists wanted him to). It annoys me. Henry VIII was an intelligent man. Jonathan Rhys Meyers does not portray him as intelligent spouting out what was apparently the thinking of the time, but historically Henry VIII had to fight a lot of inner demons to do what he did, and he had second thoughts after killing pretty much everyone important he did kill.

It still annoys me. Wah.

Me.

I was talking to a friend the other day (on the ever-eventful msn) and I said to her 'I wish I was more like me.'

I should probably explain this.

The 'me' that I am is a very moody, depressed girl who is bitter and sarcastic to the extreme, has a massive crush on Sheldon Cooper and that boy from the eigth grade that she is totally-of-course-not-completely-absolutely not over. This 'me' binge eats, is lazy, whiny and slightly neurotic.

The 'me' that I wish I was more like is the 'me' people see hopefully more than the previous 'me'. This 'me' is Lady Renegade, ready to conquer the world. Bright, funny, intelligent, talented, smart, pretty with enough eyeliner, feminist, ready to die for something big and brave and bold and hopefully get a wikipedia page, and is totally over eighth-grade douchebag, thank you very much.

Since I've been sick, I've been at home waddling around in pain or under the influence of opiates in my pajamas with my hair in a stupid top knot, with no makeup and a massive acne breakout. I've been deprived of almost everything that has made my life enjoyable and I have to sleep on beanbags to avoid pressure on my surgical site. Needless to say, I've reverted back to being the previous 'me'.

I think I have a split personality disorder. One person cannot be such a bright spark and such an astronomical failure simultaneously. They'd explode.

Dear Suffragettes, Joan of Arc, and Feminists who Actually Did Something With Their Lives.

You are lucky you don't get to hear them.

They're blonde, chatty, slutty, and call me a 'feminazi'.

'I, like, totally don't get feminism,' one of them says as she chews bubblegum and inspects her nails. 'Because, like, we already go to school, we like, can go to work, so like, what's the problem?'

'I know, right?' her friend agrees. 'I don't like feminazis. They're all frigid, and like they look really weird.'

'Yeah, I know, like, who would date a feminazi?'

'And they all, like, hate men, and they're all like 'men are all dumb and stupid and will, like, rape you.''

'They probably want men to, like, stay at home and look after the kids while they, like, rule the world.'

These 'feminazis' - you, me - are the reason why they get to go to school, they can get jobs, they have human rights, don't have to face arranged marriage and a lifetime of servitute to men.

Why did we even bother?

It's sad to think that your daughter's daughters' don't adore you, they just think you're lame. They think I'm lame. I watch as we, a single generation destroy what centuries of struggle has brought us. I think of people who have died for peace, for freedom, for love, for justice, to my charming classmates chewing bubblegum and shamelessly throwing themselves and I wish I was Joan of Arc. At least she died thinking she was making the world a better place. It's pretty much a lost cause now.

A lot of people are like 'Why are you so against religion? Religion is about peace. Religion is a spiritual sense of being.'

Don't give me all that crap. I know you only like religion because of Christmas.

Okay, so I'm opposed to religion? You know why? It's backward.

Religion has to change as society changes, or it must disappear forever. Religion has to me more open, more about the aforementioned peace and spiritual sense of being than your imaginary friend is better than my imaginary friend.

You cannot tell me that religion is openminded and 'so totally not sexist, obviously' (that's a direct quote) when the only female pope ever is probably pure legend and is associated with the Whore of Babylon. Come to think of it, they're all male. The Pope, the Dalai Lama, the Archibishop of Canterbury...Jesus...

Religion is born out of fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of science, fear of women. We didn't know what was going on and so we made stuff up, and now we do know what was going on but we're *still* making stuff up.

Religion is supposed to be the cure, not the disease. It's meant to save lives, not destroy them. We have used 'God' to justify so many ungodly sins, and yet we still mindlessly pray as though we know nothing and must trust our destinies to a being that does not exist. Religion is a safety net we've created that has spectacularly backfired.

Anyway, Merry Christmas!

Failing Writing.

Did I ever tell you that I used to get 'Bs' in English and 'As' in Maths?

Oh, those were the days.

You see, that was a time when 'English' was 'knowing how to write'. Apparently, I couldn't write. Not legibly, anyway.

'Maths' only meant that you had to write the numbers legibly. Apparently they turned a blind eye at the fact that I wrote '3' backwards.

Do you remember handwriting lessons?

I used to hate them. I failed to see the point of teaching all children to write the same way and yelling at them if they wrote a 'g' a different way than on the board. I mean, my mum, sister and dad (the only three people I had regular contact with who could read and write) all had different handwriting, so what was wrong with mine?

A lot, apparently.

For starters, I wrote backwards - like, right-to-left, like Hebrew. Pity I wasn't learning Hebrew. My parents had to read all my pre-primary writing in a mirror.

Secondly, I liked pens. I didn't like pencils, or gel pens (although I like gel pens now, just not the stains I get from them on my sleeves). Pencils smudged too much. They were childish. People could rub my name off my work, put their name, and pass something, for a change.

I was left handed, which also meant that if I was sitting on the 'wrong side' of the desk (we had to share desks in primary school. Oh, they were the days.) I would engage in elbow wars. Now, most sensible teachers would swap the freaky left-hander so that I could only elbow-war the air, but some of my teachers were OCD about sitting boy-girl. So it really wasn't my fault that every boy I had to sit next to had a pink elbow by the end of the week.

Then there were 'pen licenses'.

I never got the point of pen licences. You got driving licences from people who knew what they were doing. You had to be a certain age. You had to fit a certain critera. With pen licenses, you get them and lose them whenever the teacher wants to give/take them. Teachers don't know what they're doing. The only criteria you had to fit was to not get on the teachers nerve, and when you're the overachieving freaky Asian left-hander it's very hard not to get on the teachers nerve.

Also, the person who was giving out pen licences was my fourth-grade teacher, who had the worst handwriting I had, have or will ever see. It all seemed a bit hypocritical to me, really.

In year six I finally managed to maintain my pen licence for more than a fortnight (although it never really bothered me whether I had a 'pen licence' or not, because my fourth-grade teacher lost track of who was given their pen licence and my fifth grade teacher couldn't stop me from 'illegally' using a pen because I didn't have anything else to write with). And then I wanted to rebel. I didn't want to write in cursive, I wanted to print. Upper school students weren't supposed to print. But then, when I was in lower school and we were supposed to print I wanted to write in cursive.

That was something I didn't get either. What is the point of teaching us to print, then teaching us cursive, and then telling us to stop printing?

Anyway.

In year seven my teacher let me write however I wanted, so I got really inventive. Hearts on all my 'i's. My third grade teacher yelled at me for not leaving two fingers between each word so I made up for it in the seventh grade by leaving five.

I never understood why my seventh grade teacher wasn't impressed.

Two years on and I still can't write very legibly unless I really give it some thought. I learned how to type when I was about eight and I haven't really given much thought to the mundane idea of actually writing something since. I mean, how nineteenth century. Puh-leez.

You know, they told me I would never get anywhere if I didn't write neatly, if I didn't pass math, if I didn't pick up a sport and called it a sport (I called anything I did an 'art' and it annoyed them), if I didn't get a boyfriend. Well, guess what? I can't write neatly. I failed math. I didn't pick up a 'sport' I 'ice skate' which is an 'art' and I don't have a boyfriend. But I'm skipping a grade, any you're all middle-aged hags trapped in a government primary school tormenting people like me with pen licences. And I bet you all wrote neatly, passed math, picked up a 'sport' and had boyfriends.

It's still pretty cute.

There's a cat camping under the bush outside my window.

It's especially creepy at night because it's nearly black and has these big luminescent eyes.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when we came home one day and it was lurking behind the trailer.

It was pretty cute.

It didn't go away.

The next day I found it in the bottom of the garden near the pool. It was still pretty cute.

My dogs didn't think so. Every time Bella managed to force herself through the bars of the fence the cat shoots out like a bat out of hell.

The cat lurked in the back garden for a few weeks. It came down every time I went outside to keep it company, whenever Skye (who can't fit through the gaps in the fence) decides to try Operation Get-The-Cat-Out-of-The-Garden and whenever I tried to pick tomatoes from our tomato patch. Then it decided that Bella was too annoying and vacated.

And relocated.

To the front yard.

It now comes out and greets us whenever we come home, at whatever hour. It waits on the doorstep and creeps the crap out of my sister because all you can see at night are floating yellow eyes. It rubs against our legs (I'm sorry I call it it. Its hair is too long to work out its gender) and has now made a nest under the bush outside my bedroom window to keep out of the heat.

We don't know where the cat's from, or who it belongs to, but it's not starving because it is quite a formidable hunter. It left a peace offering on our doorstep - a dead mouse splayed open - sometime last night. How charming.

The cat is very cute, and very friendly. It lets me pick it up and scratch its head and stroke it. It meows at three in the morning as if to say 'Hi, pal...you won't let me into the house even though I gave you a peace offering.' or 'It's not fair that two incredibly stupid dogs who can't even catch mice are inside and I, the Formidable Mouse Catcher, am out here.'

Stalker.

But it's still pretty cute.

There are three kinds of people in the world.

The janitors, the backup dancers and the star.

Janitors are those people who make a general nuisance of themselves, hate the world and end up as janitors - I'm not talking about those immigrants that are forced to become janitors because people in Australia can't see past black skin, foreign customs and a lack of a common language to a good brain. No these janitors were probably the popular kids at school, trampled on everyone else, dumped every second partner, probably shattering endless amounts of marriage and baby dreams, and so deserve what they get.

I don't feel sorry for these janitors.

Unfortunately for the world, there are too many of these 'janitors'.

There are also too many backup dancers.

Backup dancers are nice people, but they're chicken. It's not cool to be smart, no, so you'll pretend to be dumb. It's not cool to brag that you're a size eight so you'll go on and on about how fat your thighs are. You hate people who 'show off' and 'win prizes' - I mean, who gets a boyfriend and a normal job that way?

These people annoy me, because they aim too low. They only aim to be the random hot people dancing behind the person behind the mic when they really could be, with a bit of confidence and thick skin, the person behind the mic.

Then there are the last kind of people: the stars.

Granted, these people sometimes don't make it and fall into a fourth sub-category known as 'losers' - but I don't like to talk about that category much. Stars are undervalued, overworked, underfed, abused, degraded...until they can make shitloads of money and then people love them.

There is no comfort in being normal, not for me, anyway. What's the point of enduring all the hardships of life is all you get is to be yet another gravestone in yet another graveyard? Why would you settle for being the backup dancer, when you can be the person who's actually under the spotlight? Is it really worth keeping the popular girls (who will end up as janitors) happy, is it really worth trying to impress that buff brainless jock (who will also end up as a janitor)? By trying to impress people who will only end up as janitors, by trying to fit in with people who will only end up as backup dancers, you're forfeiting your chance to be the star.

So yeah, I know, when you aim big you can fall flat on your face and people will laugh at you. People will tell you you're too fat, too young, too untalented, too whatever, and they won't believe you can do it until you can (and they'll still be in denial. They'll tell you 'you got lucky', or that someone called God had anything to do with it.)

So, if you're a backup dancer, you can't hate the star. You've got to make sacrifices - a chance at a life people will remember, or a chance at social normality. Sheldon Cooper and I both know what to choose.

That was a total waste of my time. I know.

P.S. only *one* person found it *cool* that I got out of hospital? Gee, thanks.

Why Legolas has remained anonymous.

I know I bitch about a lot of people on this blog. Legolas, Goldilocks, Alaska, BSC, K, my crazy frog-obsessed year co-ordinator.

You may have noticed that I don't mention specific names and, with the exception of the male members of my list, I don't mention specific scenarios.

Well, I don't mention names because I like my freedom and free speech and my blog and it is illegal to put names in public no matter what people do (although, it seems, it is not illegal to break hearts, be a nuisance or a class A bitch, and I see all of the above as more damaging than having your name put on a blog that less than 0.1 percent of the world's population reads) and I don't mention specific scenarios (well, not about the female members of my list) because, to be honest, they're just too damn smart.

You see, if someone had, I don't know, thrown me down a flight of stairs, than I cold explain all the gory details of how I broke every bone in my body and how the offender got expelled in a most melodramatic fashion from the school. But, you see, bullies are not that dumb these days, especially in my school.

Bullying is a subtle art. It is a real gift to be able to make someone feel truly shit in a way that is not illegal or against the rules. It is a true wonder how they can do something so devastating to your ego, but can only be explained so that it sounds like the most childish and petty thing possible. And the law is even on their side, because I can't name and shame them, no, I just have to take all the crap and protect their identity.

That is really not fair.

So that is why Legolas has remained anonymous.

Commentators should note that I can and do read every comment posted on this blog, and are kindly reminded not to include anything illegal/offensive/annoying/stupid/lame in their comment, even if that comment is deleted. Yeah. I can still read it after you've deleted it.

Sorry I'm being crabby. Panadol can only do so much for post-surgery crap, and I think I'm allergic to opiates.

Dear America, Australia and the World.

You should know, Julian Assange is my hero.

Don't shoot the messanger.

Face the secrets you've been hiding.

We all deserve freedom of speech.

So...

I'm out of hospital.

I've got a slit down my stomach, and puncture wound in my arm and a new pacemaker. I'm bloated from taking way too many painkillers and I got maybe three hours of sleep last night.

But it's okay, you know. It could be worse. If I was born maybe 20 years from now I would just be a gravestone in a graveyard - and you all know that is my worst fear.

When you're lying in bed with a mindblowing headache and sincerely wishing that this pain had a switch you could just turn off, you sincerely feel for those who have been through this pain, are going through this pain, are going to go through this pain, and for those who have had worse pain than this. And yes, you do start hating those blonde bitches and dumb year co-ordinators and bad exes even more - I have to go through this and that and they walk away blonde and beautiful and vilely evil. You see, this is why I don't believe in karma. It's weird how I think about all this petty shit when I feel like shit, isn't it? But it's true. This is why I don't believe in God.

What I do believe in is that I, and all the other kids in PMH and around the world who are sick, can overcome this, without karma, without God, without boyfriends and money and good looks. Sure, all of the above would be nice, but life isn't nice, not all the time, anyway. Just look at the slit down my stomach, the bald heads on cancer patients and the gravestones of those who didn't make it for proof of that.

Just chillin' in my trolley, homie.

I haven't sat in a trolley since I was about four years old.

We just went Christmas shopping and I hopped into a big trolley and enjoyed not having to walk.

I got laughed at, pointed at, and stared at by half a Target store. Lovely.

But seriously, what is their problem? Okay, so you don't see a fourteen year old in a trolley every day? But why do they have to ruin my fun? It's a free country, isn't it? Why am I not allowed in a trolley and four year olds are? Why are they making me grow up when I don't want to? I am me, and I do what I want.

Sometimes I look at people and we're all like robots - we all do the same thing, at the same time, all day, every day. Maybe we need crazy teenagers in trolleys to make us human again.

Dim Sum.

For those of you who have not experienced the proper Dim Sum experience, you really are missing out on something.

By proper...well, this is not what proper is. Proper is not one or two lonely souls eating whatever comes around and balking at the chicken feet.

By proper I mean a big group at one of those big tables with a lazy susan. The ordering is done in a rapid babble of Cantonese, with those inept at Cantonese (read: LR) yelling out favourites in English.

The authentic Chin order always includes Chicken feet (suck it up, ang mors), spare ribs steamed in a gooey blackbean sauce, rice noodle rolls drowned in sweet soy sauce and gooey congee...mmm...

It's a family thing - I love family meals. As much as I like my solitary ramen fixes, there's nothing like standing around a round table, armed with chopsticks, fighting over those tiny dim sum dishes or, as it was in Singapore a few years ago, a big steamed fish with lots of soy and ginger.

Food is a massive element of Chinese culture. In fact, if it wasn't for food, I don't think any of us would really get along.

Vinegar.

Another one of my weird habits is that I drink vinegar.

Yeah.

Straight out of the bottle.

Off a teaspoon.

You must think I'm nuts.

My mum buys this really good balsamic vinegar, and I'm kind of addicted to it. It's not just sour - it's sweet, and then there's this complex bit, and then it ends kind of sour.

Apparently, prisoners in the old settlement-days of Australia were given a spoonful of vinegar a day to make up for the nutritional gaps in convict diet.

Whatever. Call me weird, but nothing's gonna come between me and my spoon of vinegar.

The impossible is possible.

There's that age old question.

Help! My child wants to be an astronaut!

They often tell us that the only limitations we have are ourselves but, when you're young, naive, vulnerable and rudely ignored by the law, sometimes our only limitations...are our parents.

But the impossible really is possible.

When a child goes up to a parent and says 'Mommy/Daddy, I wanna be an astronaut!' the moment you convince that poor kid that it's not possible, think of something else, BAM! his life is ruined.

You get those very odd kids who want to be accountants or have some other kind of stable, boring, 9 to 5 jobs. Those kids are very rare - they only emerge when they are disillusioned teenagers, disenchanted by bad grades and overly-practical parents.

Okay, so maybe your kid will never be an astronaut, or a movie star. Maybe they don't have the brains or the skill or the looks - or so you think. It is healthy to say that anything is possible, but nothing falls into your lap and that if you aim for the moon, sometimes you've just got to settle amongst the stars.

So yes, it is possible for your kid to become an astronaut.

It is possible for your kid to become a movie star.

It is possible for your kid to become a dinosaur...okay, maybe not.

Story of Us Part II

I guess you think my wrath will only be limited to boyfriends,
How wrong you are.
You can get a story from every scar.
I still have those scars,
Of when you threw me down,
And hurt me.
You don't have to put love in the equation,
I'll make sure you'll be sorry.

I can still remember those people who held me down,
As they thrust a needle in my tiny child's arm.
I can still remember my own scream,
And I swear I heard you laugh.
You didn't think I'd forget that,
Did you?

You're going to be part of my stories,
And you'll regret,
How you picked on an easy target.
You and me,
Victim and enemy,
I'll have fun,
Writing the story of us.

Did you think I'd forget
How you stuck drawing pins into me?
Those fucking badges,
You'd take them off your shirt and into my skin.
You were just having fun,
But you didn't know what I went through,
And I'm not the kind to forgive and forget.
And keep my silence.

You're going to be part of my stories,
And you'll regret,
How you picked on an easy target.
You and me,
Victim and enemy,
I'll have fun,
Writing the story of us.

Yeah, and I remember you,
I told you all my secrets,
And you told them all away.
I didn't want my heart to become popular culture,
But it did, anyway.
Thank you.
I was naive.
You were just mean.

You're going to be part of my stories,
And you'll regret,
How you picked on an easy target.
You and me,
Victim and enemy,
I'll have fun,
Writing the story of us.

Next chapter

Year six I'll still remember how you taunted me,
Because I was changing,
And you were not.
There were things in my bag that you didn't know,
And it scared you,
So you scared me.
This was one race I just happened to win,
And even though you won all the others,
I know you still didn't like it.

You're going to be part of my stories,
And you'll regret,
How you picked on an easy target.
You and me,
Victim and enemy,
I'll have fun,
Writing the story of us.

You don't think I can do it,
But don't you worry.
One day, some day,
I'll make you say 'sorry'.
Maybe that day will be so far away that you'll forget about it.
But you've given yourself the cancer,
And it's gonna pop up years later.

Think about that.
Because now I must
Go and write the story of us.

The end.

Also inspired by 'The Story of Us'.

Story of Us Part I

I used to think one day we'd tell the story of us
How we met and the sparks flew instantly
People would say, "they're the lucky ones"
I used think one day my place would be a spot next to you
Now I'm searching the room for an empty seat
Far away from you and your horrible sneer.

'Cause lately I don't even know what page you're on
Wish I could say it's just a simple complication
Miscommunications lead to fall out
So many things that I wish you knew
So many walls up I can't break through

Now I'm standing alone
In a crowded room
And we're not speaking
And it's so sad to know that
It's not killing you
Like it's killing me.
I don't know what to say
Since a twist of fate
When it all broke down
And the story of us
Looks a lot like a tragedy now

Next chapter

How'd we end up this way?
See me nervously pulling at my clothes
And trying to look busy
And you're doing your best to avoid me

But now I'm starting to think one day I'll tell the story of us
How I lost my mind,
And how you took advantage of me
And how I made you lose your pride when you lost me
You'd be so scared to read the ending
It's a great story,
Why are we pretending this is nothing?
I'd tell you I miss you but I don't know how
I guess the only thing to do is scream our story out loud.

Now I'm standing alone
In a crowded room
And we're not speaking
And it's so sad to know that
It's not killing you
Like it's killing me.
I don't know what to say
Since a twist of fate
When it all broke down
And the story of us
Looks a lot like a tragedy now

This is looking like a contest
Of who can act like they care less
I guess you don't know every glare
And every slur
Turns into a chapter.

One day,
Someday,
You'll regret this.
One day,
Someday,
You'll be all over the shelves.
Our story will have my name on it,
And everyone will know
How you let me down...
In the story of us.

The end.

Inspired by The Story of Us by Taylor Swift.

I guess there's nothing to do but keep smiling.

I guess there's nothing to do but keep smiling.

If words could describe how genuinely terrified I am of Tuesday then English would have far exceeded my wildest expectations.

I'm not scared of death, not really. I'm actually profoundly curious as to what happens after we leave this world. Although, I'm scared that I won't get what I want before I die, whenever that may be. Top of the list is love, which is honestly why I've been driven to do some pretty crazy things in my attempts to get it. If you were in my shoes, desperate for time, desperate for everything, then you'd understand.

No, it's pain that I'm scared of the most. Death at least is over, sooner or later. But pain can be eternal.

So I've been listening to lots of Bon Jovi, lots of Taylor Swift. What else can I do? I can't refuse. My body is not really mine to make decisions over, is it? There wasn't even a line for me to sign on the surgical permission papers.

It's kind of silly when they tell me to be brave. What do they know? Nothing. They don't know what I or a million people have to go through. Perhaps if they knew they wouldn't treat me and the others so badly. Maybe they wouldn't lie and cheat and break hearts, because really, my heart is broken anyway. It never worked, so why tread over it anyway? Just like it's bad enough to hurt a child, but to hurt a deformed child is low. I like to think that if I could somehow force them to experience what I have been forced to go through they'd shut up and show me some motherfucking respect. If I dropped dead in the middle of the school then a lot of people would feel truly guilty, or so I'd like to believe.

Truly, I envy the people who only go to hospital for babies or broken legs, I really do. I don't comprehend people who voluntarily go under the knife. If they knew the indescribable horror, terror, pain of some of the more serious surgeries (that, thankfully, I endured too long ago for me to recall) they'd think twice over wanting a new nose.

It wouldn't be enough to say I don't like surgery, or hospital. Hate is not even a strong enough word. It's humiliating, it's degrading, it's revolting and primitive. I don't trust them, or the place. I feel more like a specimen that they just poke and prod and talk about as if I'm not in the room. I don't feel like a human being anymore.

But.

I guess there's nothing to do but keep smiling.

I can hear my heartbeat in the bath sometimes. I think it's the hot water.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

It's as if it's telling me 'I'm still okay. Not due for sick leave yet.'

They don't seem to think so.

Bad Remakes

I don't understand why television companies say 'Oh, this television show is pretty popular. Let's make a spectacularly godawful remake!'

I mean, take Top Gear, that amazing British car show. Yeah, it's amazing because it's British. It's the British humour that does it, not the cars - to be honest, most viewers (myself included) couldn't give a rat's fart about cars. We don't want to watch fat Aussie blokes trying to emulate Richard Hammond because it just doesn't work.

Another thing that pisses me off is when they made an Iron Chef Australia. Iron Chef is Japanese, people, and the reason why it's so spectacularly entertaining is because you need that crazy Japanese flair, you need that crazy Japanese chairman, and you need the crazy dubbing. It doesn't work in Australia, why can't they see that?

The worst thing is when they cancel the original show and replace it with a crappy remake. Like MasterChef - although, admittedly, that remake wasn't so bad. But still...I miss my rainy ramen days.

Dear L.R., nearly 13.

Dear L.R., nearly 13.

This is L.R., nearly 15.

I wish I could warn you before it happened, but a boy is going to break your heart.

You're going to fall in love and you're going to be over the moon, but he's going to send you crashing down.

He's going to be someone elses. He's not going to be worth it. But it's going to happen.

He'll ask you out, and you'll feel like dancing in the rain. You'll sing love songs all weekend. And then he'll pull the rug from under your feet, and I wish I could have told you, but it's too late. It's happened, and you're going to cry yourself to sleep. Be strong.

And you're going to be scarred after him. Nobody's going to understand except me, but for some reason, you won't be able to pick yourself up for a year afterward. You won't even know why you can't get over what is obviously so beneath you. You'll look at him and be angry, be sad, and think 'Why?'. You're going to wonder how your sweet little boy could be so cruel.

Nobody's going to understand. They'll try and make you forgive and forget too early, and it's going to hurt even more. It's because of them you're going to be still bleeding when you should have long healed. They won't give you a chance to let your wounds heal - they'll just keep ripping off the bandaid and laugh as you bleed. This is a time when you're going to be alone, but be strong.

What I can tell you now is that things are going your way - and you'll have to enjoy this, and wait for love. I'm sorry I cannot offer you more solace. I wish I could tell you now you have a wonderful boy who loves you and wraps his arm around you and kisses you and buys you roses in February and holds your hand as he walks you to class. I wish I could tell you he bought you a ring on your birthday and a bracelet for Christmas and you wear them both, and you make sure they match with everything. I wish I could tell you that this boy is smart and funny and sweet and cute and will never lie to you, never hurt you...but I can't.

Somebody in your life, someone precious, is going to leave, but otherwise you're getting what you wanted, more or less. You're going to prove all of them wrong, because you're going to show them what you can do. Love can wait. But I can tell you here, now, at least some of your dreams are coming true.

Oh, and the thing you've been dreading...it will happen this summer.

Honey Hannah.

Your little hand's wrapped around my finger,
And it's so quiet in the world tonight.
Your eyelids flutter,
I wonder what you're dreaming
In your tiny baby mind.

I can see dimples in your cheeks,
And under your lips.
In your elbows and on your knees.
There are little dimples for each little knuckle on each little fist.

Honey Hannah,
To you everything's funny,
Honey Hannah,
To you everything's going your way.
Honey Hannah,
To you everything's lovely,
Honey Hannah,
To you everything revolves around you.

Honey Hannah,
Don't you cry,
Even though I'm gonna cry when you say goodbye,
Your cousin's going to miss you so much.

Honey Hannah,
Don't you weep,
Even though I'm gonna miss how cute you look when you sleep,
Your jie is going to miss you so much.

Honey Hannah,
I don't want you to grow up,
Stay this little forevermore.
Honey Hannah,
I don't want you to lose this,
Your sweet firefly days.

Honey Hannah,
I don't want to see you cry,
I don't want a boy to break your heart.
I was once like you,
But I don't want you to become like me,
Honey Hannah,
Stay like this for me.

Honey Hannah,
I don't want to lose this,
I don't want you to lose your little double chin.
I don't want you to lose your baby tummy,
Or your baby smile.
Your cousin's known pain,
You don't want to know pain,
Honey Hannah,
Hold on to what you've got.

I don't want to watch your innocence robbed from you,
I don't want to watch your heart break,
I don't want to watch you cry yourself to sleep over a boy who doesn't deserve you.
I don't want you to watch as you change when you don't wanna change,
I don't want you to have to do things you don't wanna do,
Honey Hannah,
Ignorance isn't bliss,
But innocence is.

Honey Hannah,
My honey Hannah,
Don't you ever grow up.
Honey Hannah,
My honey Hannah...
Good luck.

Inspired by my cousin Hannah and the song 'Never Grow Up' from 'Speak Now' by Taylor Swift'

Dear Teachers Past,

Dear Teachers Past,

You were all liars.
You told me that I was good at nothing.
You told me I would never be anything.
That I aimed too high.
You judged me by the colour of my skin.
You were scared of what I could and could not do.

Dear Teachers Past,
I'll never forget you.
And I hope to give you cause never to forget me.

Dear Teachers Present,

Some of you have never let me down.
Some of you believed in me.
Some of you I love with all my heart.
But the rest
Tried to pull me down.
You are scared of how bold I have become.

Dear Teachers Present,
I'll never forget you.
And I hope to give you cause never to forget me.

Dear Teachers Future,
I'm quite looking forward to you.
I hope to leave behind the liars of past and present,
I hope to take with me those who inspired me,
And I swear I will do you proud.
To teachers I have yet to love,
I trust we'll be good friends.
To teachers I have loved,
I'll never forget,
How you helped me up,
Every time I was pushed to the ground.

Dear Teachers Future,
I...look forward to you.
And I hope you look forward to me.

The Cluedo Anology.

If you've ever played Cluedo, you may have realized that Mrs Peacock has an advantage. Not only is she only seven spaces away from the nearest door (the rest of the players are eight spaces away), that door leads to a room with a secret passageway. It's not against the rules or to be considered cheating, but still, an advantage is an advantage.

Sometimes I feel that way between women and men. Even when men don't cheat, don't break the rules, they're still Mrs Peacock.

I know people think I'm being petty about this - this and about Cluedo. But when you're as young as I am you notice these things, and you get angry about it. And you want to change, but no, you're too young, they say. The fire of reformation dies long before the society deems you qualified for revolution, because you learn to bow your head and behave when you're older - or so I've seen. I never want to be like that.

I notice how women must be so beautiful - more beautiful, it seems, than men. I mean, I love makeup, but only if it makes you feel good. But no, there's this societal requirement to wear makeup, even if you don't want to (I have see way too many women wearing makeup just because they feel they need to), pluck eyebrows, wear nice clothes. And then you must constantly praise other women, or you'll be seen as a shrew, and you constantly have to degrade yourself, or you'll be called vain and arrogant. I've never seen a man sing praises about another man's abs, or bemoan his physical features to eye-bleeding extremism just because he felt he had to.

And then there's that kind of sexism that is supposed to be light hearted and funny, but it's not. Do you know how many times I have heard feminists being described as man-hating women who refuse to shave their legs? Let me tell you something - I and many other women have great cause to hate men, but we don't. And refusing to shave? Does that make all men feminists too, because they don't shave their legs?

This is why I see things like infidelity and, oh, I don't know, randomly asking out people and dumping them online to be so bad, especially in men. If men took one second, just one fucking second, to realize just what women have to do for them, for other women and for the world, they should back off a bit. We have to try so hard to get so little.

Infidelity is disgusting. Jonathan Rhys Meyers, an egotistical bastard who plays another egotistical bastard in The Tudors, Henry VIII, says that 'I have only had one girlfriend who I didn't cheat on. Men are like that. No matter how many times you eat pasta, some night you are going to want steak.' I hate how he says that so off-handedly, so casually, as though it's perfectly acceptable for men to go fuck around when they're supposedly with someone. And yet people idolize him, this Jonathan Rhys Meyers, even though if a woman said something like that people would be calling her a skank. Double standards, much? Or then there's Dr. Phil (God knows why anyone likes him or his show), who made his ex wife stay at home, not have a say in their business and lift weights to increase her bustline, and yet everyone seems to be kind of cool with that. I'm pretty sure if I ran a business, shunned my husband from it and made him work out 24/7 so that I'd have a hot manbag to sleep with...well, let's face it, no man would tolerate that, unless they voluntarily did all of the above. But yet, a man did this to a woman, and what's more, he's not the only one, and he's a public figure, for crying out loud.

Men in general, with a few noble exceptions, take a good too many liberties because of their sex. They expect too much of women and not enough of themselves. I believe that all men can do better. I'm not saying they have to run off and pluck their eyebrows and wear lipstick, but I think all of us, men and women, can afford to show everyone a bit of respect.

By the way, whenever we play Cluedo now Mrs Peacock must start off the board. To make it fair. I see that as an anology for chivalry towards women - to try and make things a bit fairer.

What up?

Sorry I haven't been posting these last couple of days.

What's been going on? Lots of things.

My cousins are here from Singapore - my maternal cousins, one of my uncles and his wife and my maternal grandmother. So our household has the addition of eight, including my adorable two-year-old cousin Hannah, who starts every sentence with 'I dowan' (baby talk for 'I don't want'). If she doesn't like you, she'll pout, make a gun with her fingers and go 'BOMB!' - how adorable is that!?

So life has been a bit crazy. But we're getting good food, though - my grandmother is a venerable cook. Dinner is a big, noisy, family affair, and everything has lots of soy sauce and ginger in it. Good stuff.

I had my year eleven Transition day on Monday, and I must tell you, I'm stoked. Next year I feel like I'm really going to start living - I can stop wasting my time and get on to something useful. I wait with increasing impatience for the new year. Actually, my anticipation for next year is a bit of a rollercoaster - my ego inflates and then deflates at a most alarming rate.

So Lady Renegade is enjoying life - and blue eyeliner and red lipstick. Oh, and the cyborg is getting rewired.

You know you hate me,

xoxo L.R.

Such a Pretty Face

She is the family's disgrace,
What a shame,
Such a pretty face.
She acts like she owns the place,
What a shame,
Such a pretty face.
We're all against her,
We don't understand her,
That's what she says,
What a shame,
Such a pretty face.

She is not herself these days,
What a shame,
Such a pretty face.
Things must always go her way,
What a shame,
Such a pretty face.

A demon that knows no consideration,
A devil that shows no commiseration,
What a shame,
Such a pretty face.

Living with her is like being the servant of a queen,
Once so sweet, and now so mean.
She must always come first place,
I am always second-rate,
She blackmails,
Threatens,
And gives in to rage.
She knows her beauty,
And it's her alibi,
I wish I could just walk away and say goodbye.

What a shame,
Such a pretty face.

C'est moi.

Bonjour! C'est moi!

Je suis blogging en francais parce que je me etonnement si trois anee de etude de francais (et assistance vaste de traducteur internet) peut produire le français compréhensible.

Ainsi va ici.

Je mappelle Lady Renegade et j'ai quatorze, presque quinze ans. Je suis un étudiant à Perth Modern School et je vis dans Perth, Australie avec ma famille. Ma pere est tres grand et gris. Ma mere est tres chaud et amour. Ma soeur est...bien, ma soeur est ma soeur, non?

J'ai deux chiennes, Skye et Bella. Skye est braun et tres stupides, et Bella est tres mignon et adorable mais tres muet et puant.

Comme vous pouvez avoir deviné, ma francais est tres pathetique. Sincerement, j'ai deteste francais - la classe de francaise, Pas la langue lui-même. Je J'échoue à voir comment la systeme nationale et trois professeurs censément qualifiés peut gâter le travail d'apprendre une langue si jolie, élégante. Malgré trois ans d'enfer pur essayant d'apprendre le français, je n'ai jamais perdu mon amour, ni mon admiration pour la langue.

Ainsi, dites-moi : la sorcière italienne m'a-t-elle appris bien ? Sont les services de traduction Internet aussi sophistiqué qu'ils revendiquent être ?