Knowledge Writing is Power and Misogynists can go to Hell

Writing is power.

There is no power in solving a math problem, or inventing a new science formula. Seriously. True power lies in writing.

You see, you don't need any proof when you write stories, especially if it's your own story. I write what I see and no-one can challenge me here. Writers go to a lot of trouble and get into a lot of trouble to get a lot of other people into a lot of trouble as well.

Writing is an indestructable weapon - especially nowadays, because all you need to do is post something on a blog or MySpace or Twitter or whatever and the whole world knows about it. Other people just can't control it.

Need proof? I got it.

One of my new favourite books is Wild Swans, by Jung Chang. It is a family biography detailing the lives of her grandmother, her mother and herself, set in Communist Mao Zedong China. It details all the horrors of an oppressed, censored country controlled by a psychotic dictator. No one can dispute what she's writing, because it's primary material based on an eye witness account, and there is no evidence against it. Sure, it's banned in China, but that's not the point. The fact is, the whole world now has access to an exclusive portal into what China was really like. That's power you just can't buy.

The main elements of the story were human rights (the lack of them) and misogyny. Misogyny is something I just don't get.

I know most people attribute misogyny to a gross misinterpretation of the Bible or the Koran, but is that really it? Or is it just some lousy excuse that men conjure up?

After all, the Bible and the Koran were both written by men. Religion is one of the most prejudiced and biased things in the world.

But what is it with men and power? Men abuse power, men cannot control power, men simply cannot be *trusted* with power. History can tell us that. And when things go wrong, they blame women, they suppress women. Women are punished all around the world, in history and even to this day, simply for being women. They are punished for things they have no control over. And there is no shame in being a woman. Men should try being women. Just for one day. They should just for one miserable twenty-four hours experience the shit even the most fortunate and well off women have to put up with, and then they'd understand.

Men are the most selfish, biased hypocrites to walk this earth. A bunch of hairy men walk by, no-one lifts an eyebrow. A woman that forgets to shave for one week walks by, and immediately there are comparisons with gorillas. I mean, why do woman have to be skinny and pretty and perfect, only to be treated like shit? Men have things so good, all odds are for them, that anything other than complete and utter reverence towards women just throws the whole thing out of proportion.

If you are a guy and you have ever laughed at a girl for something that they have no control over, I hope you go to hell. Or that you're reincarnated into a woman.

Hey Guys. Back to Normal.

Sorry about the last post...I was a little...anyways. Back to normal now.

I've been back for a week and this week has been completely punishing. Luckily we only have one part of a week to go.

I am suffering from England withdrawal - I love England to bits. I love all the places, I love the atmosphere, and I love my family there - especially my cute-as-a-button two year old cousin, Elaine.

But seriously, it's like my school doesn't care about me anymore. In year ten, school starts to get 'serious' and you get more freedom in what you study - as in, you can chose which courses you take in cool subjects like Social Sciences and English, but in retarded subjects like Maths and Science they continue to control your life. I'm only chosing one year ten subject - English - but it's a hell of a lot of trouble, because next year I am actually a year nine except for English. And so we have to beat the system of different timetables and all of that and...and it's confusing. Tigger on Crack is supposed to be helping me with this, but I don't think he can be bothered, or that he has the brains, so yeah...

Things that Annoy Me.

Do you know what really annoys me? Stupid children. Not the ones that actually have a mental illness, they're okay, but I can't stand the ones that are just plain thick. Children, by definition, should be intelligent and inquisitive, and ask sensible questions out of curiousity. The only children who have the right not to do so are the ones who have autism or dementia or Down's Syndrome or whatever. Children that are thick and slow and ask stupid questions over and over again because their brain just can't wrap around the simplest things of life drive me crazy. Seriously. Mad.

Do you know what else annoys me? Teachers. Teaching is not something you do because you can't get another job, but that's what it is here. People who don't even pass high school are teaching the next generation - what is this world coming to? Teachers complain they don't get any respect, but seriously, most of them don't deserve it. Like my year coordinator who talks like Tigger on crack or my ******* teacher who looks like an albino orangutan. They think they're dictators, not teachers. They take no joy in teaching and we don't get any joy from learning, because we don't learn anything from them except what not to do.

You know what else annoys me? People who tell you off for doing something and then go ahead and do exactly what they told you off for. People do that to me all the time. What, just because I'm fat and Asian means that I can't do things that you can? Well, newsflash, everybody! I CAN.

And people who think I show off. For once and for all, I DO NOT SHOW OFF. I am the most insecure person I can think of and I've heard about Lily Allen. I don't show off, but I don't lie. What is the point of going around saying you're good at nothing if you're bloody good at something? Everyone else gets to go around saying 'look at me I'm so damn brilliant' and I'm not allowed to say 'hey I can write but I can't do anything else' in my head.

And all those movies who follow one of two storylines - guy gets the girl and saves the world, or poor girl with an evil stepfamily gets married to a prince and lives happily ever after. Seriously. When does that ever happen? Guys just don't have the brains, or the guts, to save the world - and who would want to hook up with someone that wears his underpants over his pants, which are actually tights he stole from the fat ladies lingerie store? And since when do poor girls with evil stepfamilies ever marry princes? And who wants to marry a prince anyway? Princes are ugly pompous bastards and normal boys are even worse - they fry your head and poach your heart and then say it's all your fault. Boys take everything and give nothing back. They want to know everything and they tell you nothing. They expect you to fall head over heels in love with them and then laugh at you because you're fat and ugly. Men created the Genesis, who blamed everything on women, oh, yes, the women did this, the women did that, lets burn them, behead them, drown them in the river, if something's not right they just can't take it, and if we can't fix it we get the blame, and even if we can they'll get all the fame. God is a man, Jesus is a man, everyone of note is a man, and all female saints obey men. What is it with men? I wouldn't mind if men were angels, but they're not. They're demons from hell who break hearts and destroy lives.

But the absolute worst are the people that say that I make excuses. Most of my excuses are legimate reasons, they just can't get their stupid nonexistant brains around it. I've always done something bad, always. They just can't take it if I've done something good. I'm always in the wrong. They just have to make it out that I'm lying to them, that I've cheated them, that somehow they've ended up worse off. And the very tiny percentage of my 'excuses' that are actual excuses, who cares? Everyone makes excuses - all the time. So why do I have to be the little angel that doesn't? I never pretended to be perfect, so why do they expect me to be? Why does everyone else get let off the hook and I'm in the spotlight - the wrong spotlight?

Hey guys! (I'm in Perth!)

Yeah, the other Perth, that is. In Scotland.

This is going to be really quick because the miniscule laptop is about to crash. I'm in a diner where we had lunch before continuing our road trip to Loch Ness - d'you reckon I'll see the monster? I dunno.

I'll blog again when I get back to England, and to a computer that's bigger than three inches.

I love you guys!

P.S my cousins are so cute. I want to eat them.

Hellooooooooo everyboday!

England.

Food.

Score.

The food in Turkey - I won't bull about it. It was horrible. Here food is...goood.

I'm blogging in the middle of the night - seriously, it's 1:51am - at my uncle's place about an hour and a half out of London. My little baby cousin, Elaine, who's only two, is crying in the background with a pineapple tongue, poor thing. Dennis, who's five, is upstairs - he crashed first at about eleven - and Cynthia, my other cousin and Dennis and Elaine's eldest sister, is fast asleep on the couch - she's nearly eight but is smaller than the five year old.

I love it here - but I hate the weather. It's meant to be summer, for goodness sake. I mean, I know I can't expect baking hot suns with icy cold mocktails on a sparkling pristine beach (Australiaaaa....) but, you know, you would expect something a bit over 15 degrees (59 fahrenheit).

Gah. Good luck.

Why am I blogging in the middle of the night? Well, we're leaving to Scotland in about an hour (to dodge the morning traffic and to get there before nightfall, because it takes forever) and in theory we're meant to keep the kids up until we're about to go so that they'll fall asleep in the car and won't fuss. In theory. In practice one's screaming and the other two - well, three including my sister - are fast asleep, and all five of us are going to be completely gaga on the way to Scotland.

We just got here the day before yesterday, so we haven't seen much - we've done quite a bit of shopping but that's it really. I'll keep you updated on that later.

To wrap up my broadcast from Turkey - very exciting. On the day of my last post I was checked in to the hospital (if I don't get any comments than you guys seriously don't love me anymore) because I stopped responding to painkillers and my mum was freaked out. The taxi dumped us in the middle of nowhere so we had to walk about half of the way to the hospital, where they said I had a throat infection. Then they sent me to have a blood test.

For those of you who don't know. I hate pins. Hate, hate, hate. I hate pins more than my ****** teacher and MW and my ex boyfriend and those bitches who's life goal is to spread every fake rumour about me to the entire cosmos. I hate, hate, HATE pins.

Do you know why? Well, here's why. I spend a lot of time in hospital - every time I come down with a fever at some inconvenient time and the local doctor is shut, I wind up in hospital. Hospital means pins and needles and scary equipment and lumpy beds and horrible food and muted, censored TVs. Hospital means pins.

That's why I hate pins.

Last year everyone found it very amusing to take off their Student Council badges and tease me with them - I'm not sure what they found so funny, because pins make me scream and cry and when I scream and cry it's not a pretty sight. Very mature Student Councillors. One of them was BSC.

I finally got the bloodtest, and I hated every minute of it - I don't know why they tell kids that these things don't hurt when they do - violation of youth rights, honestly - and in the end there was nothing bloody wrong with my bloody blood. So I had to do all that shit for nothing.

Then they said I needed antibiotics and painkillers for my throat infection - and that the antibiotics could be one needle or a full course of oral tablets. I was all in for the tablets until mum tried to convince me to get the jab. I don't know how she did it - it involved lots of Gloria Jeans, I think, and then I finally agreed.

I hated it. Hate, hate, hate. They spray this awful things on your ass - yeah, I got the jab on my bum, how primitive - that's meant to numb the skin. Bloody didn't work.

I'll spare you the gory details, but I was glad when it was over. Actually, no I wasn't, because they said they weren't gonna jab me and then they jabbed me as they said it, so I was peeved off and in pain - but anyways, back to the story.

The next day - under the influence of Advil - we went to the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and Topaki Palace.

Topaki Palace is this huge, ancient castle done in the classic Ottoman style, that used to be the home of the Sultans. The Blue Mosque is also Ottoman, and is one of the biggest and grandest mosques -and it's still a working mosque. It was calm, peaceful and quiet in there. Hagia Sophia is a church turned mosque turned museum - with Helenistic, modern, ancient and Ottoman bits and pieces everywhere. So cool.

Then we went to the Bazaars - The Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market, or the Egyptian Bazaare. We heard so many bad things about the Grand Bazaar - of pickpockets and bagslashers and cheats and bagsnatchers -that we walked straight through, clutching our bags for dear life. The shop keepers were overly polite it was rude and very forward. The Spice Market was much more enjoyable, so we bought trinkets and Turkish Delight - yes Maddie, there's a box for you - and Turkish tea.

Then all the boring stuff, went back to the hotel, fell asleep, woke up, packed, checked out, boarded the plane...and now we're in England.

More soon. I love you guys.

Broadcasting from Turkey!

Hey guys!

I'm in Turkey at the moment - sorry there hasn't been any new posts in a while, but I hate the miniscule laptop so I'm blogging from the only computer in the lobby of my hotel.

We left Perth at four in the morning to get on a six o clock plane to Dubai, which took like TEN FRIGGIN HOURS MAN - we flew Emirates and it had like loads of movies and stuff, it was awesome - I watched Twilight (twice), The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Chronicles of Narnia (again) and Friends. Then we went on another Emirates flight from Dubai to London, and I watched Friends and Frasier, Changeling and possibly Twilight again, I can't remember.

We stayed overnight in London in a hotel called 'Premier Inn' in Heathrow, which was really quite good - the food was AWESOME MAN. Then we went on a British Airlines flight from London to Istanbul, where I am now. The British Airlines plane was really old - There wasn't individual screens, so they played this Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman movie, this American comedy soapie with Kelsey Grammar and the Simpsons. Then we got to Istanbul.

We're in Istanbul for mum's work, so we got picked up and driven to our hotel in a shuttle, which was cool - I'm not used to getting picked up at the hotel by people who hold signs up with your name on them. We're staying at this place called the Germir Palas Hotel, which is awesome - the deco is like burlesque England - think Atonement, The Edge of Love, that kind of thing.

The food is - interesting, I suppose. We have buffet for breakfast in the hotel, which has the best fruit - every day we eat ourselves sick on strawberries, cherries and kiwi fruits. Turkish coffee is nice and Turkish chai tea is even nicer, although they're very strong - stronger than the stuff we get in Australia. We eat at local diners near our hotel, although not all of the food agrees with us - actually, now I'm blogging and trying very hard not to think about what we had for dinner last night, because it's not sitting too well in my stomach. The food here is very nice, but a little greasy - okay, very greasy. Fresh fruit is plentiful, although vegetables are practically unheard of - we asked if we could have some veggies last night and we were served french fries. Everything is cooked in ghee - which is like melted butter, I think.

The shopping here is amazing - we're going on massive shopping sprees because the lira is weaker than the Australian dollar so everything is cheaper. I've gotten a Turkish scarf - cashmere, I think, or it could be visicose or something like that - with a Turkish carpet design on it. It's pink with green and cream, and I love it to bits. I got a glass bead necklace as well, and some totally awesome red flats decorated with flowers - I'm wearing them now, and I love them. I've always wanted bright red shiny flats (like Dorothy's in the Wizard of Oz) but they're kind of expensive in Australia and the red is like orangey and I like deep reds. These shoes are totally awesome, they look the best when they don't match with your outfit - I'm wearing a white shirt with blue, silver and yellow floral decorations and grey cargo pants and the shoes stand out like bright red lipstick.

One thing that is absolutely huge here are Evil Eyes - it's like a glass bead which is painted to look like a bright blue eye, to keep away bad demons. They're everywhere, and I mean everywhere - no street jewellery seller worth his salt would not have some kind of Evil Eye for sale. They come in dark blue, red, green and turquoise, and are sold in key rings, tassels, home decorations, necklaces, bracelets, amulets, anklets, rings and tiny ones are on safety pins - they're pinned to every pillow in the hotel, it's bizarre.

We haven't done an awful lot of sight seeing, because we've just gotten here - and we're not going anywhere today because I feel sick. But we're going to the Blue Mosque, on a river cruise, to the Basilisk Resevoir and other places, and we've already been shopping in Taksim Square.

There are street vendors everywhere - selling jewellery, Evil Eyes, bread, fish, ice cream and corn, boiled or char grilled. The traffic is completely mad - taxis and cars honk their horn for anything at anytime - even just for fun, I suspect. Street signs are few and far between, and mostly ignored, and there are probably more taxis (spelt TAKSi) then normal cars. There are millions of hotels in Taksim Square, and tons of restaurants - maitre'ds stand outside them and try to lure us in with broken English. Most shop owners, restauranteers and hotel staff speak some degree of English - some better than others. It's actually not that hard to make yourself understood here. To attract our attention, they call out in Turkish, then Arabic, and then English - some have also tried Japanese because we are Asian. When we say we're from Australia we get some funny looks, because we don't really look Australian - some have asked us whether we're Aboriginal (lol) and one guy slanted his eyes questioningly, it was so funny.

Men are everywhere - in women's clothing stores, in lingerie and swimsuit stores, in makeup stores and in hairdressing salons - hardly any women work in these kind of places, it's bizarre. Even the person who cleans our hotel room is a guy, which was actually quite weird.

Everyone smokes here, especially the men - the saying is 'Who smokes more than a Turk? Two Turks', and that is so totally true. In Australia, not that many people smoke at all, and they're either down in the dumps or trying to quit, and are generally frowned upon. In Australia, there are anti-smoking campaigns and cancer awareness posters everywhere, but here in Turkey they are non-existant.

I'll blog again about the Mosques and Bazaars we're going to go to in the next couple of days, and hopefully I'll be able to blog whilst I'm in England.

One message to all the Perth Mod Gods: any important information, like gossip and stuff about the Tim Winton competition, EMAIL ME - I check my inbox whenever I can. Or you can post a comment here.

I luv yaz all, and I wish you were all here with me.

My Un-bipolar Bipolar Teacher

People say I don't like my ****** teacher because I don't like ******.

That's not true. I don't like ******. But that's irrelevant.

I like my geography teacher even though I'm not brilliant at geography.

I like my maths teacher even though I'm not great at maths.

I like my sport teacher even though I suck at sport.

My ****** teacher said that since I'm acing year nine English I should at least be able to pass year eight ******.

That is not true. I am not some goody-two-shoes all-rounder freak student who's good at everything. I am just really good at English and really bad at everything else. And it its very hard to be good at something when your teacher makes you cry.

Some people say that if you're a good student it doesn't matter whether you like your teacher or not, and that if you're a bad student it doesn't matter how good your teacher is.

That is not true.

I suck at maths. But I'm improving. Slowly. But steadily. I credit my teacher to that.

I really suck at geography - maps are complete alien to me. I got a distinction in some national competition, and I credit my awesome teacher (and sheer luck) for that.

The fact remains that my ****** teacher is an unbipolar bipolar teacher. That's even worse than a grumpy teacher. Even worse than a I'm-trying-to-be-cool-but-failing-pathetically teacher. Even worse than fat teachers who wear too much make up and tell you to shut up and listen whilst they garbage on about stuff we know and they don't. Even worse than teachers that give out detentions and infringements and yell at you just for fun. And yes, all of these kinds of teachers wind up at my school.

Unbipolar bipolar teachers are teachers that are really fun and bubbly and energetic one day and then really crabby and grumpy the next day. The kind of teacher that encourages you one day and then chucks your work in the bin the next day. The kind of teacher that gives out house points and infringements in the same lesson to the same person. Yeah. That kind of teacher.

I really should say this to his face but the fact is I'm to chicken-shit to do it because I'm terrified he'll dock me off year nine English. If he docks me off year nine English I don't know what I'll do. Something really bad will happen to me and he'll live his life knowing he killed his student.

Just joking. How emo. I wish it could happen without me actually dying though.

I know I'm not a perfect student - I'm wild, rebellious, and disorganized to boot. I know that. And I am trying to improve - the last bit anyway. And I respect all teachers when I first meet them. But when they fail to respect me, yeah, I do lose respect for them. I bitch about them behind their backs. I badmouth them and post stuff about them on my blog for all my readers from America to Australia to Sri Lanka to read. Just like I do to any people who annoy me.

Writing, especially writing on the internet, gives you this power. Like, I don't care what you do to me but if you do anything I don't like it's gonna end up on the net. That's power you can't buy.

Of course, I only have a handful of people reading, but still, it's there.

Oh, and I starred out the subject so I don't get in trouble. Actually, I probably will anyway, because that's the kind of thing I have to put up with when it comes to my teachers.

Pride.

I'm blogging a lot today.

I just need to clear something up. Something that's been bothering me for a while.

A lot of people are under the impression that I'm a huge show-off - and I am, I suppose. But let me explain.

All my life, I have never quite fit in - I don't fit in with my family, or any of the godzillion cliques that have flitted by, or any group or organization. I was just the weirdo. The creep. I was either too good for them, or not good enough.

And you try it - you try fitting in with a bunch of girls who care about nothing but makeup and hair irons, or with a family who are all brilliant at maths. It's hard. On the outside, I've always outwardly embraced my weirdness - but I don't. Not really. If you're not in my shoes, you don't know what it's like to wish you were just normal, for once. Not too good at this and not too bad for that. Just...normal. Acceptable.

Whenever someone praised me, it was always for something I had or something I did - I was praised for my writing, my sense of humour, for this and for that, always *because* of something. But no-one ever gushed about me because I was me.

I wanted praise because I was who I am - instead, everyone just tried to change me. And when I never got it, I started praising myself.

No-one told me I was pretty - or if they did, they didn't believe it, so I hardly did - so I told myself I was pretty. When people told me I was smart, they always said it in a bad way - that I was too smart, like it was some kind of disease. So I told myself I was smart, and that it was a good thing.

People say I'm desperate for a boyfriend - and I guess I am, I won't deny it anymore. But not for all the reasons everyone thinks. It's just that...all my friends are either in love and something's actually going to work out, or going out with someone, and I feel left out. I wish someone would text 'I love you' to me, just like they do to my best friend. When I hear all those songs about people falling in love, it just makes me cry. I can't write romance or read Twilight anymore - it's too hard. I know boys aren't anywhere near as good as Edward Cullen, but I know some of them are pretty damn close.

I won't bull about it - I'm a very insecure person. And it's not something I can snap out of easily - I'm working on it, very hard, but every now and then someone says something that just pushes me over the edge. It's like telling an anorexic person that they're fat - it's hardly going to help them recover, is it?

I don't know where it came from, but suddenly all these *negative* thoughts just engulfed me, and soon I was drowning in my imperfections. Was it because I was fat? Because I had acne? Because I liked reading and writing? Because I was bad at sport and maths and science? Was it what I wore?

People tried to assure me that wasn't it, but I couldn't stop it. It's just something that nags me all the time: if I wasn't so weird then maybe my friends would last longer than six months. If I wasn't so weird maybe I would have a boyfriend by now. If I wasn't so weird then...everything would be better.

I was really insecure when I was twelve - I had temper outbursts and nervous breakdowns, and I was always in tears over something or someone. Over the holidays, away from everyone and just with the positive influence of my family, who have tried to accept me for who I am as best they can, I grew more confident.

And then, when I got to school, people said I was too boastful. Too arrogant. Insolent. Show-off. Freak. Nerd. Bitch. Slut.

And now I'm back to where I was.

I wish I could believe people when they compliment me, and not believe them when they pick on me. I wish I was more accepted and not so weird. I wish boys wouldn't turn me down before they even got to know me, or get swayed by what their friends say about me rather than what I say about myself.

People say get over it - but it's so hard. It's like anorexia or something - when I'm not down, I just laugh it off and say it's pathetic and silly, bu when I *am* down, it's like nothing can drag me out of it.

On the bright side, I have my writing - if I couldn't write I probably would have engaged in petty crime or something a long time ago. And I can connect with music - it helps to get it off my chest.

See, something just as simple as that statement would have people instantly saying I'm showing off. But how can they say that? Do they like pushing me off the edge? Do they like seeing me depressed? Do they like seeing me cry?

I think they do.

If I Were a Boy

If you follow one of my other blogs, you'll know I'll resort to song lyrics to express myself - there's something about music and the words on songs that makes the message so much more powerful, rather than subtle lines that go unnoticed in stories.

I post song lyrics that describe how I'm feeling - I'll take them from songs I know and like, or I'll write them myself.

The lyrics below are the words to Beyonce's song 'If I Were A Boy'. This is how I'm feeling right now. (Here's the video:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BVTyLqkez6A)

If I were a boy,
Even just for a day;
I'd roll out of bed in the morning,
And throw on what I wanted,
And go.

Drink beer with the guys,
And chase after girls;
I'd kick it with who I wanted,
And I'd never get confronted for it;
'Cause they stick up for me.

If I were a boy,
I think I could understand;
How it feels to love a girl,
I swear I'd be a better man.

I'd listen to her,
'Cause I know how it hurts;
When you lose the one you wanted,
'Cause he's taking you for granted;
And everything you had got destroyed.

If I were a boy,
I would turn off my phone;
Tell everyone it's broken,
So they'd think that I was sleeping alone.

I'd put myself first,
And make the rules as I go;
'Cause I know that she'd be faithful,
Waiting for me to come home.

If I were a boy,
I think I could understand;
How it feels to love a girl,
I swear I'd be a better man.

I'd listen to her,
'Cause I know how it hurts;
When you lose the one you wanted,
'Cause he's taking you for granted;
And everything you had got destroyed.

It's a little too late for you to come back;
Say it's just a mistake,
Think I'd forgive you like that;
If you thought I would wait for you,
You thought wrong.

But you're just a boy,
You don't understand;
How it feels to love a girl,
Someday you'll wish you were a better man.

You don't listen to her,
You don't care how it hurts;
Until you lose the one you wanted,
'Cause you're taking her for granted;
And everything you had got destroyed.

But you're just a boy...

Rain.

I know said I didn't want to publish 'Rain' on my blog until it's polished - but I will, because unpolished work speaks emotions that polished work does not, but polished work wins competitions when unpolished work falls short.

Here it is:

Rain.

I love the rain. It’s as though all the sadness of the world is finally released. I can feel the earth’s sadness, and her sense of relief as all the grief in her heart is emptied at last. When it rains, it makes me feel less alone – like there is someone out there that is even more heartbroken than I am now, if that’s even possible.

***

I don’t know him very well – not very well at all, only that he’s always surrounded by pretty girls and big, intimidating boys. They’re always laughing, and I wish I could be with them, laugh with them. But I can’t. The group is too big, and he’s right in the centre of it. Instead, I stare at him from the safety of my own knit of friends – my best friend stares at me whilst I stare at the beautiful laughing boy.
“I don’t know why you like him” he said, for the sixth time in ten minutes. “It’s not right. He’s too old for you”

I know Karl only speaks out of concern and that his anxiety is not without reason, but I can’t stop. This boy is like a drug.
“He’s not that much older” I protest. “And at least he’s not a pimplehead like you”
Karl grinned unashamedly, although the worry did not fully leave his eyes. He had seen me break down before, and it had completely freaked him out. And he wasn’t stupid – he knew my obsession with this boy wasn’t going to end prettily.
“Talking about what’s not right” I continued to tease him “Having a crush on a year nine isn’t nearly as bad as you. Still got that picture of Carmen Electra under your pillow?”

Karl blushed deep red as I laughed and resumed my staring at the boy.
“That’s...not...the...same” Karl spluttered, and I smiled to myself as he continued to mutter incoherently.

The boy looked up at me at that moment, and for a heartbeat, for one tiny fraction of a second, our eyes met. He smiled faintly, then turned his head to answer a question one of his impatient, pretty friends had asked him. My heart lurched to a standstill, then restarted violently, drumming a hundred miles an hour. I couldn’t breathe for all the emotions rushing through me – breathtaking happiness, heartwrenching sadness, utter contentment and restless impatience, all engulfing me at the same time. I was only vaguely aware of the bell ringing.

“Time for maths” Karl said cheerfully as he stuffed my lunchbox in my bag for me. He slung it over his shoulder, carrying his own easily in one hand. He grabbed my hand and yanked sharply, pulling me out of my reverie.

Karl was a tall, gangly boy with a wicked sense of humour and some serious skin issues. Because he was so long and lanky, he was terribly uncoordinated, and his klutziness was part of his baby-faced charm. Our relationship was close, but strictly not romantic – we both spent our time chasing other people, and comforting each other every time we had our hearts broken. Despite the fact that I knew this boy in the flesh, instead of Karl and his obsession with his poster of Carmen Electra, I probably knew him less than Karl knew his beloved picture.

School flew by in a blur – every time I passed the boy, my heart misbehaved wildly, and by the time I was over it Karl was looking at me worriedly. After school, he herded me to the train station whilst I tripped around in a daze, and his gaze grew more and more concerned. He carefully steered me onto the train and into a seat when the ancient bucket of bolts finally came, but no sooner had I sat down my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Hey sweetheart. How was skool?

My heart spluttered hyperactively as I read through the message and started to text back as fast as I could. If Karl looked worried before, he was seriously alarmed now. He, like most other people, was afraid of what state I might be in when my phone flirt was over.
“You’re going to have to tell him who you are eventually” he warned me as I texted. “And there is a chance that you’re going to end up all over the place again. You scared the living daylights out of me last time”
“I know” I muttered distractedly as I hit ‘send’. We sat in silence whilst I waited impatiently for him to reply.

I wish u’d tell me who u r, honey. It’z drivin me crazy.

I sighed. Out of all the messages the boy sent me, half of them were a variation of ‘who are you?’.

‘U’d laugh at me if i told u’ I texted back, wishing that were not the case. How I wish he’d be genuinely thrilled when he found out it was me.

‘No, I won’t. Scouts honour. Please tell me.’

Scouts honour. The old fashioned vow made me giggle. Karl looked at me anxiously.

‘I g2g’ I texted, unwilling to reveal to Karl how deep my phone relationship was – he was reading every word over my shoulder. ‘Talk 2 u soon.’

I don’t entirely remember how I got home – I only dimly remembered Karl hugging me goodbye at the busport and then unbolting my front door twenty minutes later, but nothing in between. It must have been raining, because I was soaking wet and shivering on the threshold – although I can’t recall being in the rain that day. Nonetheless, now I was cold, so I trouped off to the bathroom.

The hot water and lavender oil in my bathtub relaxed my muscles – probably a little too much so, as I found it hard just to get my arms to reach my head so I could shampoo my hair. My phone rested on the vanity unit, but, annoyingly, it remained still and silent. When I was done, I attempted to attack my growing pile of homework – but it was hard to concentrate on pi and square roots when waiting for a call.

This wasn’t the first time I’d had this obsessive fixation over a boy – only this time was different because he didn’t know my name, and it was via texting. I had done this before – over the internet, by mail, and even in person, and it had all gone horribly wrong. After I had cried all the pain out of my heart – the blank disappointment, the cold rejection, the bitter resentment – I swore to myself, each time, that I would never let it happen again. But then I’d see a beautiful boy and step into the trap again, deluding myself with things like ‘this one is different’ or ‘this will end differently’. I forgot the pain that the end brought – I only remembered the thrill of love.

Finally, after an agonizing five-hour wait, my phone buzzed at 10:03.

‘Hey, sorry about the wait. Mum forced me 2 go out 4 dinner with her bf’

I just gazed at the words, the words that had saved me from insanity. My maths lay abandoned on my table as I lolled on my bed, wishing that the words had a double meaning. My phone buzzed again.

We chatted a bit, about innocent stuff – school and homework and annoying teachers. But the mystery surrounding my name was always in the offing. Finally, he caved.

‘Can u please tell me who u r? I’m beggin u’

My reply consisted of only one flirtatious word: Guess.

‘U always make me guess’ he complained sixty-three seconds later.

‘I no. It’s very entertaining’

It took him a little while to reply to that one – I suppose he was trying to think of a girl that he hadn’t mentioned before.

‘Leanne?’

I sighed, raw pain rippling through my heart. Leanne was bold, blonde, and beautiful. He could not have named a girl more different to me.

‘Ur way off. Try again’

‘I’m always way off. Sarah? Naomie? Cynthia?’

There was something different about that message – different to the sickly sweet persuation that filled his messages before. There was an undercurrent of...anger? annoyance? I shook my head to get rid of the negative thought. I was reading too deep into a message that only comprised of seven words.

‘No. Try again’

‘Jessica. That’s my last guess. Seriously. I’m running out of credit’

His abrupt change of mood in his messages was really scaring me. It was so sudden, and so unpredictable. I thought he was having just as much fun as I was, maybe more.

But I wasn’t an idiot. It ended here.

‘Fine. I’m the year eight kid in ur English class. I transferred a few weeks back’

My thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button. Could I push my luck a bit more? Tease him for just a little bit longer?

Something crashed downstairs, and my hand squeezed my phone instinctively. I watched numbly as the message sent.

The next ten minutes were the longest minutes of my life. If he was hoping for Leanne, then there was no way on earth he would be thrilled to find out it was just a scrummy year eight.

My obsession with this boy had been like an addiction to an illict drug. The thrill of my phone buzzing, his caller ID flashing across the screen, brought on a complete, ultimate high. It made me feel loved, cherished, wanted. Teasing him made me feel like I had complete and utter control, something I had never had before. It was as if nothing could go wrong.

But everything did. As usual.

My phone buzzed again, but it brought no supernatural high. It was a devillish, cruel sound.

I cried for the first time over this boy as I read his reply.

***

I hadn’t heard anything from the boy for three weeks. When we passed by each other in person, he ignored me. It was as if I had ceased to exist. The only messages I got were from Karl, who was on holiday interstate, checking on me.

But I didn’t give up on hope. Maybe he’s just taking time to mull things over, I thought desperately. Back away and give him time. He’ll come to me.

It was desperate, wild hope. And it was all in vain.

Because, on the first day of the heavy rains, I saw him with another girl – I didn’t know her name. She was blonde and tall and skinny and gorgeous. They were kissing.

He didn’t look up as fierce, agonized sobs ripped from my chest.

***

I stood in the downpour, right in the centre of the oval. I could faintly hear people sniggering and laughing at me, even through the roar of the heaven’s aggressive tantrum. My phone lay open in my hand, getting destroyed by the rain. My hair hung limply around my shoulders, too soaked to be bullied by the wind that gushed past me, icy cold. But I barely registered the cold, or the wet. It didn’t really occur to me exactly how much of an idiot I looked, just staring into the sky. I could vaguely hear the seniors jeering, the teachers yelling, but I didn’t move. Disappointment and rejection kept me locked in place like a dead weight as I stood in the middle of the fierce storm.

I liked the rain. When the heavens cried so violently, no-one noticed my tears.

The story is based on a real story - a real story that is happening to me at the moment. I've dramatized it, changed it here and there, but all of it is true. The narrator is based on me, obviously, and I doubt the boy who 'The Boy' is based on actually reads this blog. The character of Karl is based on one of my friends, Kyle, although the relationship between Karl and the Narrator is closer than my friendship with Kyle. The Carmen Electra bit is something I made up - and Kyle, you can't complain, because that's payback for spreading rumours about me. Not that you read this anyway. If you are mentioned in this story (or think you are, although I doubt it, because there are only like three characters, one of which is me), be warned that I did extend on characters to make them larger than life, and I changed names and everything.

It's not very good - I've never been good at short stories - and I didn't do a lot of character development - the most developed character is probably Karl. Please don't ask me what the narrator and the boy's name is, because they haven't got names in this story. I tried to focus less on insignficant details and more on the raw emotion.

I know you guys read my blog, and I know you haven't been commenting in a while, but please, *please*, give me some feedback. Please.