The ying and yang is incomplete.
Maybe they can see past your yelling and screaming,
But I can't.
Or maybe I can,
But there is nothing to see.
The ying and yang is incomplete.
Why must you follow 'that's good,' with 'but'?
Always others worthier to be your daughter,
I can't do anything right.
The ying and yang is incomplete.
All I wanted was some respect.
You invest too much in the security of blood,
You don't see the value of love.
The ying and yang is incomplete.
I tried so hard not to do this to you,
This, that I have done to others,
I tried not to,
Because I love you.
When was the last time you said that, huh?
The ying and yang is incomplete.
There,
I've said it.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Treat boat people like real people.
It is disgusting that Australia treats boat people worse than we treat murderers.
Australia is scared of boat people - they're scared of uneducated, desperate, poor people who just want a better life. We are pathetic.
Treat boat people like real people. We gave that man who drowned his bride 18 months for manslaughter. We give some boat people nearly a decade behind bars just for wanting a life.
Australia is scared of boat people - they're scared of uneducated, desperate, poor people who just want a better life. We are pathetic.
Treat boat people like real people. We gave that man who drowned his bride 18 months for manslaughter. We give some boat people nearly a decade behind bars just for wanting a life.
My Garden
Growing up, we didn't really have a very productive garden. My mum and dad work full time, and of course, we go to school, and we're lazy buggers.
Occasionally when I was little I'd bury a fruit or a fruit seed or stone, but nothing ever happened, because I normally forgot about it, and I didn't do any research into how certain things should be planted.
Our soil in my old house was also quite dreadful - mostly yellow or grey sand that didn't hold water properly.
The only thing that grew that was edible was the guava on the nature strip, the mint that I loved and my dad hated because it ran EVERYWHERE, and the mandarin tree produced masses of fruit every year. But I wasn't particularly in love with guava, and you get sick of mandarin after you've eaten about twenty. At one point we grew kang kong, but at another point we also gave up.
Now we're in a new house with slightly better soil, so we finally have a veggie garden. We planted snow peas (a favourite) and beans (another favourite), lettuce, parsley, basil, strawberries, coriander, passionfruit and cherry tomatoes.
The snow peas was the most successful - at its peak we harvested a big bowl ful every couple of days. The lettuce led to many korean bbq nights, but eventually became old and bitter because we didn't harvest whole heads of lettuce, only leaves. We've got waaaay too much coriander, and parsley that we rarely use.
The strawberries grow alright, but they're always getting eaten. The fruit at first was at first tasteless, then sour, then tasteless again. Any fruit I can salvage now that is ripe and not eaten or pecked is tiny bit intensely sweet.
We planted the basil and the cherry tomatoes in the same place - in a garden bed we forgot to mix with compost and blood and bone. The basil was miserable - half of them died, and half of them turned an interesting shade of yellow. A careful transferral to potting mix and they're now flourishing wonderfully.
Despite hearing stories of hard-to-grow tomatoes, our cherry tomatoes flourished in the same soil where the basil slowly died. We now get dozens of tiny tiny tomatoes that are so much nicer than the watery, powdery things you get at the supermarket. The passionfruit flowered - I don't know what happened to it, lol.
I love having a productive garden - I'm always the one in the garden admiring as the yellow cherry tomato flowers grow into tiny deep green fruit the size of peas - as these peas become yellow and then orange and then red - I'm always the one admiring the provocative flower of the passionfruit or how the tiny tendrils of the snow peas stretch and and grasp onto each other or the fence, coiling in on itself like a telephone wire. One day when I'm rich I'll build a massive greenhouse and I'll plant a forest in there, and work in there every day. We will never have to go to the supermarket because I'll grow everything. And as I'm digging after coming back from a book launch or movie premiere I'll be thinking about this day, this day when I was fourteen and blogged from school when she was supposed to be doing math, when I was a kid dreaming, forever dreaming.
Occasionally when I was little I'd bury a fruit or a fruit seed or stone, but nothing ever happened, because I normally forgot about it, and I didn't do any research into how certain things should be planted.
Our soil in my old house was also quite dreadful - mostly yellow or grey sand that didn't hold water properly.
The only thing that grew that was edible was the guava on the nature strip, the mint that I loved and my dad hated because it ran EVERYWHERE, and the mandarin tree produced masses of fruit every year. But I wasn't particularly in love with guava, and you get sick of mandarin after you've eaten about twenty. At one point we grew kang kong, but at another point we also gave up.
Now we're in a new house with slightly better soil, so we finally have a veggie garden. We planted snow peas (a favourite) and beans (another favourite), lettuce, parsley, basil, strawberries, coriander, passionfruit and cherry tomatoes.
The snow peas was the most successful - at its peak we harvested a big bowl ful every couple of days. The lettuce led to many korean bbq nights, but eventually became old and bitter because we didn't harvest whole heads of lettuce, only leaves. We've got waaaay too much coriander, and parsley that we rarely use.
The strawberries grow alright, but they're always getting eaten. The fruit at first was at first tasteless, then sour, then tasteless again. Any fruit I can salvage now that is ripe and not eaten or pecked is tiny bit intensely sweet.
We planted the basil and the cherry tomatoes in the same place - in a garden bed we forgot to mix with compost and blood and bone. The basil was miserable - half of them died, and half of them turned an interesting shade of yellow. A careful transferral to potting mix and they're now flourishing wonderfully.
Despite hearing stories of hard-to-grow tomatoes, our cherry tomatoes flourished in the same soil where the basil slowly died. We now get dozens of tiny tiny tomatoes that are so much nicer than the watery, powdery things you get at the supermarket. The passionfruit flowered - I don't know what happened to it, lol.
I love having a productive garden - I'm always the one in the garden admiring as the yellow cherry tomato flowers grow into tiny deep green fruit the size of peas - as these peas become yellow and then orange and then red - I'm always the one admiring the provocative flower of the passionfruit or how the tiny tendrils of the snow peas stretch and and grasp onto each other or the fence, coiling in on itself like a telephone wire. One day when I'm rich I'll build a massive greenhouse and I'll plant a forest in there, and work in there every day. We will never have to go to the supermarket because I'll grow everything. And as I'm digging after coming back from a book launch or movie premiere I'll be thinking about this day, this day when I was fourteen and blogged from school when she was supposed to be doing math, when I was a kid dreaming, forever dreaming.
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
Girls Aren't Meant To Like Sex.
So one of my friends, who has been reading my rough draft of a book I am working on, leant me a book in a similar style to my own writing and with the same sort of target audience - 'Before I Die', by Jenny Downham. Basically, it's about a sixteen-year-old girl dying of leukemia, and decides to 'live life' namely dabble in drugs, alcohol and crime, but number-one on the list is, of course, sex.
The blurb at the back proudly says it all:
'It's really going to happen. They said it would happen, but this was quicker than anyone thought.'
Everyone has to die. We all know it.
With only a few months of life left, sixteen-year-old Tessa knows it better than most. She's made a list though - ten things she wants to do before she dies. Number one is sex. Starting tonight.
As I was reading the book at lunchtime a boy, being the charming polite gentleman as boys always are at this age, yanked it out of my hand and started to read the blurb out loud, quite loudly too, before he reached the ultimate taboo word: sex. He then looked at me as if to say 'What kind of slut are you, anyway?'
It's always the boys who are supposed to be interested in sex. Girls aren't supposed to be interested in sex, because interest in sex invariably leads you to getting pregnant.
But sex is an inevitable part of growing up, and yes, for girls too. Of course we're interested in sex, of course we think about sex. Sex is a part of life, much like eating or sleeping or breathing or having to go to the loo. If I were sixteen and about to die then yes, sex would be on my bucket list. I'm a girl, not the Virgin Mary - and in case you didn't notice, abstinence didn't really protect her from pregnancy anyway.
I've always found it degrading that an interest, or even a thought given to sex is a complete taboo for girls, and not for boys - in fact, the terms 'virgin' and 'male' just don't seem to correlate unless you're a Jonas Brother. An interest and curiousity in sex is part of being human, not part of being a slut. And really, we should have more sympathy for fictional terminally-ill teenagers. And the not-so-fictional, healthy ones, too.
The blurb at the back proudly says it all:
'It's really going to happen. They said it would happen, but this was quicker than anyone thought.'
Everyone has to die. We all know it.
With only a few months of life left, sixteen-year-old Tessa knows it better than most. She's made a list though - ten things she wants to do before she dies. Number one is sex. Starting tonight.
As I was reading the book at lunchtime a boy, being the charming polite gentleman as boys always are at this age, yanked it out of my hand and started to read the blurb out loud, quite loudly too, before he reached the ultimate taboo word: sex. He then looked at me as if to say 'What kind of slut are you, anyway?'
It's always the boys who are supposed to be interested in sex. Girls aren't supposed to be interested in sex, because interest in sex invariably leads you to getting pregnant.
But sex is an inevitable part of growing up, and yes, for girls too. Of course we're interested in sex, of course we think about sex. Sex is a part of life, much like eating or sleeping or breathing or having to go to the loo. If I were sixteen and about to die then yes, sex would be on my bucket list. I'm a girl, not the Virgin Mary - and in case you didn't notice, abstinence didn't really protect her from pregnancy anyway.
I've always found it degrading that an interest, or even a thought given to sex is a complete taboo for girls, and not for boys - in fact, the terms 'virgin' and 'male' just don't seem to correlate unless you're a Jonas Brother. An interest and curiousity in sex is part of being human, not part of being a slut. And really, we should have more sympathy for fictional terminally-ill teenagers. And the not-so-fictional, healthy ones, too.
In My Own Time.
When I was younger,
I guess I used to be that silly little girl,
With her heart on her sleeve.
I was just twelve when my heart broke for the first time,
It was simple, really:
I was his,
But he wasn't mine.
And I was a mess,
Too young and so wrecked,
But it was you and not him who taught me the new meaning of 'heartless'.
Would you go up to a kid,
And rip a bandaid off his knee?
Would you tell a motherless child
It was her fault her mama died?
How can you say 'Get over it',
When you know nothing about it,
Heartbreak is not a crime,
I could have gotten better in my own time.
Then I got older,
But I guess I didn't get any wiser,
Because I still left my heart on my sleeve.
I was thirteen when it happened again,
I don't know what was worse,
The humiliation,
Or the pain.
And so I was a mess,
Too young and so wrecked,
But it was you and not him who taught me the new meaning of 'heartless'.
Would you go up to a kid,
And rip a bandaid off his knee?
Would you tell a motherless child
It was her fault her mama died?
How can you say 'Get over it',
When you know nothing about it,
Heartbreak is not a crime,
I could have gotten better in my own time.
Two years on now,
Still hurt now,
Even though it wasn't really so bad.
I think you took a little problem,
And made it enormous,
A little patience on your side
Would have been appreciated.
It's hard for a wound to heal,
When you kept ripping of the bandage.
It's hard to take the pain,
When you took away all the aspirin.
So don't blame me if I get scars,
Because I think I got the cut dirty,
And it's to you as much as to him I say 'Why?'
I could have done without the laughing,
I know you could have done without the crying,
I know you're right, they were never worth it,
But heartbreak is not a crime,
And I could have gotten better in my own time.
And so it's to you I get to thank for still being kind of broken;
Do you know how pointless it is to say 'just get over it'?
I wasn't planning to waste my life over losers but
Heartbreak is not a crime,
I could have gotten better in my own time.
I guess I used to be that silly little girl,
With her heart on her sleeve.
I was just twelve when my heart broke for the first time,
It was simple, really:
I was his,
But he wasn't mine.
And I was a mess,
Too young and so wrecked,
But it was you and not him who taught me the new meaning of 'heartless'.
Would you go up to a kid,
And rip a bandaid off his knee?
Would you tell a motherless child
It was her fault her mama died?
How can you say 'Get over it',
When you know nothing about it,
Heartbreak is not a crime,
I could have gotten better in my own time.
Then I got older,
But I guess I didn't get any wiser,
Because I still left my heart on my sleeve.
I was thirteen when it happened again,
I don't know what was worse,
The humiliation,
Or the pain.
And so I was a mess,
Too young and so wrecked,
But it was you and not him who taught me the new meaning of 'heartless'.
Would you go up to a kid,
And rip a bandaid off his knee?
Would you tell a motherless child
It was her fault her mama died?
How can you say 'Get over it',
When you know nothing about it,
Heartbreak is not a crime,
I could have gotten better in my own time.
Two years on now,
Still hurt now,
Even though it wasn't really so bad.
I think you took a little problem,
And made it enormous,
A little patience on your side
Would have been appreciated.
It's hard for a wound to heal,
When you kept ripping of the bandage.
It's hard to take the pain,
When you took away all the aspirin.
So don't blame me if I get scars,
Because I think I got the cut dirty,
And it's to you as much as to him I say 'Why?'
I could have done without the laughing,
I know you could have done without the crying,
I know you're right, they were never worth it,
But heartbreak is not a crime,
And I could have gotten better in my own time.
And so it's to you I get to thank for still being kind of broken;
Do you know how pointless it is to say 'just get over it'?
I wasn't planning to waste my life over losers but
Heartbreak is not a crime,
I could have gotten better in my own time.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Wild Swans
One of my favourite and most inspiring books I have ever read is Wild Swans, the bestseller debut of Chinese-born British writer Jung Chang. It is a memoir, but a very unique memoir in that it shows the brutal reality of Mao Zedong's regime through the lives of three generations of women - Chang's grandmother, Chang's mother and Chang herself. Wild Swans refers to the names of Chang and her mother - her mother Bao Qin, was renamed 'De-hong' by her stepfather - 'de' being the generation name, and by renaming her with this name it was part of accepting her into his family, and 'hong' meaning -wild swan. Jung Chang's birth name is Er-hong, which is 'second swan'.
The first time I acquired a copy of Wild Swans was at a marketplace in Scotland, I think, or England, when I went to the UK a year or so ago. I read it eagerly, and devouring it as part of my dazzling experience of the rich and vibrant place that the UK is.
Before I read Wild Swans I knew very little about China - I had barely even heard of Mao. I was emerging from an age where I did not exactly dislike my Asian heritage, but I did not really welcome it - the Western world for me seemed much more appealing, even with it's obvious flaws, and so I drunk in the intoxicating, romantic ideals I had on Elizabethan England as to escape the boring monotony of school. What material I could find on oriental culture that was easily comprehendible was dull compared to the exciting re-enactments and dramatisations and documentaries of my passion - the Tudor court.
And so I read Wild Swans with a mixture of fascination and horror. China had domineered my life ever so subtly since I was born, and it is now an almost untameable superpower that we still unwittingly, no, even eagerly feed. And I found myself thinking 'Could people really do that? Could people really become that? Could people really go through that and come out of it, alive?' China was no longer the place where everything I owned seemed to be made, or the place where nice food was invented - it was once a dark, violent, turbulent place, and in some ways it still is.
I went to China earlier this year, actually, and obviously it has changed immeasureably from the China Jung Chang was born and bred in. But the place is thick with fear and insecurity, or so it seemed to me - as much as I dislike Australia and it's meany cultural flaws, in China I felt robbed of my freedom of speech, my right to say what I want and not be hauled to jail because of it - even though as a tourist I doubt they would have given me much trouble anyway, but still, the fear was ever present. It is a place heavily reliant on much censorship and political brainwashing - 'for the good of the people,' in true Mao fashion. Wild Swans is a book I have never tired of.
My second-hand copy I brought back with me from Britain is now in a rather sorry state, and so now I have a fresh copy. And every now and again I flip through it, to a world that I thought only existed in movies, and as I read of other people's horrors I can better appreciate my own, and put my trials into perspective with the world...
The first time I acquired a copy of Wild Swans was at a marketplace in Scotland, I think, or England, when I went to the UK a year or so ago. I read it eagerly, and devouring it as part of my dazzling experience of the rich and vibrant place that the UK is.
Before I read Wild Swans I knew very little about China - I had barely even heard of Mao. I was emerging from an age where I did not exactly dislike my Asian heritage, but I did not really welcome it - the Western world for me seemed much more appealing, even with it's obvious flaws, and so I drunk in the intoxicating, romantic ideals I had on Elizabethan England as to escape the boring monotony of school. What material I could find on oriental culture that was easily comprehendible was dull compared to the exciting re-enactments and dramatisations and documentaries of my passion - the Tudor court.
And so I read Wild Swans with a mixture of fascination and horror. China had domineered my life ever so subtly since I was born, and it is now an almost untameable superpower that we still unwittingly, no, even eagerly feed. And I found myself thinking 'Could people really do that? Could people really become that? Could people really go through that and come out of it, alive?' China was no longer the place where everything I owned seemed to be made, or the place where nice food was invented - it was once a dark, violent, turbulent place, and in some ways it still is.
I went to China earlier this year, actually, and obviously it has changed immeasureably from the China Jung Chang was born and bred in. But the place is thick with fear and insecurity, or so it seemed to me - as much as I dislike Australia and it's meany cultural flaws, in China I felt robbed of my freedom of speech, my right to say what I want and not be hauled to jail because of it - even though as a tourist I doubt they would have given me much trouble anyway, but still, the fear was ever present. It is a place heavily reliant on much censorship and political brainwashing - 'for the good of the people,' in true Mao fashion. Wild Swans is a book I have never tired of.
My second-hand copy I brought back with me from Britain is now in a rather sorry state, and so now I have a fresh copy. And every now and again I flip through it, to a world that I thought only existed in movies, and as I read of other people's horrors I can better appreciate my own, and put my trials into perspective with the world...
Sunday, November 07, 2010
For the last goddamn time I DON'T HATE MEN!
Pour exemple, all my favourite teachers are men. And no, they're not my favourite teachers just because they're men, you sick twisted people :).
Pour exemple, I have a lot of male friends. They're not douchepackers like themen boys idiots that I have dated.
I know that the amount of douchepackers is small and decreasing, but even one douchepacker of any sex in this world can have devastating impact. And believe it or not, I don't write all that stuff about guys without reason. Don't you think it would take a pretty stuffed up chick who has had some pretty stuffed up experiences to write stuff like that?
As for me only ever writing about douchepacker dudes, that is not true. Please don't say that. I go through lulls, I know, but I do make an effort to vary the subject topic of my blog, believe it or not.
And last of all, this is my blog. Unbelievably, I don't write so that people can call me a male-hating bitch. My blog only represents a certain part of me, an outlet to things I cannot say but I can write of, like my ever-increasing frustration with certain members of the male sex. I don't write (much) about sunshine and daisies and how we're all good little children who live in a happy, happy world because a) that's not true b) it's boring and c) that's all I'm ever allowed to say, so why would I write about it too?
Pour exemple, all my favourite teachers are men. And no, they're not my favourite teachers just because they're men, you sick twisted people :).
Pour exemple, I have a lot of male friends. They're not douchepackers like the
I know that the amount of douchepackers is small and decreasing, but even one douchepacker of any sex in this world can have devastating impact. And believe it or not, I don't write all that stuff about guys without reason. Don't you think it would take a pretty stuffed up chick who has had some pretty stuffed up experiences to write stuff like that?
As for me only ever writing about douchepacker dudes, that is not true. Please don't say that. I go through lulls, I know, but I do make an effort to vary the subject topic of my blog, believe it or not.
And last of all, this is my blog. Unbelievably, I don't write so that people can call me a male-hating bitch. My blog only represents a certain part of me, an outlet to things I cannot say but I can write of, like my ever-increasing frustration with certain members of the male sex. I don't write (much) about sunshine and daisies and how we're all good little children who live in a happy, happy world because a) that's not true b) it's boring and c) that's all I'm ever allowed to say, so why would I write about it too?
Some People Are Gay. Get Over It.
So, there is this English charity that's making a stand against homophobia. The message? some people are gay. Get over it.
One thing I should make clear is that I'm not gay, and I would prefer if I don't get homophobic comments or death threats because I'm not even gay, anyway. Because of this, people often ask 'So why do you care so much about gays anyway?' The answer? I feel sorry for those kids dying of AIDS and malaria. I'm not one of them, but I can still feel sorry for them.
It's disgusting in this day and age that we can't get over something that really should be private, anyway. Who cares if someone is gay, straight or bi? It doesn't bother anyone. As far as I know gays haven't done anything against us straight people so I don't know why we are so against them. It's like being born with brown hair or blue eyes - people are born gay.
I was looking through the youtube comments on Katy Perry's 'Firework' video, which features a gay man coming out and kissing another man in a pub as one of the 'fireworks', and people were being so homophobic, saying that it was against God and a sin and that as a public figure Katy Perry shouldn't be advocating it. Recent studies show that nearly all mammal species have evidence of gay numbers, so it's quite clearly not going against nature or God or being or whatever. Being gay is not a sin, just like being Asian is not a sin and being a woman is not a sin. Why do I feel like in this day and age you still have to be white and straight and male to get things your way? In fact, that's not even true. Not even white and straight males get it their way, because there's always going to be something against anyone that they can't change.
More people in the 'Some People Are Gay. Get Over It' campaign:
nerimon
charlieissocoollike
And so, I now have a Stonewall icon where you can donate to this anti-homophobia charity - I would myself but I don't have any money for gay people or otherwise. Wah.
One thing I should make clear is that I'm not gay, and I would prefer if I don't get homophobic comments or death threats because I'm not even gay, anyway. Because of this, people often ask 'So why do you care so much about gays anyway?' The answer? I feel sorry for those kids dying of AIDS and malaria. I'm not one of them, but I can still feel sorry for them.
It's disgusting in this day and age that we can't get over something that really should be private, anyway. Who cares if someone is gay, straight or bi? It doesn't bother anyone. As far as I know gays haven't done anything against us straight people so I don't know why we are so against them. It's like being born with brown hair or blue eyes - people are born gay.
I was looking through the youtube comments on Katy Perry's 'Firework' video, which features a gay man coming out and kissing another man in a pub as one of the 'fireworks', and people were being so homophobic, saying that it was against God and a sin and that as a public figure Katy Perry shouldn't be advocating it. Recent studies show that nearly all mammal species have evidence of gay numbers, so it's quite clearly not going against nature or God or being or whatever. Being gay is not a sin, just like being Asian is not a sin and being a woman is not a sin. Why do I feel like in this day and age you still have to be white and straight and male to get things your way? In fact, that's not even true. Not even white and straight males get it their way, because there's always going to be something against anyone that they can't change.
More people in the 'Some People Are Gay. Get Over It' campaign:
nerimon
charlieissocoollike
And so, I now have a Stonewall icon where you can donate to this anti-homophobia charity - I would myself but I don't have any money for gay people or otherwise. Wah.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Teenagedom.
Growing up these days is hard for a girl.
For one, the expectations on us are ridiculous, and largely unspoken. It's all about shaved legs and plucked eyebrows and smooth skin and ridiculous figures that none of us will ever get. Me? You know, sometimes I just too damn lazy to shave my legs. I look up from the bath at the razor from it's stupid plastic wall caddy and I jus think 'I hate you.' My eyebrows..I don't even want to talk about my eyebrows. They're horrible. And I'm a size twelve desperately trying to Zumba away last year's post-dumping binge, but really, I have nothing against being a size twelve. Real women have curves.
And then there are boys.
Teenage boys and teenage girls are very different, which is why teenage relationships very rarely last. Teenage girls go through a lot of shit, and we're on this permament rollercoaster, whether you like it or not. One moment you're playing cops and robbers with the boys and being immature about 'boy germs', and then the next minute you've got boobs and you have to carry pads in your bag and hair starts popping up in random places and your bum gets really big and then you find yourself drooling over that boy in your Social Science class even though he's skinny and pimply and you know deep in your heart he's really not good enough for you but you act as though you're not good enough for him and he kind of goes along with that, which is sad.
Boys at my age are heartbreakingly immature. I'm not being sexist, but teenage boys are simply not capable of living up to an average teenage girl's grand hopes and dreams on love and marriage and boys and sex and babies. I mean, seriously, most teenage girls, if it wasn't for education and starting a career, are emotionally ready for a long term relationship and marriage and babies, and apart from the aforesaid education and career-building it's really the boys that make the average marriage age 24 and not 14. Six years of the most epic fail nonexistant love life has made me realize that children have this thing in their brain called immaturity. At the age of twelve it falls out of a girl's brain and she grows up, but in boys it matures into this disasterous thing of sexism and horniness and cruelty and hypocrisy and ridiculously high expectations on girls and whatever other else I can badmouth about my exes, and the sad thing is sometimes this thing in boy brains never falls out.
From the time I lost that beautifully innocent time of 'boy germs' and when I started to fall in love too often and too deeply for my own good I have often seen this inequality in the sexes. This ingrained biological need to be wanted and loved and adored and to be wanting and loving and adorable has turned the tables on us, and has allowed men to stamp over even the most hard-hearted of feminists. Now I look back at some of the incredibly lame and degrading things I have done in the name of love and I curse myself for not being stronger, and for not waiting until boys turn into men, not waiting for someone who might actually be worth my while. But yet it's still there, and I'm still going at it, I'm still chasing the unchaseable, no matter how hard I try to supress it or deny it.
Nature has allowed men incredible liberties, and yet nowadays men don't even open doors for you, or stand when you enter a room or offer you their seat. Nowadays it's not even enough to wait until boys become men, because for most of them...they'll never be men. They'll never be worth it, but we chase them anyway.
For one, the expectations on us are ridiculous, and largely unspoken. It's all about shaved legs and plucked eyebrows and smooth skin and ridiculous figures that none of us will ever get. Me? You know, sometimes I just too damn lazy to shave my legs. I look up from the bath at the razor from it's stupid plastic wall caddy and I jus think 'I hate you.' My eyebrows..I don't even want to talk about my eyebrows. They're horrible. And I'm a size twelve desperately trying to Zumba away last year's post-dumping binge, but really, I have nothing against being a size twelve. Real women have curves.
And then there are boys.
Teenage boys and teenage girls are very different, which is why teenage relationships very rarely last. Teenage girls go through a lot of shit, and we're on this permament rollercoaster, whether you like it or not. One moment you're playing cops and robbers with the boys and being immature about 'boy germs', and then the next minute you've got boobs and you have to carry pads in your bag and hair starts popping up in random places and your bum gets really big and then you find yourself drooling over that boy in your Social Science class even though he's skinny and pimply and you know deep in your heart he's really not good enough for you but you act as though you're not good enough for him and he kind of goes along with that, which is sad.
Boys at my age are heartbreakingly immature. I'm not being sexist, but teenage boys are simply not capable of living up to an average teenage girl's grand hopes and dreams on love and marriage and boys and sex and babies. I mean, seriously, most teenage girls, if it wasn't for education and starting a career, are emotionally ready for a long term relationship and marriage and babies, and apart from the aforesaid education and career-building it's really the boys that make the average marriage age 24 and not 14. Six years of the most epic fail nonexistant love life has made me realize that children have this thing in their brain called immaturity. At the age of twelve it falls out of a girl's brain and she grows up, but in boys it matures into this disasterous thing of sexism and horniness and cruelty and hypocrisy and ridiculously high expectations on girls and whatever other else I can badmouth about my exes, and the sad thing is sometimes this thing in boy brains never falls out.
From the time I lost that beautifully innocent time of 'boy germs' and when I started to fall in love too often and too deeply for my own good I have often seen this inequality in the sexes. This ingrained biological need to be wanted and loved and adored and to be wanting and loving and adorable has turned the tables on us, and has allowed men to stamp over even the most hard-hearted of feminists. Now I look back at some of the incredibly lame and degrading things I have done in the name of love and I curse myself for not being stronger, and for not waiting until boys turn into men, not waiting for someone who might actually be worth my while. But yet it's still there, and I'm still going at it, I'm still chasing the unchaseable, no matter how hard I try to supress it or deny it.
Nature has allowed men incredible liberties, and yet nowadays men don't even open doors for you, or stand when you enter a room or offer you their seat. Nowadays it's not even enough to wait until boys become men, because for most of them...they'll never be men. They'll never be worth it, but we chase them anyway.
I remember.
When I was twelve,
I had a crush on that tall boy,
He had blue eyes,
And he set my heart on fire.
When I was twelve I
Had my heart broken for the first time,
To him I was
Just a fat little girl,
But little did he know,
Little did he know...
After school I'd come home laughing or crying,
And I'd pick up a pen,
Scribbles then are words now,
And those words will go down in history when
I say 'I remember him.'
First year in high school,
I had a crush on the boy on the cricket team,
He was a basketballer,
And he knew how to play the love game.
First year in high school,
I loved another girl's sweetheart,
To him I was
That girl who would wait forever at the back door,
But little did he know,
Little did he know,
After school I'd come home laughing or crying,
And I'd pick up my pen.
Scribbles then are words now,
And those words will go down in history when
I say 'I remember him.'
Now I'm a sophomore,
And there are those dumb blonde girls,
Who don't really like me,
Cause I actually have a brain.
Now I'm a sophomore,
I'm supposed to be a big girl,
But to them I'm just easy meat
For them to pick on.
But little do they know,
Little do they know...
When I come home from school laughing or crying
I do what I always do,
And pick up my pen.
Scribbles then are words now,
And these words will go down in history when
I say 'I remember them.'
Little do you know,
Every time you make me cry,
I can turn my tears into words,
And words into stories.
Little do you know,
That this brain that you tease me for,
This heart that you broke before,
Will be your fall...
Because, you know,
You never did treat me well,
You always made me cry.
I was just a little girl,
And you never told me why.
So don't expect me to make you into a hero.
Because,
Because of you I came home crying,
And whenever I did,
I'd always pick up a pen.
So I guess this is my way of thanking you
For sleepless nights,
And teary eyes,
And broken hearts,
And shattered dreams,
...and some really great stories.
I had a crush on that tall boy,
He had blue eyes,
And he set my heart on fire.
When I was twelve I
Had my heart broken for the first time,
To him I was
Just a fat little girl,
But little did he know,
Little did he know...
After school I'd come home laughing or crying,
And I'd pick up a pen,
Scribbles then are words now,
And those words will go down in history when
I say 'I remember him.'
First year in high school,
I had a crush on the boy on the cricket team,
He was a basketballer,
And he knew how to play the love game.
First year in high school,
I loved another girl's sweetheart,
To him I was
That girl who would wait forever at the back door,
But little did he know,
Little did he know,
After school I'd come home laughing or crying,
And I'd pick up my pen.
Scribbles then are words now,
And those words will go down in history when
I say 'I remember him.'
Now I'm a sophomore,
And there are those dumb blonde girls,
Who don't really like me,
Cause I actually have a brain.
Now I'm a sophomore,
I'm supposed to be a big girl,
But to them I'm just easy meat
For them to pick on.
But little do they know,
Little do they know...
When I come home from school laughing or crying
I do what I always do,
And pick up my pen.
Scribbles then are words now,
And these words will go down in history when
I say 'I remember them.'
Little do you know,
Every time you make me cry,
I can turn my tears into words,
And words into stories.
Little do you know,
That this brain that you tease me for,
This heart that you broke before,
Will be your fall...
Because, you know,
You never did treat me well,
You always made me cry.
I was just a little girl,
And you never told me why.
So don't expect me to make you into a hero.
Because,
Because of you I came home crying,
And whenever I did,
I'd always pick up a pen.
So I guess this is my way of thanking you
For sleepless nights,
And teary eyes,
And broken hearts,
And shattered dreams,
...and some really great stories.
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