Old People Aren't Nice

When I woke up I had a bit of a nervous breakdown.

Luckily, my very good friend Kirsty was on hand to help and escort me out of the building before I started flailing my arms around like I was attempting flight and ended up accidentally giving someone a broken nose or a black eye. I managed to cry all the way to her house, egged on by people walking past and staring at me. Kirsty got me sat down with a drink of squash at hers and made me feel much better, although slightly like a five year old after a temper tantrum. This wasn’t her fault mind you, this is because I felt a bit like I was throwing all of my toys out of the pram in a fit of rage. Having really bad hair due to a party last night where I dressed as a lion didn’t help much.
After calming down for a few hours she received a text about some pizza at my house and so I decided that when it comes to food, perhaps mine is the best place to be after all.
On my long and dangerous journey home (it’s a whole TEN MINUTES walk away. It was like an expedition to the north pole.) I came across an old and wise looking Asian lady, wearing a beautiful sari (I think that’s how it is spelt) and going for a little walk at a slow pace down the road. I’m sure you know the type. She looked regal in both her manner and her dress, strolling like she had all the time in the world. I walked behind her for a while, wishing I’d look that good in a sari, especially at that age (she must have been late 80s, early 90s, at a bad guess. I’m not good with ages). I would look a bit like a blimp in a condom though. And it’s not even like they’re tight fitting.

Anyway, about 100 meters down the road a young cat steps out from behind a wall and approaches the beautiful old lady, obviously wanting attention, and I thought, “How sweet, I wish I had a camera to capture this moment.”

The old lady looks down, spots the friendly feline and immediately starts stamping her feet, scaring the cat away. Fair enough, you think, a bit harsh but maybe she is allergic or doesn’t like cats. So did I. But then she starts to follow the poor feline to where it’s run to. Stamping and clapping her hands while it cowers cornered behind a bin. She even started hitting the bin and the wall around it.

This is when she looks around and spots me, staring gormlessly at the sight of a woman as well turned out and kind looking as she is showing no mercy to an innocent animal who simply went to greet her and be friendly. I knelt down and called the cat, which came running to me; realising that I was its best chance of safety; and started winding its way around my legs purring and meowing while I talked softly and calmly to it. The evil old lady stares at me in horror, having not realised she was being watched during her prior moments of cruelty. The cat then takes off for a location further away from Mrs Crazy-But-Well-Dressed, while I, Miss Bad-Party-Hair; with my head held high and my back straight; walk past her, glaring.

This whole incident has shattered all my illusions and childish ideals. Old people are supposed to be nice. End of. Young people on the other hand “don’t know they’re born”, are intolerant, cruel and litter. Only the worst type of people litter.
I KNOW this is a giant stereotyping of age and I KNOW it doesn’t apply to every person on the planet. Gaddaffi, for example, is probably not a very nice person. Hitler, although not VERY old, was still nearing the age where we are all suddenly transmuted into nice people. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think there were any signs of this sudden change occurring.

On top of this evidence that my old/young theory doesn’t work is the fact that I am young. I don’t think that I’m a horrible person. Having said that, I don’t think Hitler thought he was a horrible person, so maybe I am horrible and just don’t know it. I prefer things this way so if I am horrible please don’t be honest. Thanks.
In addition to this I don’t think my friends are horrible. And I certainly hope they don’t litter. Only scum litters. I don’t hang out with scum. Littering is worse than murder. Or espionage. Ok, I just wanted to get the word “espionage” in here somewhere. As Allie Brosh would say, “I Win!”
I honestly understand that some people don’t like cats. I don’t like dogs. I still took in that lost dog that turned up on our doorstep that time. I didn’t chase it away, clapping my hands and stamping my feet to scare it. I even let it in the bathroom with me when it kept whining outside the door although it’s kind of unnerving trying to pee whilst being stared at by a canine like you’re some kind of god. AND I gave it a name (it was named Dog. Original, dontchathink?).
I was even quite sad when the RSPCA turned up to take it away. Poor thing. He didn’t like that much. Especially when I explained to him that he had to leave because I didn’t like him much.

In reality, it doesn’t matter whether or not you like a certain animal. A decent person would have walked on and let it be. That applies to people too. If you see someone you don’t like in the street, that’s ok, just keep walking. And it was due to this very reasoning that there were no little old ladies injured on Beaconsfield Road today. Also, if she had been injured everyone would have looked from me to her and thought, “Young people today! What a poor, defenceless old lady, bless her heart!” Maybe that’s why she did it. She wanted to defame me and have me known as an old lady beater by all. She’s so evil that she’d planned it all in advance.
So can anyone guess what today’s lesson is? Wrong, it’s not “you can’t judge a book by its cover” it’s “never trust old people”.

Parents Mess Their Kids Up.

I don’t think parents ever realise how much stress they cause their children. The only reason kids are ever messed up is because of the parents.

I personally am very messed up. But this is not because I have a parent who treated me badly, or just didn’t care. It’s because I am absolutely positive my mother is insane.

I feel that you guys may need an example to explain why I am so sure that my parent is off the walls, so I’ll give you one. When I was about fifteen a pair of huge wood pigeons started to live near our garden, and every day they’d sit on our garden gate overlooking the fields behind us like a couple of lovesick teenagers watching a sunset. There they have remained year in, year out, with their offspring continuing the tradition. Lots of inbreeding in the pidgeons near us. I’m pretty sure one of them has three wings and an extra beak.

Despite this, ever since they nested my Mother has been drooling over them and exclaiming that she wishes she had an air rifle so she could have pidgeon pie (Please note that pidgeons in the country are not at all like their city cousins; they are clean and are about the size of a small van.). I never thought that this would actually happen because those pidgeons are so picturesque and sweet and they make lovely cooing noises in the morning, and besides, getting a gun for two shots seems a waste of money.

I was wrong.A few months ago I got a phone call from my deranged parent. “Guess what I’ve got! An air rifle!!!” As if she knows that this is not enough to shock me into a state of heart failure she then adds, “So far I’ve only managed to shoot a hole in my trouser leg, which is annoying, but I’ll soon have pidgeon pie!” A HOLE in her TROUSER LEG. Are you fucking KIDDING ME?!?!? How she managed to miss her leg is beyond me. How she managed to get the gun into that position and fire is even more confusing.

Naturally I hit the roof. ” WHY did you think you’d know how to safely operate an AIR RIFLE?!?” Her reasoning? “Well, I used to do crossbow for the county when I was younger, so I thought it’d be easy!” she states, cheerfully. CHEERFULLY! Now, in my opinion I feel that a crossbow and an air rifle are two very different things, I don’t know about you guys. And, although I have had basic training with an air rifle at scouts, I would not assume that I could transfer those skills to a crossbow. Because they are different. They have different mechanisms, are made of different things and fire different (although equally deadly) missiles. I think the important word in that sentence is deadly. They are DEADLY. Although my parent seems to be able to deflect bullets.

Despite my loud protests she has continued with her war against the tasty-looking-pidgeons. However, they are winning. A) They are both still alive and B) they now sit a few doors down where she can’t get them. 

The latest update is that she is gunning for the poor pheasants, who aren’t quite as clever as the pidgeons.

Now I hope you all understand why I am almost 100% certain that my Mother is completely barmy.

If I bumped into Derren Brown...

If I were to bump into Derren Brown today and he said to me “I can teach you how to control one emotion, which will it be?” I’d choose fear. Not ALL fear, because it’s probably a good thing that I’m scared to go near the edges of cliffs and things, especially considering my amazing lack of coordination.

So, we’re talking about the fear of little things, like what people think of me, performing, having no friends and the man with a machete in my closet who preys on people who are pretending to be asleep.

If I wasn’t afraid of what people thought of me I could tell people what I really think. I could perform in front of others with a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. I wouldn’t worry about not having friends, which would make me confident, which would make people want to be my friend… and the man in my closet with a machete would realize that I really am asleep.At the moment I pretend I am confident. I am a little more blunt than most people I know, but I don’t want to be blunt; I want to be assertive. The problem with being assertive is that I fall into the circle of fear.

For example: I want to tell someone that I think that what they did was unfair.

Fear A - What if I’m wrong and it was fair?
Fear B - What if I hurt that persons feelings?
Fear C - What will that person think of me if I am wrong?
Fear D - What will everyone else think of me?
Fear E - What if there’s a man with a carving knife outside my bedroom window?


And so, after thinking all these things through I never actually get to the stage where I am assertive. Several times I have managed to utter the words that have been forming, but after all the build up of fear I end up blurting them out with a red face of shame and guilt; get all my words backwards and then often burst into tears of frustration and anger. If I have managed to prevent the tears I end up looking like an aggressive grizzly bear. In terms of communication that is; I don’t suddenly sprout fur and massive teeth and develop a penchant for honey.This is then added on to the circle of fear:


Fear F - What if I get all my words backwards again?
Fear G - What if I end up crying again?
Fear H - What if I look all Grizzly Bear-ish again?


This reduces the chances of me being assertive even more. 

Thing is, not being assertive helps even less. My mother, for example, always expect more from me than I am actually physically capable of. My grades were never good enough at school, I was always told “you’re putting weight on” (even though I was a size 10!), arguements between my brother and I were always my fault because I was “old enough to know better”. These are just a few minor examples and I know that she is only like it becasue she thinks I am awesome and therefore capable of being superhuman (I live in fear of the day she realises she’s wrong!).

Unfortunately this is still continuing today. For my birthday she’s paid for driving lessons. I have had my first ten hours, and things are going quite well. I seem to be relatively good at this driving lark. The other day I got a phone call from the mothership saying that she expects me to pass my test after the next 10 hours. The average person passes after 40 hours of lessons, and on their third practical test. My mother expects me to do it after 20 hours and on my first test.

Upon hearing this I felt my “assertive” gland attempt to boot up. What I actually ended up doing was being rude - ”You DO know the average number of hours before a test is 40 don’t you? And you know that the average number of tests taken is 3 I’m sure. Don’t be surprised when I fail.” (see, aggressive grizzly bear). Naturally, all this caused was a rise of anger and defensiveness in the mothership. After all, she didn’t have to pay for any lessons in the first place.

I do appreciate the lessons, really I do. But I’m now at the stage where I wish I hadn’t accepted because I’m under so much pressure to pass I’m making stupid mistakes and I no longer want to get in the bloody car. There might be a man in the boot with a garrotte anyway.

If I were more assertive I could talk to her and tell her that she expects too much from me. I am TERRIFIED of doing this.

Chances are I’m going to become a shrew type person with no personality and a fear of bears.

So Derren Brown, if you’re reading this, take pity on a girl who DEFINITELY has a man under her bed with a gun and teach me how to stop being so afraid all the time please?