Writing a blog. ‘Cos I totally can.

Writing a blog.  ‘Cos I totally can.

Marvel at my amazing ability to provide amazing reasons and use some sort of mangled iambic pentameter.  After coming extraordinarily close to failing a practise exam whilst being so furious to warrant a hissy-fit a la Naomi Campbell, I’m writing when there are a plethora of other things I should be doing.  This probably doesn’t surprise you.

What probably doesn’t surprise you either (because I’m just that much of a predictable bitch) is that all signs are pointing towards a future career of stripper-and-occasional-hooker-dom.  Debauchery at its most offensive, more or less, since anyone willing to watch me strip down to my underwear and cavort around to, oh, I don’t know, Supermassive Black Hole (since euphemisms are beautiful, beautiful things) probably is doing so in return for a substantial wad of cash.  Like some sort of reverse-hooker.  Anyway, speaking of euphemisms, in French conversation class today (anyone who has read The Basic Eight will know how Basic Eight-esque this term is.  If you are one of these people leave me a comment so I can marry you), I had to discuss French politics (shit, not again).  Why Sarko banned burqas and any sort of cultural-slash-religious headwear etc etc etc.  Progressively and without any sort of exotic French charm which one frequently encounters while they hear a French speaker speak orgasmic broken English, I attempted to power through a sort-of comparison between French and Australian politics.

“Mais les australiens, on aime bavarder de politique pour sembler intelligent.”

“Pourquoi?”

“Par exemple, notre ministre, Kevin Rudd, quand il était à Nouvelle-York, il a vu une… um… stripper?”

I revert back to English.

“Et ça veut dire quoi en français?”

“Une femme… qui enlève ses vetements pour l’argent”

Aside from the misogynist slur that emerged when I suggested that only female strippers existed, that was the fastest phrase I have ever spoken in French.  It’s like I was not destined to travel the world and decipher the musings of sexy French politicians and economists, but rather, remove their clothes and fellate them, perhaps filling their French minds with words like “stripper”, “hooker” and phrases like “I am your interpreter.  Well, I was.  Until I had an epiphany where I discovered I could do this for a living.  Revolutionary, no?”

They would then… well you don’t want to know the rest.  I trust that your imagination will do the job perfectly.  Essentially, I may have told God (or whoever it is, ambiguous agnosticism FTW – and alliteration too) to give me a wake-up call and here it is.  Go forth and remove your clothes, you flaming mongrel of joy!  (Because God is totally Alf from Home and Away)

Now I know you exist.

 

Blogging, late at night. Sexuel, non?

This is merely to fulfil my not-yet confirmed promise of blogging every night.  I anticipate that I will never quite resolve this until post-Year 12, as for the most part, my time is taken up by something which will rear its fat, ugly, Voldemort-esque head in two (!) days.

L’école.

FUCK IT, BIATCH!

… declares rebellious, angst-ridden Bethany, speaking only in a contradictory combination of incomprehensible mutterings and sporadic proclamations.  Just fuck it all, and be a hooker.  Although a high-class one, since I believe in you.  I mean, me.  I mean, whatever.

Alas, sensible (or should I say, the Bethany who just doesn’t want to be a hooker full-stop, fortunately the one who is the most prominent.  I doubt I am, I’m just a really really amazing liar.  I’m not kidding you.  Not many people know this, which must mean I completely win at forcing people into some sort of vague gullibility.  Posting this on my blog probably will halt this) Bethany will say no.  You’re a mindless strumpet.  What’s the harm in sticking it out another year? Sure it’s going to be the hardest year of your life next year (R, A-R Bethany threatens to appear) and after all… those dreams of being either a UN interpreter or a struggling writer/humourless comic don’t emerge as a result of sleeping your way to the top.  I mean, my way.  I mean, whatever.

Point being, I’m going to do my best to not care about the fact that my ¾ exam is a matter of weeks away and my other exams threatening me like some sort of wild pig suspended from a rickety ceiling.  I will, however, say that having deleted Facebook and completely stumped everyone who knew I was addicted, I will probably kid myself into being productive.  Oh, and who knew that tomorrow will be one of my last warm weekday lunches? (Sure, we have a microwave, but the ‘mass line’ – whereby we can’t give up and have to motivate each other not to resort to cold potato soup – is about as off-putting as cold potato soup itself) Warm lunches are seriously underrated, especially when everyone around you is eating them and you’re left with some sort of yeast slathered on cardboard.  Get your mind out of there.   Our national food is a yeast extract.  Deal with it, our land is girt by euphemisms and not this “sea” thingamajig you speak of.  Desal ftw!

Oh, and for the record, I will never, under any circumstances, change my pen name to iSnack 2.0.

Sweet holy fudgemuffin, is this a blog i see before me?

And a seldom updated one at that? Probably. 

I'd show you I cared by updating you on every snippet of my life since before the A-Bomb dropped; however this would both a) take up gratuitous amounts of time and space, and b) bore you to tears, prompting you to log onto Facebook to notify your worries away.  Speaking of Facebook, I've recently done the one thing that you probably least expected an adolescent teenage girl who enjoys a spot of procrastination here and there - I deleted it.  Or more accurately, deactivated it.  

Oh no, oh fucking GOD NO! How could you?

Implied Facebook, as I defiantly proceeded through a thicket of messages trying to guilt-trip me into maintaining this horrible, time-consuming vice.  I honestly doubt my 440 friends will miss me that much (except for maybe Liv; the guiding wench would like an almost immediate comeback, hahaha) and to be honest, having read an article about a writer who took the same course as action as me, I've decided that I like my friendship like my clothing.  Retro-chic.  By that I mean I'd prefer to have your onion breath wafting in my eyes as you enlighten me with the benefits of 21st century communication.  Ironically, I still have MSN.  And Twitter.  Hypocrisy ftw!

It is with a series of small yet overdramatic steps like the one previously mentioned that I cleanse myself (or make pitiful attempts to do so) of the putrid air of adolescence that I so want to escape.  This has invariably come about as a result of "the A-Bomb" - something I very much resented during its presence yet has acted as a surprising inspiration for self-improvement post-detonation.  After all, it has dawned on me that this thing, this bomb of A, is exactly like myself.  Arrogant, resistant to any sort of potentially disadvantaging change and of course, full of shit, I took every opportunity to criticise things that I failed to see in myself.  Avoiding my parents, leaving the house in a pigsty, hanging with my friends rather than some loser kid that happens to be there at the time.  As a result of this 'epiphany' (FUCK I hate that word) after a further two months of resentment and agonising over more trivial matters, I'm determined not to be that person.  Personal rules can be good for the soul and since I'm less than a year away from having the legal responsibilities of an adult, I think it's time to start acting like one.