I brought Ice cream... I lie. I didn't.

So umm...I'm alive. Which is great and all but I didn't bring any ice cream so I can see how this is kind of a disappointment. I'm not a consistent person in any aspects of life and that's really just my way of saying never expect me to post consistently. Take my word for it.
And I also run another blog which you probably didn't know. That's also the main reason why I don't post here as much as I should. I kinda wanted to separate the two but I think I should integrate them now. And yes, that is because I'm terribly lazy and running two blogs whilst procrastinating is a lot of effort. Here it is .If you're already reading my other blog feel free to gasp dramatically. I mean, it won't really do anything but still feel free to.

I've Committed Mail Sins

Mr A's the guy who used to live in our house. I call him Mr A because it makes it sound as if he's somehow related to Mr T and the prospect of having a relative of his live in my house before me, is more exciting than it should actually be to a normal functioning person. He's not a related however and his name is actually Mr Addy, but sometimes we still get his mail posted to our address. Not once have we ever sent it back though. I mean, should we have? There's a possibility that Mr A is dead. In which case sending him letters would be both pointless and rude. Like hey, we know you're dead and all but here's your mail Sir. Then again he could be perfectly healthy and really pissed off that he's missed 10 percent of his mail every single year for the past 7 or 8 years. Which is a rather long time to go without receiving your tax return papers Mr A.  And although I'd love to say that we've kept your letters Mr A ( assuming your reading this and that your eyes are still what they used to be) we haven't. So...umm... if you ever try to track them down. Mazel tov sir.

Crushing Hard

20.9.15

It's in the first few months of developing a crush that you realise:
A) How much of a stalker you really are
B)How good your crush looks with a perm
C)You will never be anything more to them than that girl in maths class.

Although your fully aware that the possibility of you ever going out is like that of winning the lottery, you still continue to hope. And those occasional moments spent talking to them become complete validation for your infatuation. They however are indifferent towards you and probably wouldn't know you exist if it wasn't for the fact that you sit behind them in maths class. That and the fact that you're constantly burning holes in the back of their head every time you find yourself staring at them. He will continue to be nothing more than the male equivalent of a manic pixie dream girl. For one he appears more in your dreams than in actual reality and for two your crush on him is based solely on what you believe him to be not what he actually is.

The Metaphorical Black Guy

Got It!!

Diary Entry 23
26.09.15 (I'm going to do that annoying thing where I go back from this date and then spontaneously revert forward to an earlier one.)

There are 4 ways in which one can tell that a situation requires them to run away. Like the metaphorical black guy in a horror movie, faced with a fight or flight situation, it becomes increasingly apparent that one must fucking bolt. Said metaphorical black guy should rapidly disperse from the crowd of drunken teens and seek refuge. Possibly somewhere the guy brandishing a ten inch meat cleaver isn't. One must simply A.E.A.R: Acknowledge- Evaluate-(and) Run. Unlike the black guys friend who is so highly intoxicated he can no longer make the distinction between a lamppost and a human. He becomes completely oblivious to his surroundings and most likely stumbles right into the path of the psycho meat cleaver guy. Thus resulting in his abrupt and gory death. Don't be that guy.

Avoiding such events comes with ease (once again, unless you're the black guy's friend. In which case you are utterly screwed.) you just need to know when to run.

1) The first way in which one can tell that a situation requires them to run is the eikosi theory (the rule of 20). Picture it: Saturday night. Social gathering. Thirty or so friends, cousins, aunties, drunk uncles and crying nephews. Shitty pop song in the background disguised by the loud chattering and the constant glitches in the CD. Somewhere in the middle lies you and your three friends. All stood, attempting to hold a conversation over the screams of your baby brother and repetitive hushing of your mother as she tries to coo him into a peaceful sleep. The conversation's rolling but you seem to be the only catalyst and you're running dry of science puns and childhood stories. You've even gone to the extent of talking about school in hopes to provoke a reaction out of them and finally the conversation seems to be running smoothly. It goes on like that for the next ten minutes until it dies down to nothing but a single forced awkward laugh. Here is where you apply the rule of 20. If no one speaks for 20 seconds, it is time to run. For this situation is only about to get worse. Soon it becomes a mess of awkward glares, then shuffling feet and then painfully awkward goodbyes and hugs. You don't want to be there when the Apocalypse begins.

2) The moment you fuck up the conversation with the really hot guy sat in front of you. By some weird turn of events the hot guy in front of you decides to engage in casual small talk with you and you happily reciprocate (but really low key so it doesn't seem like you're that interested in him). You begin conversing and it's all going well until you process that you're actually talking to this guy. Then the blood starts pumping in your veins, your palms turn clammy, you begin sweating and you're almost certain you're dying. Right here is where you should run. But it's not is it? Because her is where you fuck shit up and say something utterly stupid, resulting in various confused stares from said hot guy.

3) The moment you realise you have nothing in common with anyone stood around you. Don't stall. Don't hesitate. Don't try to ease your way out. Just run.

4) Everyone begins staring at you.
At any point in time, if you begin feeling as if you are being stared at, just run. Forget your nephew; he can make it on his own now. Forget the cashier; you never had a shot with him anyway.Forget the groceries; you can make it a week with the left over pop tarts. Just RUN!!!
Staring either means:
A) They're about to kidnap you
B) They're going to jack you
C)You've just done something really embarrassing and you just haven't been able to realise it yet.

I Am A Serial Diaryest

Perhaps referring to myself as a Diaryest was a wrong choice. There's a likely chance I've just made myself sound as if I have a chronic case of diarrhea. I don't by the way. But I've possibly got a serious case of extreme word vomit and so therefore should not be held accountable for anything I say here. I'm probably on opium( the perfume, I swear) and high doses of sugary drinks and cheddar cheese biscuits. I've also possibly just now triggered in you what I call the DuoIDon'tKnowIfShe'sInsaneOrJustReallyWeirdInAFunnyWay Effect. Which in elaborate terms means- you're reading this not quite sure whether I'm insane and possibly in the need of dire psychological attention or if my humor is just somewhat unconventionally strange.

In really simple terms however it means-  This chick is fucking weird.
Which I don't disagree with whatsoever.

It's become apparent to me that the only way I will ever stick to writing a diary is to write it in blog format. I've tried the conventional pen and paper technique and I've failed more times than humanly possible.  It is time to break the pattern. You know like that one fictional annoying kid in your class who thought it was funny to whisper "butt cheeks" into your ears whilst playing Chinese whispers when the actual word was caterpillar. ( I swear to Cheezus I will ruin you George!!!!) Or a slight anomaly in a set of chemistry results leaving you both terribly frustrated and potentially on the verge of crying.

This is A Case Of Unconventional Autumns.
The less than sub-optimal diary of a mediocre teen.

Enjoy.