Seventeen- The age of misfits

Sweet 16, Sour 17?

With midnight a mere tick of the clock away I find myself [alone] pondering over the past almost 17 years of my life… To be honest about 15 of them were a blur yet here I sit on the brink of a new year, questioning what it means to be seventeen…

We’ve chosen our subjects in grade 10 , aren’t certified on them for another year and are aimlessly being tortured with the repetitive yet equally painful reminder in every class that “THIS YEAR IS THE MOST DIFFIICULT. YOU HAVE TO WORK.” as that single soul fails to complete the answer for question 1.2.95 on last night’s homework.

Everyone apart from seventeen magazine seems to discriminate against us.

A few conclusions I’ve reached:
•Being 17 is like getting 79% on a test you’ve killed yourself for.
•People will always question: “Are you eighteen” and retort with a “Oh, you’re still seventeen.” -Well forgive me for following the number sequence!
•You aren’t old enough to be an adult yet so for the time being you’ll pretty much be evaluated as a five year old.

Essentially all that I and most readers are feeling is just one of life’s greater mysteries as is the puzzlement of adolescence what with its mood swings, chocolate cravings, bipolar snap backs and so many other challenges we as teens brace day after exhausting day…

If my own life wasn’t example enough, Zac Efron made it pretty clear that his life as a 17 year old was such a catastrophe he had to repeat it … again.

What’s so special about a birthday apart from the obvious answer of your birth? You’re going to have greater and lower days and in a few months when you’re freaking out about your maths score or whizzing on a rollercoaster the last thing in that wondrous wizard called your brain would be your birthday.

If anything a birthday does serve as a relic how much I have to be grateful for, the magnificent company I’ve been blessed with and I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t acknowledge their even more grandiose gifts I’m shower with 😛

The good news to those seventeen year olds reading , we’re just a few months away from the enlightenment of turning 18

As much as being 17 makes me feel awkward and out of place but if I ever imitate Kim Kardashian on her 30 birthday “…and I’d like to thank you for showing me that there is life after thirty.” Please!Kill me now! In which case I’d never have to write another birthday blog again :’)

_Quixotic Novelist

Fruit Salad of Flaws

Once upon a breakfast on a glistening table top sat a rather diverse bowl of fruit salad. Though you wouldn’t realise it if you trotted past, among the contents of this ambrosia a conversation transpired.

 

Strawberry: “I want to be taller.”

Banana: “I have no curves!”

Orange: “I hate the colour of my skin!”

Grape: “I am so weak.”

Kiwi: “At least you’re not as hairy as I am.”

Apple: “I wish I was skinny…”

Guava: “I’m a freak!”

Pear: “Why am I so wide?”

Finally with an exasperated sigh ,Watermelon mumbled, “Why am I so big?”

 

A hushed silence pasted over the as I sat down to devour my meal. Each spoonful more delectable then the previous one. Mmm… I thought, if only they knew how sweet they tasted…

 

If you’ve identified with the above situation , not because you’re a fan of fruit salad but because you ARE the fruit salad. Be it an apple, a guava, a kiwi fruit or even the blob of ice cream that drips irresistibly over this tempting treat.

Fact is we all face discrimination and 60% of it comes from ourselves. You may loathe the colour of your skin [or hair, but let’s not point fingers at anyone *slinks away shly*] but a stranger bypassing you at the mall wishes your source of “embarrassment” upon themselves.

 

We’re all grapes, because these imperfections make us feel languid. You may be the most disheavled fruit salad in Fruit and Veg. but someone’s going to delight in your essence and relish every moment of it.

 

“Imperfection is beauty” more importantly YOU [and your 10000000000000000 blemishes] are divine -especially to cannibals but thankfully as Willy Wonka puts it “Everything in this room is edible. Even I am edible. But that is called cannibalism , my dear children, and is in fact frowned upon in most societies. “

*Whew*

 

_Quixotic Novelist

Red velvets of Disaster

The past two years saw to the development of my growing addiction of red velvet dominant delicacies.

I don’t usually respond to demands but if  phrased as a challenge my apron is on and the oven is pre-heating.

 

You’ve probably guessed by now that my family pointed out my lack of culinary skills and being an headstrong, adamant teenager I strive to prove them false.

 

As fate would have it, the universe had grown bored of my normal streak and decided to send the wrath of its bad luck upon me. Thus on a Tuesday afternoon I entered a totally unfamiliar territory: The kitchen. I can bake a fairly divine batch of cupcakes, with the assistance of my kid sister. So the miracle of today would in fact be Red Velvet cupcakes.

 

Denying the aid of my sister and with my best friends flop proof recipe in hand I began my mission. In order to obtain the deep red colour a lot of food colouring is required. Being close to month end we were low on supplies and so I settled for a cap of red and a bottle or pink. The colour was reassuring and I hoped as it baked the aesthetics wouldn’t be too bad provided the taste was there.

 

I am proud to report that no accidents took place. Apart from a minor flour shower I and more importantly the kitchen remained relatively free from extraneous matter. To be honest I was mostly shocked that I had triumphed this far without disaster hot on my tail. It seemed too good to be true, so good that I, for a mere moment, turned my attention else where.

 

Tomorrow I write a geometry test, so while I waited for the red mounds of heaven to rise, I revised my formula. Okay I’m lying, I was actually reading Great Expectations, carefully concealed in the cover in my math notebook. Deeply devouring Pip’s adventures and dissecting Dickens’ writing. The faint smell of smoke wafted toward me… “That’s odd I don’t remember putting anything in the oven…”

Oh.

Crap.

 

I bolted to the scene of the incandescence, only to find my mom, abraded , fanning what I can best describe as melted ash and my younger sister with a very smug smile on her face. “If you’d let me help you the cupcakes wouldn’t have burnt.”

 

I think it goes without say that I’m strictly forbidden from entering the kitchen , except for meal times and even that is under deliberation!

 

_Quixotic Novelist

 

The deceased scribblers society

As per tradition of THE MOST CHALLENGING YEAR of your high school career my school introduces an anthology project consisting of a collection of pieces that can potentially cure drought and starvation in Africa 😐

In my desperation to find inspiration, I lifted my hands to the sky. Now try this : chin up, squint your eyes, just a few layers above the atmosphere, a little below the gates of heaven sits a congregation among expensive china filled with the sweat of hard work and perseverance, nibbling upon the struggles of school kids everywhere. Without further ado :The deceased scribblers society.

Its members as you may have guessed are a few dozen decades short of oxygen however their literary geniusness has resulted in immortality. A bobble head Shakespeare popped into your brain! didn’t he? He’s up there, seated on a throne of vocab. Sylvia Plath, Robert Frost, Micheal Jackson, Dr Seuss even Ingrid Jonker, to name a few.

Like any elite club they’re selective of their members. A specific criteria must be met, being troubled and tortured as well as paying special attention to the location of every comma and full stop for the sole purpose of consuming and thwarting students with their supposed “significance”. Two chairs remain vacant but they’re a death certificate from being occupied. One for J.K Rowling for her mystical magical microcosm of Harry Potter, the other, adjacent to Shakespeare himself, for Taylor Swift. This closeness is out of fear for her omnipotent ability to compose a rejection song about each of her ex’s. I guess they know trouble when they see her.

Speaking of sight, they see all…They’ve even given permission of my reporting of their alacrity in this exact blog post. Don’t believe me? Well, have you ever received a putrid score on a poetry or literature test and as you exited the classroom dropped all your books, tripped on the door frame and collapsed as instantaneously as Macbeth’s turn over to evil? No? Maybe that’s just me.

Don’t get me wrong, literature is still the number one form of escapism-though twitter is a close second- and as witty as we find the search for the symbolism in a brick wall (as opposed to the logical assumption that bricks are a key ingredient for all buildings, instead we’ll assume its “the roughness of his soul” or “the walls he built to shut others out”). I for one have got to admit that without the likes of Susan Collins my daily elopement from the world would be a lot less lively.

_Quixotic Novelist.

Ps: I lied about the society accepting J.K Rowling, they’ve actually approached me and this was my initiation.

How I got my Carrot Head

The question of the Kardashian’s rise to fame remains a mystery, but “How I got my carrot head” can easily be solved. See last December my parents ventured abroad subtract me and it left me feeling rather rebellious. By that point I’d run out of space for piercings which is my usual routine when they exacerbate and deprive me the opportunity of fulfilling my wanderlust.

 

One boredom driven afternoon, I sat soaking up vitamin D when my aunt assaulted me with “You look like Darth Vader in Tinker Bells body, we should totally dye your hair.” Seeing as she was my personal fashion consultant since I began kicking in the womb I imprudently succumbed to the worse form of guinea pig torture she’s inflicted upon me yet.

 

As far as laziness goes and being it socially unacceptable to enter a mall in your “I ♥ Spongebob” boxers we settled for the fifteen or so half empty bottles of hair dye already in the house. So please don’t ask me what colour my hair is because I’ll reply with a list of an already corrupted rainbow, alternatively I have been nicknamed ‘Carrot head’? At least I’m attractive to Bugs Bunny.

 

Exactly an hour later as I stood washing the dye out of my hair. Instantly I was dismayed by the river of red flowing from my head. I’ve always been queasy when it comes to blood now add a peroxide scent to the scarlet goo and you’ve got a very befuddled, jelly-legged me. Judging by the tips of my hair I saw little effect on my jet black hair… Or so I thought…

 

One glance in the mirror at the crown of my head and I could’ve auditioned and  received a prevailing role in the film ‘Scream’. Needless to say, to this day insulting my hair results in a death certificate for anyone valiant enough to go there.

 

Then this morning, soaking up more vitamin D on my balcony I contemplated a trip to the hair dresser when SPLAT some sadistic bird used the tile next to me as its excretion space. I’d divulge into that description but its the equivalent of spilling a bottle of Tresseme, which if you know its immaculate moisture capabilities you stray from atrophy however this bird was awfully generous in its…droppings.

 

This was obviously a sign from the universe thus I have decided to cease the many hair inspired blog posts and relieve the world of the ghastly sight of my vegetable-like curls.

 

In case you were wondering revered readers, that is how I got my carrot head.

 

_Carrot Head.

 

Ps: The descriptions provided above are purely fictional I am the drop dead gorgeous exact replica Adriana Lima of with the imagination of J.K Rowling and the comedic sense of Trever Noah.

Incompetent icons

When you’re a kid you look up to everyone you cross paths with, mainly because they’re taller than you. The further you progress the more selective you become in choosing your role models. Perhaps its because of the way they look, the work they’ve done or the similarities they share with you.

 

As a little girl I adored Lindsay Lohan, I was astonished at her performance in ‘The Parent Trap’ although that wonderment was slightly shattered when my dad told me there was only one of her, she just played a double role. Nevertheless till today I want a bug as my first car, after seeing her race across the screen in ‘Herby Fully Loaded’. As I entered my adolescent years, with the hope of living my life as she did in ‘Confessions of a teenage drama queen” the same and most pompous time when I needed a role model she was slashed upon the pages of scandalous gossip magazines and tabloids. Tales of her drug adventures and fashion mishaps danced across the news. When she travelled to rehab she exited my book of respect. Thankfully I did not want the icon of a hung over raccoon  and I frown in shame when I see her ridiculous court case spreading on for an eternity. Second chances are a justice everyone deserves, now she’s been allowed to return to her life aka: days of shop lifting and nights of smudged mascara.

 

Lilo is just one example. Look at Tiger Woods, Oscar Pistorius and so many others. After reaching the pinnacle of glory what do they do? Celebrate wildly and lower themselves to a state of intoxication. The hero on the field that we admire on our television screen is utterly unrecognizable and washed in a new odour of disgrace and humiliation. Bringing shame not only to their own name but to the faith of their fans and supporters.

 

We admire celebrities or giants in history but no one has lived their life to utter perfection , we’ll always find flaw. If that’s the case does a ‘role model’ actually exist?

 

The answer: No.

 

I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t acknowledge that Taylor Swift is a major figure of mine and despite the uh public’s views and mockery of turning her melody to goat she is truly an inspiration. Perhaps she’s dated a substantial division of Hollywood, but is she really such an evil step sister for being a girl who chases love and relates the feelings she’s entitled to have? At the same time I’m heavily influenced by the ups and downs of red carpet fashion despite which celebrity is wearing it. Even if she has the deadpan of Kristen Stewart. Yet while you were reading this you’ve found countless errors in the names mentioned. Thus reaching the conclusion that a true role model is far from real.

 

When we’re young, we need guidance. We aren’t toddlers with runny noses and chocolate stained mouths, we’ve outgrown the stage of needing someone to show us the way. Plus the quality of our current fame holders are putrid. Better yet, be your own exemplar. Don’t imitate them for the sake of fitting in or having someone to follow. Make your own footsteps, be everything you look for in a role model thus breaking the cycle of the licentious Kardashians. You can invigorate millions. “Be the change you want to be in the world”-because no one else will do it for you.

 

_Quixotic Novelist