Slurred for speech

Our school hosts and inter house public speaking contest, living blissfully ignorantly under my rock I wasn’t aware such an event existed until it transpired before my eyes. With a round of applause and a rather rube drum roll the six participants took to the stage, each being given a random topic, four minutes to plan an impromptu speech with the aid of a cellular phone, the dictionary -also known as a geeks bible- and the generous option of phoning a friend-who could either be a fellow student or a teacher from among the audience.

 

The speeches ranged from hilarious to profound. More admirable was the courage it took to stand in front of 800 judgmental girls where every giggle makes you feel superficially self conscious,as though your hair is on fire.

 

As an addition to this years competition the floor was open to six more speakers to give an impromptu speech for 30 seconds. Simple right? No, now picture the flood of girls sitting around you, start whispering your name along with “Please do it.” While their smiles of support were encouraging it was no extinguisher for the deep shade of tomato my face had turned, even worse were the two matrics behind me whispering pressures of the need to win the house cup. While I willed  the ground to swallow me whole, prayer wasn’t in my favour this time. Their demands became more persevering, pretty soon I was going to snap. However you’ll be pleased or disappointed -if you take entertainment in my melancholy which let’s face it is why most of you are here- to know that I took a stance against peer pressure (although if this is my form of peer pressure I really do dwell under a rock) and saved myself from becoming the next school joke and said, “No.”In all honesty my voice was drowned out as cheers erupted from behind me when a volunteer filled the spot that had almost become mine.

 

I had always been under the impression that my words would defend, identify and speak for me. Sitting there, engulfed in embarrassment’s embrace I concluded that words don’t speak unless you do!

 

_Quixotic Novelist

The Big Bun Theory

One of the few things that spread faster than rumors in girls schools are the trends that people unknowingly invent.

While this phenomena did nothing to our dramatically insipid uniforms, this specific trend ascended on every head -fortunately I’m not talking about lice! This creation is fist size, twisted several times, held together in the steel grip of an elastic band. The messy bun also commonly named the budda bun.

It started during my second year of high school, a few sore thumbs experimenting the new form of hair styling. It was only a few fridays ago while sitting in assembly trying to concentrate on the guest speaker fortuitously her figure was blocked by a spherical structure. The infamous bun. To begin with the girl was a human giraffe the structure on her head only added to the annoyance of those behind her. I began to gradually notice these pop ups, in front of words on the board, images from the projector, concealing faces while walking through the corridors.

Curiosity got the better of me; I attempted the prevailing vulpine bun. Naturally my hair cascaded down like a waterfall, although instead of the lush refreshing effect I was left with a mouthful of strawberry scented locks. The odd occasion when I managed to perfect the art of the messy bun I enjoyed a 15 second visual and SNAP the hair band burst causing yet another waterfall to dance down the sides of my face accompanied by a throbbing headache.

Based upon the Big Bun theory I’ve come to a few conclusions: the bigger the bun the thicker the hair. The thicker the hair the messier the bun. The messier the bun the better it looks.

While this epidemic continues to inspire days of disheveled hair, towers of distraction and I fail to understand Sheldon’s jokes on The Big Bang theory and it seems that The Big Bun Theory is yet another concept I’ can’t seem to wrap my head around 😉

_Quixotic Novelist

The power of prayer

You know those days where Murphy’s Law has been dedicated to you, everything is a catastrophe, plus my phone was about half a battery bar full and I needed to sing about 26 Taylor Swift songs to soothe my sorrow. Which was problematic considering I was writing maths tomorrow and hadn’t the faintest clue about angle of inclination -actually that’s one concept I’ve grasped which frightens me because me understanding maths is about as rational as Zuma being single.

 

I got home, had a shower and had just begun exsiccating my hair when the sound of my hair dryer -think of a congested walrus snoring- abruptly silenced and Taylor Swift ceased to screech. Thanks a lot Eskom.

 

Of course the power had to conk just as South Africa settled into Winter. Munching on dehydrated 2minute noodles, I moaned about how I was going fail my maths test- since the listeners of my complaints were my parents I omitted that failure in maths was inevitable for their daughter. My mother sardonically threw in “Pray for the lights to come back.”

 

Driven by desperation, my hair dripped down my back, my socks were mismatched and I was currently missing a momentous episode of Pretty little liars, and there’s something else I’m supposed to be occupied with, something that rhymes with Plath? Ah probably nothing. I closed my eyes and sent an appeal for emancipation from this dreaded dilemma.

 

I’ve been incredulous about the pace at which our prayers are answered. You can imagine the disbelief when the lights turned on as promptly as someone snapping their fingers. One second I was submerged in total darkness the next it was bright as Broadway! My jaw hung open as I half expected someone to pop out saying,”Gotcha!” Surely these type of things happen on TV. Where’s the cameraman and Leon Schuster telling me I’ve been pranked? An electric bolt of recognition flashed through me. Awoke my entire being, because there actually is someone pushing the controls. Someone who holds absolute power. Freak coincidence? I think not. The one with power (ie: the Almighty) over the power (ie: the electricity) is powerful enough to grant such a powerless insignificant (ie: me) her prayer.

 

I am yet to receive the grade on this notorious maths test and for the sake of this post I plead with each one of you to set aside a thought for my plummeting arithmetic scores. Perhaps prayer can save me at this interval too.

 

Persevere and the power of prayer will prevail.

 

_Quixotic Novelist

What better drug than a book?

“Seeing is believing”_said someone without sight

“Seeing is believing”

As is trend among human beings the instant we see something in a quote we automatically assume it a proven fact.

Why do I consider myself “ugly” when I look into the mirror, first thing in the morning, a fatigued girl with bed hair and pillow imprints on her face but when I am about to strut the runway in garments that are too extravagant for me to afford, do I feel beautiful? Am I not an asset to the designer who invented the clothes? Without me their work would just be a mass of fabric wound together pleading for a body to enshroud. The designer is fully aware and proud as a peacock of the master piece they’ve created but they need the limbs of my body, the confidence of my flounce to woo contractors. So I am in fact an ingredient for the success of their career.

Why do I frown at the sleepy eyes and pale cheeks and chapped lips that stare back at me when in a few hours time I’ll make the transition with make up to accentuate my features and when someone offers a compliments I’ll shyly say “Oh, its just Mac or Bobbi Brown.” Nonsense. It is my visage which acts as a canvas to advertise their brands.

Why do you crave to score the winning goal? You wouldn’t have made the team if you weren’t skilled. That alone is an accomplishment.

What makes a report card the informer of our intellect. We learn to gain insight in life and to apply these principles in practical situations. Why then do I have to know the 9 theorems of euclidean geometry to make me a mathematical wiz? (Okay the stab at maths was uncalled for but I am under immense amounts of pressure to do well in the upcoming tests)

Why do you need a piano recital a roar of applause and a certificate to show that you have “musical ability” and “talent”?

Why do you so desperately crave a “follow back” or a “retweet” from a celebrity who is ignorant of your existence when you have friends who have stood by you through rust and rumor who RT all of your tweets?

Why is that I have to combine words and structure sentences for you to know that I am a worthy writer? Surely anyone with the capability of eloquently stringing synonyms together deserves the right to be read?

If you are as abraded by the above prospects as I am then tell me why do we have to see success before we believe in it?

_Quixotic Novelist

Friends foes and fairytales

I’ve already addressed the subject of fairy tales, and  you know in every fairy tale there’s always a villain, right. Well, life isn’t a fairy tale and although we don’t have a bad guy in a black cape I, personally, have the equivalent of two evil step sisters : my friends who take the utmost pleasure in teasing me. *Note there is a third step sister whom I’ve chosen to eliminate for the sole reason that he is in fact of the male specimen but mainly ’cause he insists on calling me ‘Carrot’ thus I will deprive him a spot on this blog post.

See Prince Charming materialized. No like really, he’s got a beating heart and functioning organs and yes he does exist out of the circumference of my head, this is proven as to the left of me sits a tangible token. However he’s the least of my worries… The real issue is my battle with the ineffectual teachings of fairy tales.

Cinderella had it easy, she put on a ton of make up, probably MAC or Bobbi Brown because if my theory is correct her fairy god mother would have had to be a make up artist expert to transform bags to beauty. More lucky is she for her friends consisted of mice, a horse and a really obese cat all of whom were mute to human ears. Now my dilemma: these two specific friends are both fortunate[or unfortunate for me] enough to possess the ability to construct sentences, such confabulation that get under my skin and ignites the fires of rage, so much so that I’ve taken up pretending to be a tree as to avoid them completely. Since I don’t photosynthesize and they’re less asinine than I anticipated, I’ve been spotted at every attempt.

With the arrival of a certain bouquet of pale pink roses they’ve theorized theories that ought not to be thought and as fate would have it my auditory organs were the destination of such balmy predictions.

Alas we’ve gone from stock exchange meetings to gatherings wherein bundle names are created, dates are planned and death threats are issued.

That, dear readers, is why fairy tales are inaccurate. They don’t prepare a girl for the challenges she’ll face in years to come, I have tried and succeeded in shrinking my foot to fit a stiletto two sized smaller than my usual one, I’ve had a bite of a rotten apple complete with millions of microscopic bacteria but nothing could prepare me for the silent treatement I’d have to give to the tumulus torment of two teenage girls who [and I’m going to reget writing this] I absolutely adore, despite the name they’ve now chosen to call me, one that’s worse than my accustomed ‘Carrot’.

_Quixotic Novelist