Saturday 30 November 2013

Birthdays Equals Fun

Although my (lack of) knowledge related to mathematics doesn't extend to the much-admired high achievers and brain-storming geniuses, I don't need to stretch my mind too far when an equation about birthdays comes up - the only possible answer is 'fun', simply judging by the neon bright pink lipstick which I've just applied onto my foundation-coated lips and healthy glow in my cheeks. Play fights, muffled laughter and nicely wrapped presents with an excessive amount of usually rationed cellotape secures my happiness like a (new) cookery book featuring malteser cupcakes and spicy cinnamon snickerdoodles grabs my attention and feeds upon it for a pleasantly sunny afternoon. What more could I ask for?

Today, I hasten to add, is my younger brother's birthday, who is turning an influential thirteen and being welcome to the world in which bubblegum-chewing teens (must I be the outcast by not developing a habit which gets on almost everybody's tighter-than-jeans nerves?) rule the roost and dictate the rules which we rebelliously choose to follow; and who is better to give him the official lowdown than my crazed-hormone self, LikeATeen?

OK, my hormones are not getting the better of my senses today, though I would bet (in my overly vivid imagination) that my laidback mood may be in part to the coconut cake of which I intend to get a larger-than-usual slice later in the evening and the two cookery books I received - one dedicated to mouth-watering treats, the heavenly sight of which guarantee to make me put on a few pounds before the cream cheese topping touches the tip of my tongue, and the other fuelling my passion for Chinese food, which thankfully avoids a cheek-reddening trip to the local Weightwatchers - but I'm genuinely feeling rather great because my heart soars with warmly felt proud at the thought that my baby brother is growing up and turning into a softly spoken (though not when Chelsea either let in a goal or scores one on TV!), kind-hearted young man with a fabulously gelled hair-do to match.

Becoming a teenager and then an adult a few years afterwards is a massive deal which mustn't be taken lightly because a lot of momentous events are likely to occur - for example, taking exams which influence the career path which you may soon take stays with you for the rest of your life - in quite a short space of time, seemingly giving the impression that your care-free childhood is about to run away from your hands and thrust you into a future which is entirely alien to your eyes. Until now, I'd never quite grasped one of the biggest importances of being the eldest child - and before a few months ago, the tallest one (a home truth which I grudgingly admit behind spotlessly white gritted teeth) - is that I can offer my experiences and guidance to my brother, who is getting prepared to follow in my footsteps which, in comparison to his size 10-and-a-half Hulk-like feet, are rather Thumbelina-sized yet still valuable with the advice I'm ready to give to him.

Naturally brilliant at cracking nose-snorting jokes at a speed faster than breaking stubborn nut shells and often displaying a charm more attractive than Prince Charming's darling mannerisms, my brother is the very best one which I could ever have - would I really be an honest sister if I skimmed over the true-to-life facts that I endure tedious days when my brother seems to be the most annoying person to have ever walked upon earth in the world? No, even my brother would have to place the most determined frown or truthful look on his face - usually contorted into a mood-lifting grin which is prepared to turn into a eyebrow-raising smirk within a blink of an eye - leap over the barriers I place in order to fool me and catch me off-guard; nobody can deny that my brother is capable of not only producing bitter lemon drinks of his own (with too much spot-causing sugar) and successfully reciting famous lines from numerous films but getting on my nerves from time to time. At the end of the day, my brother is expressing himself and staying true to his fun-loving and generous personality - I'm hardly in a position to moan dully if my brother has thrust a mini Freddy Frog chocolate bar in my sight, am I?

Anyway, birthdays never fail to light up an atmosphere more brightly than an ear-exploding firework or preppy banners which are the colour of every rainbow ever seen - alongside Christmas and the yearly tradition of cracking a chocolate Lindt bunny via my cocoa-smeared hand at Easter, birthdays are the best events in the social calender and guarantee a day bursting with presents, lavishly decorated cards and moments where you can do whatever you wish, without any eye-popping questions asked. As my birthday is only around two months away (1st February, in fact), I've still got to get through the buzzing excitement surrounding festive Christmas and New Year, so a day dedicated to what I wish to do and live out my lifestyle is around eight or so weeks away - in case you hadn't pinned it together, my brother celebrates his birthday on the last day of a month, whilst mine is on the first, squeaky-clean day of a frost-biting cold month!

With around half the day left to go, I better get back to the enjoyment and watch my brother set up his new Xbox 360, which will eventually result in his playing the amazingly 'educational' game, Minecraft, and eat his preferred meal of pepperoni pizza and sweet Chinese spring rolls. Receiving cards from relatives, ripping open gifts given by your beloved family and gushing over the day ahead of you makes me wish that my birthday could arrive quicker somehow - upon thinking about it, perhaps I ought to enjoy the traditional festivities surrounding Christmas first of all?

Wednesday 27 November 2013

Phones, Phones, Phones!

First of all, I cannot dare to rest on my bed, nestling myself in a pool of cuddly, velvet-soft pillows, if I do not make myself undeniably clear: a mobile phone, preferably one with Wifi and a decent megapixel camera, is a deeply essential part of my hectic, teenage lifestyle and who knows how I would feel without a small gadget held in the palm of my hand every day, access to the exciting world of the internet only a click away.

Oh yes, mobile phones - or smartphones, which have certainly taken over the previous popularity for old-fashioned, yet tougher-than-a-bulletproof-boot phones only a mere decade or so ago - not only make a typically grumpy teenager as happy as one could hope during the tediously hormone-wrecking years, but create a source of comfort and YouTube-themed entertainment when being engrossed by a intriguing vampire novel, the latest genre of choice for blood-sucking (or patience-dwindling!) young adults in case the current craze hasn't swept upon your shores just yet.

Ever since I got my very first mobile almost two-and-a-half years ago - a basic Alcatel model, with a purple cover and a keyboard which could be slid open for text messaging, which is still hidden inside my Narnia-like wardrobe where many other unknown treasures exist - I've become a dedicated user of mobile networking and the thought of giving up my newest model, a quick-as-a-breeze, app-packed Nokia Lumia 620, brings a tear to my eye, though the sudden surge of emotion may be due to the spicy pizza I ate last night. So, Windows 8 systems and mushroom-rich pizza don't mix well together, unless that's your sort of thing. Ahem.

Sending ten-lettered texts to my brother just before bedtime or logging onto Wikipedia when the family laptop is currently in use for football-associated purposes (system-freezing tragedies have a tendency to occur during the weekend whilst Sky Sports News is blaring from the enlivened TV) has weaved its way into my every day life that I don't think twice about fishing out my mobile from its royal purple cover - of course, I like to think of myself as royalty minus the heavy, jewel-encrusted crown - and checking out certain apps during lunchtime.

The latest addition to my ever-increasing (not! Looking for a proper, flash-free meditation app is totally the hardest thing known to mankind, alongside getting a pitch perfect translation on Google) applications is the adorable, aww-inducing My Talking Tom, which features a grey cat whose needs feeding, sleeping, playing and even trips to the bathroom (you can even change the colour and decor of the toilet if the stains really get up your skin!) will leave your constantly frustrated and physically drained, along with your phone's immense lack of battery within the space of a night. It seems that Tom - whose wonderful habits, including relishing the flavour of chicken wings and burping à la moi after a meal - is oh-too-lazy to get his paws out of his purple-coloured covers and switch on the bedside light when he is wide-awake; the relentless messages popping up on my phone are driving me as nutty as my out-of-control addiction to roasted peanuts and cracked pecan shells! Yet the sound of his purr reminds me so much of Jerry, whose used his vibration-like purring techniques as his only form of communication, and so I'll carry on with the game when my temper has been given the opportunity to calm down. In perhaps an hour or so's time.

Anyway, as I was originally saying, mobile phones are not just mere electronic gadgets which merely enable the user with the option of making a call or sending a quick text whilst out-and-about from home: technology offers so much more than the standardized choice of yesteryear where you were limited to only being able to use a landline phone at home or actually write a neatly handwritten letter (a method of communication which I haven't used since I wrote my very last letter to Weightwatchers never-to-be ambassador, Father Christmas, years ago!). We, as a nation, ought to move with the times and embrace the technology for what it is - a form of both entertainment and necessity!

Phones aren't just for internet-savvy youngsters or high-flying workers who actually need to use such a multi-tasking gadget to stay on track with their working life; older people shouldn't be left out from the fun to be enjoyed because it brings them on a par with the majority of the population and keeps them in touch with family and friends in an easier, often cheaper way. I'm not suggesting for a second that original methods of communicating with others, such as speaking face-to-face or sitting down to write a letter (and risk getting an irritating cramp for ages afterwards!), ought to be abolished as though they no longer hold a valued place in the world - surely we can make room to adjust for everybody's needs and remain in touch with one other, whilst respecting various views and keeping up with the ever-changing times?

Despite rarely making a credit-reducing call on my smartphone as there is basically hardly an occasion where it is of a high necessity, I use it for all of the purposes it offers: send short, quick lines of communications in a budget-friendly text; log onto the internet whenever I fancy; play a game or two to keep myself amused; and even explore the basic functions which I barely give a thought about, like the pre-installed calculator, memory-realizing calender or alarm, the very worst method of awakening one from a peaceful, energizing slumber! What amazes me is how simple it is to discover so many wonderful things which once never existed in previous eras - it makes me think about the old ways of living and the manner in which people led their lives, unaware of the fabulously bright and electronic-mad future ahead of them. The same also applies to laptops, portable mp3 players and tablets, which only entered the gadget industry since Apple launched the very first of its kind in 2010 - without all of these wonderful items which have opened up a completely amazing world to our consistently-expanding own, where would we be now? I won't even dare think about my possibly bad attitude as a dramatically behaving teenager; the mood swings can firmly remain in my imagination!

So, let's make it as simple as finger-licking apple pie: touchscreen smartphone = happy teenager. With such a great gift to be had wherever we go or choose to do, the possibilities are endless! I'm sincerely looking forward to the new inventions which will be undoubtedly popping up in jam-packed stores over the next decade; will I be part of those technology-addicted crowds? Only if a phone - one of my strongly beloved possessions - is included!

Monday 25 November 2013

Kitten Blues

Lost, with an emotional face stained with bitterly salty tears, I cannot stand the thought of waiting another moment for my two new friends - mischievous Bart and cool-as-a-cucumber Benny - to become a part of my life, re-creating the one which I formerly led with my furry brothers, Tom and Jerry, in tow by my side.

Waiting for a dream to come true - one which happens to many families every single day - has pushed me to the edge as my frustration comes to a head where I can no longer ignore the emptiness filling the broken hole in my heart, which has not yet beat with such happiness since the days when Tom and Jerry would lie by my cosily-layered feet on my bed, taking a relaxing morning snooze while I was transported to a world startlingly obscure to my own in a pulse-racing, thrilling book. Dealing with grief on two separate, soul-destroying occasions within the space of six months has issued relentless threats of self-destruction because I'm struggling to win the battle against my demons - the ones which I created myself and have yet to reach a triumphant victory.

OK, I know that I made a promise (inside the centre of my mind, anyway) to avoid placing a particular emphasis on this rather sensitive subject, but in what way could I suppress my emotions and carry on without giving such much as a single thought to the two Kits, who have yet to experience life inside a heated, loving home and enjoy the gifts (and numerous catnip toys) which their soon-to-be-cherished life would bring? From my attention to old-fashioned laws to gothic purple nail varnish - unfortunately a colour I love, though is on the verge of chipping away two days after being painted twice - to even my riotous sleeping pattern, kittens are seeping into almost every aspect of my life and taking over the things which bring me the utmost pleasure during my monstrous hormone-fuelled moments; I feel ever so helpless because there is no magical potion which can be drunk and make my spot-provoking problems disappear into the freezing November air, lifting an unbearable weight from my tediously heaving shoulders and relieving myself from the agony which has plagued me since death and grief turned up into my previously peaceful life.

No matter how hard you wish against it and spend nights standing in front of a window, crossing your hands into a prayer, death is inevitable; sorry to be a party pooper and spoil the happy mood in which you may currently be, but dying is one of the few things which makes everybody, whether human or of a different species, completely equal. I quickly realized that it was pointless wishing for a miracle to occur shortly before Tom passed away in March because the nature of his illness was so gravely serious that no so-called 'life-saving' medicine could have offered an extension of his life without risking any consequences; and, despite it being shockingly quick and an enormous shock to my system, the same thing applied to Jerry as well, so I guess that I learnt such a horrible, unwanted lesson the hard way. It's life and, however heartbreaking it is to endure such turmoil and pain over a highly significant loss, nobody can stop. The world gets up onto its knees and moves on, although it may seem a tad quieter and lonelier without spending time or talking with your friend everyday.

Has anyone ever wanted to storm outside and shout to the sky above them, proclaiming their dilemmas and revealing their desperation for an answer which offer the guidance they deserve? Perhaps typing away here is my subtle version - it's plenty more than I would usually dream of declaring to the world - yet a kettle heaving with boiling hot water is beginning to sway my views and taint my thoughts with anger because I can no longer afford to keep my hopes warm and alive and eagerly anticipate the beginning of a new week, my fingers tightly crossed that the kittens will finally be able to come home. But what if that home isn't ours?

Honestly, I don't want to make myself appear cold-hearted and cruel, yet my instincts are whispering in my mind that if the kittens are held back for another few weeks, I may be forced to look elsewhere. Christmas - my favourite time of the year - is only a month away and I don't wish to ruin it by sobbing my heart out in a blackened corner whilst trying to fall asleep at three in the morning; haven't I been punished enough by saying goodbye to the best and most affectionate cats that the world could ask for? Faith is one virtue which my fingers are grappling to get a grip on because it has slipped from my reach before and patience is sure to not make a needed appearance right at this moment because I'm giving free rein to my wilder feelings to rule the roost and take over me - call it a weakness frenzy, yet I'm past the point of caring. I'm tired of always having an unresponsive answer waiting to fall from the tip of my tongue all the time; I've had enough of grieving and being met with doors slamming into my face whenever my hopes are raised just a bit; and I don't want to be faced with another meltdown of agony when I'm having a hard time getting back onto my own feet. From gaining work experience to studying for a harder-than-it-seems subject, life just appears to be one huge battle which I'm constantly drawn to. Will the battle ever be won?

The kittens would bring so much happiness into my life - the euphoric emotions which were sadly absent for a while after both Tom and Jerry died - that my heart flutters whenever I think about it; although I've only had a lucky encounter with the pair on one occasion, I'm already in love with them, as recently displayed by the amount of catnip-scented toys I bought only a mere week ago. Their names - taken from famous characters in timeless cartoons - mean a lot to myself and my family, who have remained besotted with the only proper picture we took our phones. But what is a girl to do? I have to face up to the fact that these two - the pair whom my heart loves and wishes to see - may not sleep in the same house as myself nor join our family, the thought of which makes me want to howl with horror. For ages, nothing has been certain or crystal clear, which has led me to the conclusion: when will stability play a role in my world again?

Look, I'm not sure about what is likely happen, but I seriously don't know what to believe. Will Bart and Benny ever be taken home and place a smile to rival those of a Hollywood superstar on my lips? Or will I have no choice than to search elsewhere for the kittens I yearn to hold and cuddle in my arms? Unfortunately, I will only have to follow the path on which I'm currently walking - only time will tell.

Sunday 24 November 2013

Make-Up and Skin Blues

Wouldn't I be breaking all female-created rules if I didn't take the slightest interest in my appearance, skin and make-up, the reflection of which I see in the overly dusty mirror every single day? I just wouldn't be me - the girl whose impressive talents including easily managing to read an entire page of basic French and moaning to a pensioner's level has spent more hours than I would dare to imagine in front of a mirror, preferably one sprinkled with a little bit of dust to slightly disguise the current breakout on my chin - if beauty didn't hold a valued place on my list of Top Priorities, alongside the cosmetics I choose to place on my face and body, and obviously the dreaded oiler-than-a-takeaway skin, which constantly breaks all previous boundaries by making my forehead look shiner than a polished table within a few hours.

Yeah, it's fairly simple to admit that subjects related to deep fat-fryer complexions, goth-style purple lipstick and skin resembling a dotted Stella McCartney dress à la 2011 don't go down awfully well in my books, which is currently dedicated to an abduction-themed teenage thriller. Oh well.

However, my mood cannot be too harsh or unfair towards you, my beloved and highly cherished reader, so I will not ruin the chillaxed atmosphere which has entered your Caribbean-warm house on a cloudy Sunday morning by complaining about my skincare problems - who in their right mind would fancy reading about spots with a yellow head on the verge of popping during breakfast? Well, I guess that I ought to make a sincere (ha!) apology for that ghastly description, but you must recognize my feelings one way or another, right? Now I can smile happily that I'm not the only person whose penchant for all things sweet and darkly chocolate-flavoured is a possible hazard for the dreaded breakouts on my otherwise model-perfect face. 

So today, as I've been left utterly inspired by getting my nails painted a deliciously evening dark, near-black-yet-purple shade yesterday afternoon, I'll be placing my attention on the exciting subject which is make-up - yay! My hands are clapping with heartfelt delight (clearly when I'm not typing away on the keyboard) because cosmetics - from 80s punk neon pink lipstick to black cat-dark eyeliner, everything except for liquid foundation and chemical-riddled items is covered - are one of the things which assume a constant role in my everyday life, which counts even if I've only got enough time to slick on some lipstick or pout-ready gloss one those typical should-I-bother? days that everybody goes through from time to time. 

Without the appreciated existence of life-saving make-up, nothing would offer me as much refuge and comfort when I cannot bear the idea of going outside without an armour - in the less bulky form of a mineral powder or cherry-flavoured balm stick - protecting what I wish to hide, alongside my self-esteem which is prone to falling below an average level during those strongly detested occasions when red bumps and inescapable marks make a sharp contrast against my naturally lily-pale skin tone. Plus, pleasure and fun is evitable when a bag containing bright eye shadow and various coloured lip glosses is lying around - that calls for playtime without the unavoidable mess which overly curious toddlers make, adventurous teenage style!

Like many other girls, the very first form of make-up that I was allowed to try was lip gloss, which gave my lips a luminous shine and didn't make me stand out as noticeably as I recently have whilst experimenting with out-of-my-depth eye shadows, so I was naturally very excited and interested about trying something completely new and slightly alien to my once bare-faced self. 

As my mum had been using their products for several years, I followed in her footsteps by purchasing a set of birthday-themed lip glosses from the popular brand, Bare Minerals, whose life-long mantra has been to remain as natural as possible - most of the ingredients used in their products, including their world-famous 100% irritant-free foundation, are suitable for the most sensitive type of skin whilst purposely avoiding anything dangerously unnatural - by sourcing minerals and creating a half-make-up, half-skincare product for your face, while you look utterly fabulous and feel the amazing feel-good effects of the skin-friendly stuff! 

I quickly found my footing by layering the four different shades - ranging from a deep magenta pink to a tanned brown to a Strawberry Cake-like baby pink to a glimmery nude shade, which was my favourite and most-used colour of all - and creating a unique look of my own, which created a sense of enjoyment and satisfaction - instead of appearing as a weird and crazy thing, make-up become a source of fun for myself, which is why I always get so much pleasure out of using it everyday because the memories of using it for the first time are ever strong and as clear as they were several years ago. 

Within a few months, a clear mascara and several natural lipsticks were added my once-small cosmetics bag, which gradually expanded to a case in which I still store the majority of my glosses and lipsticks, yet there is only so much it can safely hold! At first, I didn't particularly like the texture of the lipsticks because they seemed to dry out my buxom-plump lips, but within a while I moved onto Rimmel London's fantastic range of lipsticks which offered what I wanted in a nicely shaped, crown-logoed bottle: vividly eye-catching colour, long-lasting results and a pocket money-friendly price!

However, no one-too-many layers of nude pink lipstick or seemingly wet clear mascara could distract me from reaching a deepened low with regard to my reddening complexion, which had an unfortunate tendency to flare up like an uncontained flame every so often; another problem which hard-working and kind-hearted teenagers don't deserve to deal with alongside other dilemmas, right? Bumps more noticeable than worsening pot holes in can-littered roads popping up across the tedious T-zone - in other words, the forehead, nose and chin, the now-current source of spot-flecked trouble - were beginning to seep into my thoughts and place me in an inescapable misery because no miracles would occur or so-called 'magical' products cleared the disaster area; what could I do? The unwanted response, a spirit-crushing nothing, became the only answer that I could get because of my age and skin type, so I had to face up to the damning fact that a few more years of complexion hell were ahead of a me - a life which I was reluctant to accept.

Yet, despite the longed-for miracle not suddenly clearing my face over the space of a star-lit night, a stark rise in happiness and slight relief was only more than a brush and buffing technique away - via Bare Minerals foundation! As I mentioned earlier, the foundation is unlike the typical one that many people would use, which would come in the form of a tan-shaded liquid, but looks like a powder and is sourced with the very best ingredients which are guaranteed to revitalize your complexion - as it did mine! Soon, I learnt how to tap a little bit of the powder and swirl it around the lid then buff on my face, lightly dusting my complexion and decreasing the startling noticeability of my spots within seconds - hurrah! Also, I needn't worry about the foundation reacting against my skin because the minerals can only help it get better, so I can look and feel good whenever I put in on every few days; needless to say, it is one thing which I could not dare to live without!

A week or two ago, I invested in a concealer from the mineral-loving brand and have since noticed a remarkable result whenever I place a light covering of the miraculous item onto my face, which can actually look pretty great when spots or reddenned patches aren't haunting it like a desolate house in a spine-tingling horror novel! And I've also since learnt some valuable lessons in the eye shadows which suit my blue-coloured eyes best; a starved vampire red shade does not attract many to the glorious beauty of my eyes, by the way! 

At first, I was afraid to walk onto what seemed like the scarier, more-bizarre-than-Justin-Bieber's-hair way of cosmetic-featuring life; who could have guessed what would be in store for me? Sure, a few more longer-than-my-hair years of spot-riddled hell are probably going to get on my nerves and be the reason for my exaggerated sighs and consistent complaining, but make-up - from mood-lifting rose lipstick to eye-enhancing eye-liner to complexion-stabilizing foundation - can only play the role of a friend to me, who can definitely give me a fantastic look whenever my heart yearns for it. 

So, what does the nail varnish-wearing, lipstick-using teenager say? Hurray!

Friday 22 November 2013

My Not-so-Secret Wishlist!

Let's turn away from what many would classify as a typical way of thinking - come on, broadening your mind and unleashing your whiplike opinions and discovering the root of your very soul has never had such a brilliant, irresistible opportunity such as now! In a society respecting all of one's rights and entitled freedoms, I've never felt more compelled to reveal the imaginary wishlist - one which will, within a few sentences, no longer remain as a carefully concealed secret, brushed with a layer of near-ivory foundation - which sets my heart beating like wildfire and is the bustling centre of all which is part of my Revenge-watching self. Ready to leap into the car and venture onto a wild ride? Read on... 

1. Buy a Dior or Chanel handbag. Ah, it's probably the present which most parents would dream of purchasing for their beloved Prada-clad daughter, isn't it? Carrying a Chanel - or indeed, very on-trend Dior, whose recent winter collection made my heart flutter wildly to the verge of fainting with breathtaking shock - bag on your shoulder signifies success, elegance and a whopping load of money - doesn't it seem remotely strange how the bag in which you bring a leopard print-covered Nokia smartphone, a stash of TicTacs and one too many mirrors to frown at your spotlight-seeking blemishes create such a valuable image about your social class and, sometimes, personality? 

OK, my pocket money does not quite stretch to the budget necessary to walk into the accessories department in Harrods and demand the latest, eye-watering expensive handbag donned by countless A-list celebrities, so I guess that my little fantasy - one which was brought to life by my mum's contagious passion for bags, which I've fortunately inherited alongside a naturally stunning hair colour - will be forced to stay on hold for the time being. Besides, how could I bring myself to spend such a ridiculously amount of money - fine, I throw my hands into the air and grudgingly admit that designer bags, however beautiful they look and the emotions stirred inside one's ricciarelli-filled stomach, are overpriced, whilst I grit my teeth spitefully - on one single item when I would be able to afford perhaps a whole new wardrobe and many other things? This, to my inner fashionista's disappointment, will be placed inside a locked metal box until my intended, show-stopping career in journalism earns me enough to splash out on an iMac, let alone a cute, timelessly designed Dior chain bag whose voice grows nearer as I attempt to run away from its golden buttons... 

2. Speak like a French couramment! Yes, yes, learning to speak a second language like a native has to be a more inspirational dream than spending a day inside a luxury department store, overwhelmed by the sight of handbags which are overly too beautiful to be touched, let alone used? It seems that I think so as well, which certainly means that my mind hasn't lost its gradually-built senses and thrown everything - from esteem-powering intelligence to my supermarket-basic sanity - in the bin, the stench of which makes my eyes water uncontrollably. 

One fact which must be strongly pointed out is that j'adore the French language in the heart-fluttering style of a gaelic, subtle romance, so absorbing all of the words, verbs, adverbs and everything else - which, when first explained, makes the arduous task of climbing a snow-layered mountain a wished-for birthday present - and developing my knowledge, situated inside a pot like a leafy plant,  makes me thirstier to succeed with my ambition!

Still, I'm undoubtedly going to come across several hurdles which will drag me down onto the muddy field for a moment, until my determination to carry on gives me the strength to get up again - at the moment, idioms have resumed the object of annoyance thanks to their blood-boiling levels of difficulty, yet I've only been recently introduced to the subject associated with the French language; everything new, regardless of whatever it may be, is guaranteed to send me around the bend and forget about assuming the role of a supposed peacemaker! 

Unlike my realistic fantasy above, I reckon that I have a higher chance of achieving success with the French language, despite not being exactly aware of when I may reach a fluent, naturally confident level - intermediate/slightly advanced is probably the most accurate description for my skills in their current state, so I've yet to cover several daunting subjects before the finishing line comes within sight. It's a challenge - and eventual dream come true - which I intend to fulfill...

3.  Attend a proper, fully-kitted music concert.  In some people's eyes, stealing a bag of heavenly-flavoured Fruit Pastilles would be deemed a form of destruction in relation to the law and would therefore be a committed crime. 

However, iPod-listening, We Found Love-singing teenagers use their minds in quite a different way: daring to not listen to a single song or resisting the urge to dance with thrusting moves when a track hits the airwaves can derive such horrified gasps from zebra-patterned legging-donning teenagers that denying oneself of an undying passion for music is criminal. Hence the reason why I sometimes find myself in a fantasy where I'm standing amongst a rowdy crowd, dressed up to the nines in deadly gothic eyeliner and a ready-to-party dress, and singing along to my favourite tracks by chart-topping artists, none other than Lady Gaga and Lana Del Rey. Ooh, I've lost fingers (and toes!) of the amount of times I've caught myself wishing to attend a Lana Del Rey concert where the lyrics of heated Summertime Sadness and catchy National Anthem would rule the arena, whilst the idea of watching Lady Gaga in action and hearing her stronger-than-believable echo through the night makes me squeal with delight - are these dreams really too unrealistic or should I follow my dreams, trailing behind the arena-load legion of loving fans? 

If an opportunity such as this ever happened to arise and I had to make a cut-throat decision about which artist I would die in baby pink Aristocats pyjamas to see live in concert, my lips would form Lana Del Rey's name within an instant - not only do her songs tell stories reminiscent of David Lynch's legendary, intriguing Twin Peaks (an alleged influence of hers), listening to Lana Del Rey helped me focus on something excitingly different and original whilst I went through the heart-breaking ordeal of losing my cat, Tom, earlier this year. Plus, I'm sure that Tom wouldn't have meowed an irritated 'no' at the opportunity of singing on stage with a wonderful singer who wears the very best red lipstick in the whole of show business. Only time will tell on this one, I think. 

And finally... 

4. Become a journalist. Some girls aspire to pursue a career adorned with presents consisting of Tiffany's diamonds, famously promoted relationships with A-listers and lead a life constantly filmed on camera, forgetting the troubles and perils surrounding normality, the capital of Planet Earth. 

Hmm, must I be the odd one out here or what? Sure, I may have believed just a tiny bit that my so-called 'singing' voice - the one which could be heard miles away whilst I was alone inside a room, busting a move which would make my Casper-pale cheeks turn the colour of a can of tomatoes - could rival those battling for their lives and overly sensitive emotions on televised contests, yet I quickly moved on from that temporary stage as a seven year old to fulfill more meaningful - and indeed less ridiculous - ambitions, such as working hard to become a journalist. You see, writing here on my blog every so often isn't just a means of wasting some free time - every word I write and every adjective I use to describe either my feelings or another subject takes me further towards a dream which may one day become a reality. 

As soon as I was able to read and write, the majority of my free time has been dedicated to storing my thoughts and telling about my adventures in a diary, whilst being drawn into an alluring book has broadened and ripened my passion for reading and everything associated with literature - unsurprisingly, English has always been my favourite subject in lessons! 

So, entering the journalism industry doesn't seem too hard a deal for myself because I easily made my mind up several years ago to work my hardest and hopefully achieve the life which I wish to lead in the future! 

And do I think that it is realistically possible that, in ten years' time, I could be writing for a newspaper and breaking all of my previously reserved boundaries in order to develop my skills beyond a level I never knew existed? Hope is all that I can rely on at the moment, but I cannot deny a smile - complete with lipstick-stained teeth and berry-stained lips - lightning my features whenever the handsome thought crosses my mind. 


Four wishes: ones which I'm desperate to come true. OK, I wouldn't die of shame if I was to forego a childish fantasy of carrying a Dior bag on my shoulder for the end of time, nor is a Lana Del Rey concert necessary to secure my happiness - journalism and fluency in French are, I'm proud to claim, are my two largest wishes which I would love to see granted by a magical fairy one day. So, if I'm still writing here in around a decades' time, would you like to find out whether any of my fantasies broke out of a dream-like bubble and turned into a memory? Let me know...


Wednesday 20 November 2013

Restless Exhaustion - Teenage Style

When the clock is on the verge of striking ten o'clock as the remarkably bright moon illuminates the sky and families of pure white stars dazzle like sparkling glasses of luxuriously expensive champagne cluster together to offer a guidance of trustworthy light in the midst of unforeseeable darkness, I hop into the warm comfort of my own bed, my eyes ready to close gently and transport my exhausted, hard-working self into unconsciousness until the following morning awakens me from my usual eight hour trance and marks the start of a new day dawning upon myself.

Yes, sleep ought to be all about wearing leopard print pyjamas and snuggling up like a sleepy-eyed kitten on the sofa (in one's dreams, anyway) - when I feel like I've discovered my chunk of restful, soothing peace, hardly a moment passes until I hastily swallow it as I wish for nothing more than to hold onto the euphoria it brings and the much coveted rest it offers my otherwise ready-to-pass-out body.

Yet once a pattern of poor, irritating nights begins, the newly unwanted habit quickly becomes a nuisance which is a nail-biting struggle to fight - think of restlessness as a fatiguing tug of war, albeit you are probably wearing the Spongebob Squarepants pyjamas that you would die of red-faced embarrassment of being found wearing or have completely rinsed your spottier-than-a-Dalmatian face free of concealing make-up which present a sort of armour from your natural, though slightly disliked and unappreciated appearance. Hopefully, I'm praying to the supreme lack of stars hiding behind the metal grey clouds this morning that I'll rediscover my inner, awaiting-to-be-unleashed pineapple-sized chunk of peace, though my non-existent patience is starting to reach a boiling point where I can no longer stand to be the receiver of irritation or endless agony.

In case you happily skimmed over the post I uploaded here yesterday, I literally poured my heart - like the glass of sweet, revitalizing juice my lips later tasted, gaining an ambrosial flavour of tropical fruits - out by unveiling the mask which I had placed so tightly across my face, eventually giving in to my secret desires and letting it slip to the Cheerio-littered carpet, because of my powerful yearning of bringing my two new kittens home seems to have taken a day and an age - waiting, it appears, is no longer an option that I wish to take as it has offered nothing yet more tiresome fights against myself, resulting in doubts about stability and the way which I truly feel, deep down. Originally, my mind was placed under the alluring impression that I felt a million times better after getting my feelings down into a form - so be it whether it was a piece of paper or, as I demonstrated, on my blog, where I seem to have a tendency to reveal so many truthfully honest things about myself - which my eyes could see and re-read, absorbing the manner in which I described the sensations racing around my body, incomprehensible of emotions racking my hormone levels above the roof, and I genuinely began to perk up and smile a bit more, though I'm not in a position to deny the swayful powers that a good-looking lipstick can do to lift one's mood from remaining stuck in the dumps.

Obviously, I unfortunately proved myself wrong when I slipped into bed last night and was unable to fall into a dreamy, hours-long slumber for a ridiculous amount of time; being gripped by every single heart-pounding word in a young adult fictional thriller barely provoked a yawn to slip out of my mouth, failing to reduce the sudden outburst of awakening vivacity preventing myself from gaining the desperately needed sleep my body urged to receive; despite lying underneath the warming covers, nothing would give me any guidance as to how to make a safe journey to the Land of Restoring Slumber. And what hurt the most? Unlike a few months ago where my cat, Jerry, would wander around the passage way and leap onto everybody else's beds except my own (staying true to the Drama Queen whom I naturally am, I would've kicked up a massive fuss if anybody or a furry pal threatened to disturb me in bed when I least wanted it), there wasn't anything apart from a book, placed-away laptop and flame-haired tiger toy with a particular menacing glare - even little plush toys had to creep me out in the middle of the pitch-black night - to distract me from my thoughts, which kept focusing on Bart and Benny and imagining the undoubted successful night of rest that they, the constantly sleepy kittens, would get.

Although I haven't taken much time to think about it or place a particular emphasis on the subject, the only occasion when my body is free of thoughts regarding white-pawed and half-smirking kittens (according to the slightly blurred picture I took of the Kits six weeks ago today) is at nighttime, the sole safe haven of peace and tranquillity available to myself whilst I increasingly grow nail-bitingly agitated - come on, the Kits must be ready by now, surely? Judging by the amount that I wrote about the troublesome pair - or Bart, to be more precise, if I stand correct by his description of 'terrorizing' the other kittens, pitifully scared stiff in a corner - yesterday afternoon, a lot of anguish has been bottled into a can of caffeine-free Diet Coke as of late, particularly as disappointment has flooded my heart and destroyed my secretly-rising hopes on a few, yet plentiful enough occasions - what more can I be expected to take? Don't misjudge me and lazily make the assumption that I'm thinking of no one else except my oh-so-poor self, but if the Kits are starting to seep into my thoughts during my time of rest - the only kind which I'm guaranteed to receive on a daily, continuous basic, and to which I'm equally entitled like everybody else living on the planet - can my feelings, which has been thrusted up the wall for a while, be taken into consideration and understood?

Sleep, sleep, SLEEP. I must admit, those rather domineering capitals are specially reserved for once-in-a-while occasions such as these when I can sense my lifeless, dull-as-plain-bread eyes drooping towards the floor or the vibrant pink Hello Kitty pillow lying on my neatly made bed and my heart doesn't beat excitedly and with so much passion at thought of studying or even writing here, which I feel half-inclined to do. My head is in such a mess right now that I'll be counting down the hours until bedtime arrives and I'll be obliged to follow my body's instructions to rest - the desired dream which has not yet been included on my imaginary wishlist on Amazon, though I have no doubts that the Nina Ricci perfume will regain the top, strongly coveted title within no period of time.

When I dream - or rather, if I can remember these fantasies which are resurrected inside my sleepy mind - nothing can touch me or bring me back to Earth, unless a brother with a piquant breath smelling of milk shrugs me awake or a sudden ray of sunshine lands upon my bedhead mane of Thornton chocolate-shaded hair on a strangely luminous winter morning. Sometimes, during moments such as this unfortunate one, I fantasize about leading a life as a fish-eating, catnip-maddening cat, whose handsome fur coat will attract hushed 'awws' from loving owners, otherwise known as my cat-adoring parents - at least I would gain some sleep and be left alone from my hair-raisingly annoying, though evenly kind brother for a few heavenly hours during Chelsea's make-or-break match.

At long last, this day - a short, yet equally memorable blip - will come to an end and the curtains will be closed until a new crisp morning dawns, hopefully without a thicker-than-whipped-cream layer of snow covering the road and frosty gardens. Teenagers are supposed to love spending as much time dozing in bed as using the justly attractive internet, right? I count myself amongst them, too, though I hope that my temporary exclusion will not detract me from its ever-increasing list!

Tuesday 19 November 2013

Wintertime Sadness - or a case of the teenage blues?

Above catching a one-second clip of a certain heartthrob performing the much-beloved art of 'singing' during one of the many unappreciated adverts shown on YouTube and eating an almond too many (such an agonizing horror because it seldom happens), dealing with the traumatic teenage blues every now and again is a task that I would far prefer not to undertake because it, alongside making me lose an insatiable appetite for devilishly frosted chocolate cake, drags me to a hole so deep in the ground that I struggle to release myself from the agony it brings upon myself - who ever said that living life as a teenager in this modern day and age was an easy-going walk in the crisp packet-littered park? 

Some people either choose or fail to comprehend the countless struggles that us seemingly 'moaning' and 'trouble-making' teenagers are faced with in only-too-difficult daily life because they only believe that the problems which fully-fledged, Armani suit-clad working adults have to deal with are of a higher, more prioritized importance - although making ends meet to pay the bills and run a stable family life cannot be ignored or pushed to one side like the urgent matter doesn't hold any significance on our struggling-to-cope society, teenagers and young adults ought to not be denied the opportunity to allow their voices - and future ones of our countries as this generation will eventually take over the jobs and create a legacy of their own - to be heard, whether sadness is suddenly engulfing them or problems are affecting the way they feel. Age should not determine whether somebody's troubling dilemmas ought to be listened to; that stigma, for both the young, in-between and elderly, deserves to be banished within an instant because it offers no help or guidance for the ever-changing, ground-breaking world in which we live today. That is the first point that I intend to make as it allows me to breathe just a little less tightly and sigh without as much stress flooding my heart, which feels as fragile as valued piece of breakable china - why should I be given the impression of portraying my usual light-hearted, caring nature in a less-appreciated manner because of my supposedly young age? 

I guess that many other teenagers - and numerous adults - can experience these feelings far more strongly than myself, who, quite honestly, is undergoing some hard-hitting pity as my continuous disappointment about not yet bringing my new kittens, boisterous Bart and laid-back Benny, home, almost six weeks after I first encountered the heart-warmingly adorable and sleepy-eyed pair. 

Several things which have happened this year - such as losing my fluffy-furred friend, Tom, in March then saying goodbye to his brother, Jerry, six months later - have turned my old content world upside down, most of the time without a single warning as to the disastrous events destined to occur, and my tear-stricken grief over waving a heart-breaking farewell to both my furry brothers in the space of less than a year has gradually built to a point where I can no longer take another setback - such as being forced to wait another week for the kittens to be ready, as I was told several weeks ago, though this statement has since surpassed the highest cliched level - because my pounding head is prepared to explode, both messily and dangerously. 

Being a hormonal, out-of-control teen seems tough, doesn't it? Nobody could get that answer incorrect; at one point or another, you will be either placed into the middle of a gorier-than-a-zombie's-bite mess or create one, often unintentionally, so hardly anybody is immune to getting their bite-sized chunk of temporary misery or second-long moments of wishing to be swallowed by the awfully pot-holled ground, where all kind of nasties lurk beneath the bumpier-than-a-rocky-road surface. OK, having a jumbo-sized moan about my problems may appear rather thoughtless in your eyes - admit it, everybody, including yourself, have issues yet to dispute and sort out - but at the moment in time, I wish to unleash the obstacles preventing me from cuddling my new kittens, whom I yearn to be able to officially call my own. 

Last weekend, my hopes were lifted a little bit when I ordered some catnip toys - my idea of a pre-Christmas gift for the two Kits due to their tiny teeth being unable to consume any festive treats, albeit I have wondered whether their so-called 'baby' teeth are sharper than Dracula's blood-stained fangs - on the internet because I couldn't help but gush over how much they would enjoy getting a sense of excitement from the catnip-scented toys, the idea of which made me laugh lightly and continue to wait patiently until the following week. 

Well, the week has finally arrived - and yet no response about whether they are ready, at eleven weeks old, to be given to their new loving owners, who have already purchased half of the warehouse in Pets at Home and fitted gates intended for toddlers in the kitchen. I'm desperate to pour my heart and soul to two new furry friends who will fall asleep in my wrapped-up arms and reward me with the love that adoring pets give to their owners and guardians - no amount of Desperate Housewives fever cannot take my mind off the Kits, which, judging my previous hard-to-handle addiction to the surprisingly alluring programme, just goes to show how much I would do to hear the sound of half-muted squeaks and contented purrs liven up the house to its former glory, washing away the sadness left by the loss of Jerry. 

I'm impatient. No other adjective on the Thesaurus.com website - an absolute, paradise-like godsend for aspiring writers and too-lazy-to-check teenage bloggers like myself - can powerfully describe my character-testing impatience, which is capable of pushing others to the teetering, heart-racing edge; yet, if you had been placed in my situation, could you be blind to seeing the problem faced before me? Waiting with a placid half-smile curved on my lips has never been granted any permission to present itself in my easily-annoyed nature; that's the sole reason for which my brother takes advantage of my irritability on almost a daily basis, provoking a high-pitched yell to strain my lungs and awaken anybody from a peaceful slumber around the neighbourhood. In other words, I'm unable to help the way that I react to certain things, but I've hit a point which threatens to break all barriers into the centre of my mind, where I am hopeless to hold onto the last seed of self-control. 

Unfortunately, there are no other option flashing its offer to me on a Google web search: I must pick my scarf-wrapped self off the dampened ground and carry on in sake of Tom and Jerry, whose art of vibrating purring kept me going when my hormones were bringing me down to an all time, spot-saddening low. Bart and Benny need me to stay loyal and mentally stable - what good would the sight of a half-mad, half-crying teenage do for themselves, who honestly deserve a happy environment? 

Deep down, nothing else explains my Wintertime Sadness (a play on the title of my favourite Lana Del Rey, Summertime Sadness) better than my yearning to see Bart and Benny six weeks on from my first visit; crazy hormones aside, I suppose that I feel alright, though writing here on a blog helps me to present the facts in a straightforward manner and come to accepting the situation before me. 

Until now, I probably haven't given a proper reason for why I wished to set up a blog, except to gain experience in relation to English lessons and have something other than an hour dedicated to The Sims 2 - on a hazy Sunday morning, but this post offers the official explanation and low-down on my reasons. 

Whenever I feel as though the teenage blues are on the verge of issuing a threat to sneak upon myself, logging onto my laptop and releasing my hidden energies bring me back to normality - the place where my heart is destined to belong. Writing about my feelings offers more guidance than spitting feathers about sticky dilemmas and reaching a logical solution which would help to diminish my nail-biting (honestly, I don't do that anymore!) problems. Just as I reach the end of this post, my heart soars a little higher into the bright November sky; it's a million miles better than the way I felt, saddened and lifeless, at the beginning almost an hour ago. 

I detest the blues and wish for nothing more than being granted the Charmed-inspired power (telekinesis has always emerged as my favourite of all) to banish all sadness from good-natured, deserving people across the world - we are worthy of higher ranks, better treatment and eternal, pure-as-nature happiness. The battle, I realize, will only be won once Bart and Benny arrive home, creating a sense of elation and relieved emotion from not only myself, but everybody else, too - let unwanted bouts of sadness disappear from the face of earth!

Sunday 17 November 2013

Birthday Fever - is it as contagious as it seems?

Alongside lying on a warm, cream leather sofa during the middle of a bitterly cold January, my eyes glued to the television as I take myself on a breathtaking journey to the Hamptons, featured in juicy-as-an-apple, Desperate Housewives-addictive series Revenge, birthdays and myself - Miss Perfect, Utterly Flawless LikeATeen - are like two peas in bean-shaped pod: we just blend nicely together, rather like the Victorian Christmas cake I made yesterday morning, thanks to the marvellous help of the family's most cherished member (obviously after me, of course!), the trustworthy Kitchenaid.

Undoubtedly, I adore the occasion surrounding birthdays a million and one times more - I use this example to prove my over-exaggerated point, albeit it probably unnecessary and simply takes up more writing space - when the beginning of February rolls around and I'm immersed in a happy-looking pile of neatly wrapped presents, their teddy bear-patterned paper brought to life by screaming at me to rip them open and discover the often-known gifts hidden inside. Oh yeah, devil food's cake and a traditional Chinese stir-fry are not to go amiss, either - certain habits, to my relief, never die a horrible, gut-wrenching death and will hopefully remain until I'm around eighty years old, although I would far rather not contemplate on that idea for many jam-packed years yet.

However, as I've yet to view countless more Christmas adverts and set up the treasured, highly decorated tree - the one which has been part of my family for many years and is closely near to my silver glittered heart - before the two new Kits on the Block arrive home (it turns out that they were around two weeks younger than I initially believed; my fingers have been crossed painfully tight for a while that they will be rolling on the carpet and attempting to assassinate their mouse-shaped toy by this time next week), the wait until my birthday can finally be celebrated à la Prom Queen-style will be tediously long, so I ought to focus my attention on the up-coming gaiety in my baby pink Paris-themed diary: my Chelsea-supporting, Puma-wearing younger brother's 13th birthday.

With only less than two weeks to go until the massively celebrated occasion turns up on the damp-as-my-washed-hair doorstep, my brother's excitement surrounding his life-changing, memorable birthday - come on, becoming a fully-fledged teenager must mean more to you than witnessing Manchester United pick up the trophy for winning the Premier League again! - is rapidly increasing, particularly as he cannot wait to get his hands on his new, much coveted-for Xbox 360, which he has been talking about for more hours than you could on a premium plan on any mobile network.

YouTube - in my opinion, otherwise known as the gaming haven for gelled-to-the-heavens teenage boys - has assumed the form of a confidence-raising, knowledge-absorbing outlet for my brother, who, in recent months, has picked up more information regarding video games simply through watching episodes produced by renowned gamers such as Pewdiepie - and, although I sometimes wish for nothing more than to bang my napkin-spotty head into the paper-thin walls, I feel pleased for my brother that he is taking up a hobby which may possibly emerge as a potential career for him in the future, if I picked up his ramblings about getting a job at a gaming firm correctly.

As one gets older, several things - most of which once used to provoke an agonizing headache for the duration of longer-than-naturally-possible hours - become as easy as sticking a hoped-to-be-clean finger into a warm, mouth-watering sweet blackberry pie; OK, the plain majority of brothers living on this planet have no defence about creating a nuisance towards a close family member, such as their long-suffering, stunning-as-a-goddess sister (perhaps the most apt description for myself, selon moi), but they sort of give their relatives a break here and there when growing up assumes the role as a higher priority, so my dried-out throat is thankfully unable to scream about my brother's terrors anymore.

So, I can breath a sigh of relief that my brother is able to grant me around two hours or so of blissful teeth whilst he resumes his semi-permanent seat on the sofa and watches Chelsea's second match within an oh-too-short week ('They are playing too often,' he sometimes complains; according to me, why not? Fernando Torres ought to gain his right for a chunky cheque at the end of the seemingly 'exhausting' week, right?), yet I'm placed in an awkward decision once the countdown to his birthday begins - all because of a bout of blurred confusion.

Parents may not appreciate the use of the often disapproved word, but I cannot think of any other statement to describe it; when a kind-eyed, well-behaved child morphs into a gum-spitting, heavy metal-listening teenager - seriously, this is not actual judgement; over-clichéd and utterly pathetic movies from another era are to blame - the bubble in which Christmas and birthdays used to be included suddenly bursts with an ear-shattering bang, leading to relatives beginning to thoroughly hate the occasion because it is no longer simple to walk into a shop and purchase a gift - such as clothing - which would have guaranteed at least one wear.

Maybe us teenagers are to blame: are we quickly developing into the generation who can neither make up their minds or know, deep down, which makes our hearts sing wildly or encourages us to mumble a half-telligible 'thanks' in response? Who knows from which source I've received my indecisiveness, which usually emerges out of the blue on what is typically the worst time - one minute, I'm fully capable of making up my mind and remaining toughly stubborn on my decision, whilst all of my reasonable senses go to waste the following moment. Therefore, this leads to my bewilderment regarding what to buy my brother for both his birthday and Christmas, which all take place within less than a month - a dream in paradise, if only I wasn't wandering around in a hopeless, disorientated state.

I wish to get something which my brother will genuinely appreciate - the appearance of a faltering, darkly disappointed smile has never been placed in my direction before, so I hardly yearn to catch a saddening glimpse of it now - without breaking the bank, so perhaps a video game would be the most ideal gift suited to his wants. Then another problem prevents me from overcoming the obstacle - out of the thousands being sold on Amazon and advertised in booklets and alien-themed adverts, which game would my brother most covet for? Asking him is nearly impossible because I can barely muster a response out of his in-need-of-Vaseline lips; I'm almost on my own in this hard-to-solve case. If Sherlock Holmes did happen to exist and was wondering through the streets of my littered town, I would have a present for my brother - ideally for Christmas, as well - within no time.

Hmm, the way that things are going at the moment, I'm starting to place doubts on myself about whether I will come up with a spectacular idea before the deadline within thirteen days time - sadly, my mind has not yet adapted to being capable of coping during intense times of pressure, so I may have to abandon my wishes to purchase a little, yet highly meaningful gift for his birthday. However, my brother made a comment last night about how much he 'loved' the biscuits that I always used to make - I instantly knew that he was making a reference to the spicy gingersnaps, a beloved staple in the family kitchen - so I will probably find myself producing a double batch of the sweet treats, intending to hand him over the largest cookie of the lot.

Besides, doesn't love - especially from one's elder, been-through-it-all sister - display much more than a video game, which may not necessarily promote those affectionate messages? Birthdays are always great fun, regardless of whose special day is being given top promotion, and I'm looking forward to giving my younger, ever-so-thoughtful brother a helping, black-gloved hand as he takes his first tentative steps towards becoming a young, dashingly handsome adult; along with some natural goodness of some undeniably delicious coconut cake. The thought of it simply makes my mouth water uncontrollably...

Saturday 16 November 2013

The Land of Baking Heaven

Ooh, I've got such a juicy revelation to unleash upon your bewitched minds that I'm literally bursting out of my Forever 21 jeans to say it out loud. Well, if you know me inside out (hardly, in all honesty; even I have not yet discovered the unintelligible reasons for which I complain about almost everything that appears on car crash TV), my laidback - I wish! - quiet personality wouldn't cater to drawing unwanted attention to myself as being loud and incredibly brash doesn't play a role in my nature, so I'll remain as peaceful as a river in the middle of nowhere for a moment or two.

Hmm, time is up: patience has never bothered to grant me any pleasure because my quick-to-react temper grows more rapidly than my mid-length hair, taking over all of my senses without a hint of control making itself apparent. Here is the news straight from the horse-loving mouth: baking, particularly over this past year, has formed itself as my own chocolate-flavoured, sweeter-than-a-Jelly-Baby slice of pure heaven and, having just got my recent, fruit bonanza fix, I cannot get enough of it. Seriously, LikeATeen has swiftly taken off her mature suit of armour and gone as wild as one would during a make-believe sale at Chanel: mixing an extravagant amount of various ingredients in an overly tiny bowl brings more pleasure to my life than a so-called, wailing singer getting a kick up their you-know-what during a staged eviction from The X Factor on a holy Sunday (haven't you taken notice of the amount of times I've mentioned what I, alongside half of the frustratingly divided nation, believe is the worst reality programme on TV?).

OK, I would be failing to acknowledge my feminine side - which, at times, is more over-powering than one spray too many of my subtle, yet cough-provoking Chloé perfume - if a gasp of disgust didn't break out of the jail otherwise known as my Tic Tac-scented mouth when I have no other choice than to get my hands dirty (and occasionally, my clothes which deserved to have witnessed better, cake-free days) and ultimately get the job done, the result of which is immensely pleasing and weakens my insatiable desire for yet another round of rich chocolate mania for a few hours. Or two minutes once the large-as-my-hand chunk of brownie cake is gobbled up faster than an Olympic runner could sprint to the corner shop for the last bottle of energizing Lucosade.

So, it seemed inevitable that I would lend my in-need-of-moisturizing hand to baking one way or another because of the fact that I adored sneaking homemade lemon fairy cakes (or cupcakes, if you happen to reside in the yummiest country of the snack-munching world, America) out of the kitchen in the hope of not being caught red-handed, taking myself down a familiar journey to a place where zest would linger on my tastebuds and sweeten my soul - the sensation of which would unfortunately disappear into the heated air as soon as my brother got on my hot-headed nerves, making me temporarily forget about the sensuous flavour and light hint of fresh vanilla. Still, my mind has not - and hopefully never will - be erased of the memories regarding bite-sized treats baked in the comfort of a loving home, thanks to my mum whose inheritary skills have been appreciatively passed down next to the 'pretzel-munching, Lana Del Rey-singing' generation (my chose of words, not The Daily Mail's), in the form of my Greggs-detesting self.

Yeah, it may appear rather amusing that a girl like myself - one who would fight fang-shaped tooth and nail to grab my hands upon a dungaree skirt advertised in my clothing-obsessed dreams - can take to a hobby and valuable life skill such as baking, but I feel so peaceful and at ease whilst getting my hands stuck in a bowl of biscuit mixture that I couldn't care less due to my happiness given by the admirable art of creating tasty treats for the whole family to enjoy. And also keep the largest biscuit - usually a monster cookie-shaped gingersnap, of which the main ingredient has claimed the title of my beloved favourite spice - in my not-so-secret stash as a reward for my hard-working efforts. Who ever said that I was not entitled to a larger-than-standard biscuit or slice of my own recipe-followed creation? My mouth rightly so follows its own groove without any thanks given to Madonna.

If I must unveil my soul and be openly honest, I doubt that you would fully believe me if I admitted that I somehow stumbled across baking around the beginning of the year, revisiting it whilst baking a batch of hunger-reducing of gingersnaps - in my opinion, the most fail-safe recipe in the whole of the biscuit-consuming world - and gaining some ideas to embark on a fascinating adventure in the comfort of my crumb-strawn kitchen, via borrowing a few of my mum's expanding collection of cookbooks and discovering recipes which would go down as not only a hit for myself, but everybody else in my family, too.

Finding recipes which satisfy not only your chocolate-mad hunger pangs, but other people's hardly counts as a simple task, I believe, because I eagerly wished to avoid disappointing my brother, for example, by baking date muffins - a fantastic way of using the heavy bag of sweet dried fruit - whilst not realizing that the flavour wasn't quite up his street, which unfortunately occurred on one occasion.

Considering that, if not observed, my brother - whose appetite can sometimes rotate to the extraordinary, plucked eyebrow-raising level of the one my furry brother, Tom, used to have, who counted bowls of double cream, bites of bananas and a lick of strawberry yogurt amongst his favourite foods - is capable to stuffing himself with carefully concealed packets of Mentos and stacks of buttered crackers within the space of an hour during lunchtime, my oh-so-cruel heart barely felt sorry for him because I was finally able to eat something of my own without nail-biting fear making me worry that there would not be enough muffins for everyone, yet my dad narrowly avoided picking up one, somehow making a lacklustre claim regarding an 'alleged' dislike of vitamin-rich dates. Unsurprisingly, my eyes rolled à la a buxom-lipped beauty queen, yet nevertheless it was a useful lesson learned - always keep a steady eye on what you choose to bake, otherwise it calls for a needless waste of ingredients which could have been used more wisely. Got it?

Luckily, my family quite enjoy recipes featuring chocolate, the cocoa goodness which, in hindsight, is my catnip (albeit my brother has not yet witnessed my leaping onto the walls, re-creating a famous scene from a film featuring his favourite, spider-loving hero) - you name it, brownies, cakes, muffins and biscuits have included a form of chocolate or cocoa power, resulting to a fervour to devour the sweet-as-heaven goodies eagerly.

Typically, I try out new recipes all the time as I wish to remain adventurous and explore a seemingly endless journey in the land of waist-expanding food (who knows whether I've come across an invisible pot of gold due to my ever-slim physique; I hope so!), though I've remained on friendly terms with a few trustworthy, never-fail recipes - including a basic mixture for muffins and warm, spicy gingersnaps - but I can truthfully admit that a dark chocolate brownie formula has become my secret favourite, therefore introducing me to the irresistible, hormone-calming world where dark, plain cooking chocolate rules the roost and eventually won me over from the creamier, milkier side. Within a few months, I've literally given up the most luxurious bars of sugary milk chocolate in favour of the darker side - my inner pointy-headed devil has taken over my stable senses and brought them alive by a single square of chaste indulgence!

So, my trek along the waters guarding the precious ingredients which have become a familiar, much-seen face in my everyday life has taken me from so many places which my mind was unaware of existing; one of the greatest things about baking is spending time in a homely environment and, despite sometimes pleading for a light dusting of flour to not hit my Hello Kitty jumper, brings a certain sense of relaxation because I'm alone in my thoughts, focusing my energies on the task at hand (and fingernails, where dough has a tendency to get stuck). Like a sword-carrying warrior, I've taken my time to pace through the fields and learn more about my hobby, sucking up all of the information like a feared Dyson hoover and gradually increasingly in skill, surpassing previous opinions of oneself whilst establishing a stable bond and also growing in confidence; many may choose not to believe it, but baking and cooking a meal brings so much more than a treat or plate of food to a table because it forms a relationship with yourself, simply through the power to venture out of your usual style and create a structure sharing a resemblance with art, which, if you take a moment to consider it, is exactly that thing. Some dismiss it; others don't realize it. Cooking and baking are pieces of artistic creativity, whilst bringing happiness and fulfillment to your lives. And with a slice of Christmas fruit cake - the one which is currently baking in the oven, the flavour of which is gloriously rich and perfect for the upcoming festive season - are you in a position to disagree?

Hardly, I say.

Wednesday 13 November 2013

How to speak like a francophone teen - if you dare!

Undoubtedly, the world as we know it would never stay amused or slightly entertained by the sight of Justin Bieber apparently 'yelping' in a baby-themed music video on YouTube without hobbies, which have, over the years, gained more recognition and placed millions (if my imaginary figures are correct) under its binding spell, via collecting bronze-shaded stamps, painting thousands of bowls of unwanted, squishy-as-a-toy fruit or battling a secret addiction to gamers' favourite Happy Wheels on a daily basis.

Being a happy-one-moment, bored-out-of-my-mind-the-next teenager, hobbies can be such a tremendous lifesaver that I worship all - a.k.a the ones that I indolently bother to check out (drawing hazy pictures of my hair which slightly resembles the alluring colour of a Celine bag is not included) - because entering a day-pass at the Land of Boredom sends me into a conscious slumber where lying on my Betty Boop duvet and scrolling through hastily-taken pictures on my smartphone become my overly dramatic idea of an official nightmare, with a glimpse of ever-blinding sunshine peeking through my window.

Around two-and-a-half years ago, my life - the one where clustered copies of perfume-scented ELLE would neatly adorn my bedside and a full-sized bar of 'luxurious' (au fait, I use this term very lightly) Galaxy was the satiable height of cocoa-fuelled pleasure - added a new hobby and learning tool to its slowly expanding box, making room for a new lesson to be added to my timetable and creating a source of education fun which would plaster a thrilled grin on my clearer complexion: the French language.

Woah, you certainly were not expecting that revelation to be unmasked within a tug of my finger, did you? Even at the time, my seemingly ballet slipper-sized feet were almost knocked off the ground when I made a heat-of-the-moment decision to study the langue d'amour on a humid day in the middle of May, where the sky reminded me of a miserable grey ash cloud. Thinking about it, I probably would not have progressed or leapt over so many obstacles had my dad never mentioned the possibility of my learning Mandarin Chinese, which, at the time, sent more chills up my spine than the thought of a spot being squeezed on my often glossy, plumped-to-perfection lips; what the heck would I have been able to do with spelling out symbols or, even worse, saying the words out loud?

My voice trembling, whilst my hand tightly grasped my unneeded coat, I secretly came to the conclusion that, in order to satisfy my dad's wishes to gain the knowledge of a well-known language (my previous, brief flirtation with a rarer-spoken foreign tongue hardly lasted for any period of time; perhaps my instincts knew better than I did) and increase my chances of pursuing a career in a cut-throat industry in which intelligence, logic and skills are more appreciated than anything else, giving what I first believed was 'the easiest language in the world' a go, if not for a little while. The chances were that my dad would focus his attention on other subjects such as the major lack of skill represented in football - picking up a few phrases in French was unlikely to place such a powerful tie on my Chanel-obsessed self, was it? As with many extraordinary discoveries, nothing could have set me under a more deluded, disbelieving trap than the over-bearing power of a foreign, yet surprisingly similar language - and what a spectacular encounter it was!

Perhaps the ever-warming heat of the upcoming summer was starting to warm my vampire pale-knuckles and gradually put a healthy, satisfied glow on my faintly-coloured cheeks, though now I believe otherwise: placing all of my energies (and quite a lot of those I had ready to burn off thanks to my stash of liquorice allsorts!) into remembering a word or two of vocabulary focused my attention, sharpening it as precisely as a a name-imprinted pencil, and I grew to love the language which has slowly gained the title of my second 'tongue', albeit there are still a couple (and mighty difficult!) bumps along the way which have yet to be challenged.

For some people, absorbing as much knowledge about one language as one's brain is capable of handing may appear a complete waste of time - what kind of use is the verb tomber (to fall; a common mistake I kept making whilst spelling the Tomb Raider gaming series) going to offer to your madly hectic lifestyle when you may only set foot upon French soil - or a country where the language is widely recognized - every five years or so? Believe me, learning a language vastly different to your native one doesn't deserved to be classified as a 'waste of immensely precious time'; take a moment to even immerse yourself into the idea of becoming more knowledgeable and skillful, all courtesy of a language mainly spoken in the nearest country to shore!

Although the beginnings of getting used and eventually co-operating with its inner workings and peculiar ways (have a go with Google Translate for old times sake; it brings all memories of blood-boiling frustration and fist-clenching irritation back to the surface) sometimes pushed me to the doubtful brink, I brought myself back to shore and carried on with my adventure, whilst taking a few breaks to marvel at my increased concentration and motivation to succeed with my chosen subject. Who knows why my taking to the French language seemed so natural and right - needless to say, an amazed, eyebrow-raising expression lit up my features!

Obviously, it would seem awfully stupid - and utterly incomprehensible - if I gave my constantly typing fingertips a five-minute break by skimming through my courageous journey with a few words clustered here and there for the sake of it, so I won't hold back on my few pushbacks and struggles which, at particular times, made me want to scream from the top of my lungs. Why there had to be two separate words for love - in the noun and verb form - in French, an answer will never reach my unlistening ears; from the word 'go', a recipe for trouble was increasing in size whenever an unreachable, near-impossible barrier blocked my path and therefore encouraged not an esteem-boosting portion of inspiration, but a highly sensitive dose of exasperation which bothered me further - until one day when everything started to fall into what was intended to be its soon-to-be-natural habitat.

Meanwhile, my collection of French dictionaries was taking up more space in my bedroom, so I had no other choice than to place them in the wooden bookcase near my schoolbooks - and as for my knowledge of French, my brain had expanded almost as widely as several much-coveted Sims collection packs! Whether a piece of paper is lying in front of me or I switch on the French-title function on my oh-so-clever smartphone (the model with an IQ; or maybe Nokia ought to be thanked for their bright, wireless-charging skills), the power of French - which, without the right perspective and mind, cannot be adapted to your native language and make you appreciate the admirable art of speaking and living in a world overwhelmed in various, uncountable foreign tongues - remains with me wherever I choose to go, although I'm counting down the days until I fulfil one of my ambitions to experience an artistic, très jolie existence as a francophone (french-speaking) in the heart of croissant-baking, Amélie-watching France. Well, I actually don't know when I will hop onto a plane - or, even better, the legendary Eurostar - and catch my very first, memorable glimpse of the outstanding Eiffel Tower in its breath-taking beauty; maybe I ought to wait a bit longer until I feel more confident whilst speaking in ma deuxième langue!

Learning a language, I have to say, does not just become an opportunity to burn some free-time on a cloudy-skied Saturday morning in the middle of rain-drenched November; if you push open all barriers and open your heart, nothing ought to stop you from developing a new sense of freedom by gaining the valued knowledge of phrases and words from a language that millions of people across the world speak every day, barely giving a thought about it. Another way of understanding my view is related to your - and my own - native language, which, as this blog is written in English, is probably my mother tongue. How often do you consider how hard it may be for foreign-speaking people to pick up the pronunciation of English and comprehend the words instilled into our minds, creeping into our sentences and conversations on a daily basis? The same, without a doubt, applies to French and countless other languages; we love the feeling of comfort, from taking a warm sip of hot chocolate on a snow day to hanging out with our very closest friends who seemingly know more about us than we do, so venturing out on a new, hair-raising path is enough to create a family of goosebumps on your otherwise baby-smooth skin.

In over two years, not only had my appreciation of foreign languages grown as greatly as a nourished sunflower, but my DVD collection and books are taking up more space than I ever thought they would! French films - both classic and modern - have gained a place in my heart thanks to their romantic, yet realistic storylines and I have an alarming tendency to buy every single one I record on TV; that suggests a lot about big-budgeted Hollywood films, doesn't it?

Without speaking French, I would never have discovered as much as a exciting adventure in the comfort of my pleasantly English home - and as for being a francophone teen, the thought of boredom never being a worrying problem is the best thing of all!



Tuesday 12 November 2013

I live for the applause - or the opportunity to scoff the last jam doughnut...

Having eagerly slaved myself for an hour on my fast, Sims 2-infested laptop to gather some sparkler-themed ideas and leap out of my not-so-comfortable chair with a feverous excitement when I click the all-final publish button since I set up this rarely-viewed blog a mere fortnight ago, I'm sure that if you have found a five minute break out of your ever-so-busy timetable to check out my articles and or even dare to become the very first person to leave a hastily-written comment, you will have slightly picked up the gist that my ambitions are, well, leaning towards a certain career which would bring my childhood dream to spectacular, Technicolour life.

As if I need to pick up a second-hair pair of 3D glasses to get a more colourful experience in life when I can spend literally all of my free time - when laugh-out-loud articles featured in a newspaper, otherwise known as a complaining haven for those who forgot to record the latest murder in Eastenders, cannot grasp its hold over my fidgeting form whilst laughter takes complete and utter control over myself - writing to my rapidly beating heart's content, discovering new thrilling subjects to bring up and slowly develop an opinion which hasn't been tainted with somebody else's or be led astray by biased representations of need-to-be-heard facts.

In all honesty, quietly closing the door in my small, yet nicely cosy bedroom and searching for inner willpower (not to be mistaken with will.i.am's new album; stumbling across the Top 40 a few weeks ago has since revolutionized my 80s hits world with chipmunk-sounding beats and even worse, ghastly disastrous vocals) to produce a self-satisfying piece of art, displayed for all the world - i.e whoever has managed to discover it, as I have made no effort whatsoever to promote the blog as of yet (laziness scores the first goal encore!) - has garnered an astonishing confidence inside myself, which makes me remark with bewilderment as I'm blown away with its empowering feeling.

Although I entered the world with the ability to chat ten to the dozen about Bratz dolls' outfits, which made itself apparent from a young age, I have the tendency to retreat into myself because my natural shyness - a normal, average trait in tons of people, particularly as one hits the raging, all-guns-blazing teenage (or wilderness, if the smell of freshly-cut grass seems more appealing than a slice of homemade apple pie) years - can take over all of a sudden, usually without a single warning.

Half of the time, I seldom realize that my mind has invaded a spa-like retreat until somebody picks up on my muted body language - I guess that it is just the way I was created, isn't it? My quietness sometimes reminds me of my beloved pet cat, Jerry, who, despite barely getting a meow in about his feelings unlike his overly-talkative brother, Tom, still displayed as much affection and heartfelt love through the power of a constant, vibrating purr - if only my body was capable of performing such an action! Getting stuck into a certain lesson, such as attention-absorbing French or top favourite English, transports me to a world far different to my own, despite the fact that I don't exactly know where that 'world' is. No matter how many times I roll as many awkward-sounding French verbs off my exhausted tongue (try pronouncing Rhianna's name in French; r quickly becomes a dreaded letter, doesn't it?), my nose is unable to sniff an imaginary bakery in the middle of a quaint, Emmerdale-style village seemingly a million miles away from the bustling, Greggs-packed town in which I currently live.

Yet, when I sit down in my chair and stop placing my blue-as-a-berry eye on the punk-inspired Hello Kitty slouching on my desk, all of my timidity floats out of myself as I type my thoughts and see them come to glorious life on an electronic screen - without words flowing from my fingertips and ideas forming in my Jane Eyre-obsessed mind, there is no LikeATeen. Or teenage girl with a heavily-made mask covering her dot-like spots on a reddened complexion. Writing is - and, as long as I willingly get off the sofa and make an honest effort, will always be - the essence of my soul and main reason for my being.

Do you want to find out why so many alleged celebrities and dazzling Hollywood stars fall to the bottom of the heap once their careers reach the end of the road? A profession such of their own is not one to keep their hearts pumping for a lifetime when the industry in which they work is constantly evolving and thriving for the best; although writing is of a similar style, it can hold you together and prevent yourself from unravelling like a half-wrapped present by expressing the thoughts that race quicker than Usain Bolt's legs in your mind. And as for opinions? The greatest award of typing away in your own imaginary fantasy - mine often features characters from the future characters who have not yet discovered a way of getting onto paper - and travelling into the depths of yourself; only one person can dictate or realize how you may react to a particular subject or person, so let's hear a round of hand-slapping applause for the answer: you. Even in the past year, I've picked up more lessons about the workings of my mind and how I choose to react to certain events and manner in which others treat me. And I still reckon that I would never have coped half as well without my laptop by my side; a loyal companion whose endless surge of power carried me to the screen of a Microsoft Word document.

So, as I have now discussed how much joy that writing brings to my life and overcoming my slight timidness, let's leap over to the main topic: dreams. Er, having written in such an eager tone about creating words and forging paths of my own, I doubt that Einstein will need to be resurrected a fortnight after Halloween to unveil the long-awaited response: a career in the media, ideally as a journalist, is a dream I intend to fulfil and pursue the moment after the curtain draws on my education in a few years' time. OK, not all dreams see the light of day, which can be utterly heart-breaking for some, and I must appreciate the well-known fact that media is a pretty hard industry to break into, but if I'm strong enough to successfully crack open the shells of almonds and pecan nuts whilst pinching my nail once, surely nothing ought to prevent me from living the dream for which I so strongly yearn?

Even if it soon transpired to be a false reality and no job was hardly ever going to be given to my awaiting hands, my mind has firmly agreed on my Plan B (once again, I do not listen to the singer! What on earth is it with wordplay and musicians?): become a lawyer. Sure, some may take the view that law gives the impression of sending even the most tiresome baby into a deep sleep, but I, on the other hand, have formed a great relationship and respect for it whilst I study it as part of my schoolwork. Or, if Sky News ever wish to contact me, a job as both a law correspondent and journalist would work out marvellously - in other words, a match made in heaven (and my dreams)!

Who knows what may come of my aspirations, but I aim to remain with them as long as my eyes are not blinded by stupidity or a sudden yearning to appear on a televised singing content, pouring my heart out in a damning rendition of Like a Prayer (who would even want to pray for the stud-wearing teenager with a voice as choked as a helpless cat's yelp?). I hope with my fingers crossed that there will be enough room for me to make a splash in the media industry - although I daren't attempt to appear too ambitious, I'd love to admit that I have some great plans up my tie-dyed sleeve.

Without dreams, needed hope and lifting aspirations would leave the world without anything to look up to and what a very depressing existence it would be for its inhabitants. Hopefully, good timing and a dash of luck will be enough to secure my position as a writer, performing my favourite hobby - and, in certain ways, lesson - for a living. Not what you would expect a so-called average teenager to think about, is it?

Sunday 10 November 2013

Skincare and Teenage Beauty - will I ever discover the secret potion?

Ugh, the spine-tingling thought of hearing - or dare say it, writing - the S word (the non-vulgar type, in case you suddenly placed the cursor on the exit button) can, if spot-related misery is dragging me to my horribly bruised knees on a particular day, provoke a tantrum-starting scream to awake my family from their beds, if not the whole of the party-wearing neighbourhood.

So, I guess that I'll save you the agony of awaiting for the explanation of my idea of the shriek-inducing, horrifying S word - skincare. For some, taking care of their skin is as simple as making a cup of (smelly) tea; they needn't think twice of moisturizing their face and slabbing on tons of products, without a hint of fear rising above the surface and firmly planting itself in the back of your mind. Why the fear, you ask? A jar of trustworthy Nivea cream is hardly on a par with a bloodcurdling scene featured in horror/sci-fi classic Alien, despite the latter barely creating a stir of frightful emotions from my cowering form, tightly squeezed into a Chihuahua-tiny ball in the comfort of the welcoming sofa. Perhaps I ought to avoid that subject for the time being, then.

What I intend to describe is that, unlike a lucky couple whose stars certainly look in their overly fortunate favours, I seriously cannot afford - both in terms of money and safety - to walk into an overcrowded beauty shop and pick up as many creams, gels or designer-themed skincare products without taking the possible consequences - such as a reaction, typically in the form of soul-destroying, esteem-lowering spots popping up around my unsmiling, grim-looking face, whilst my complexion slowly turns the embarrassing shade of Santa Claus's red coat - into thought-provoking consideration. One use of a new gel or soap can prove that anything can happen - and the results, to my bitter-as-a-lemon disappointment, do not always favour my oilier-than-focaccia-bread skin, which then leads to yet more rounds of trial-and-testing - a far more arduous assignment than appearing as a mascara-streaking, emotional crybaby contestant on the overly commercialized pantomime otherwise known as The X Factor.

There is no cure for my problematic skin, which behaves just as normally as you would expect from a maturing adolescent: what else would an adult with a complexion as clear as pure, fluffy-like-whipped-cream clouds expect? Maybe I've grown to believe certain things which don't necessarily exist in a modern culture such as our own, but I expected more than my teenage years  - which, I hasten to add, will only be lived and enjoyed once - to be riddled with endless breakouts across my redder-than-Christina-Aguilera-lipstick chin, which dramatically contrasts with my natural, pretty-as-a-lily skin tone; now my heart miserably wishes that I left the Twilight-pale look until the 'spotty' phase had reached an eventual end, though sunbathing in the oh-so-detested sunshine for hours on end sounds more sickening to being obliged to watch a whole Chelsea match on a sport-packed weekend. Even the sight of Fernando Torres' (lack of) hair this season seems highly appealing in comparison to burning my skin and opening a whole new can of (unwanted) worms, alongside my spot-centred problems.

Do I ever stop complaining about, well, anything, I sometimes happen to ask myself. Hearing my Royal Family-inspired British accent every so often can create an incurable bout of annoyance, whilst reading my exceedingly over-usage of hard-hitting adjectives and expressions becomes a tedious job which I would hasten to avoid within a heartbeat; why, why, why do my spots spur me on to write about the trouble it has needlessly brought? No matter how gently I cleanse my face in both the lazily brightening morning and darker-than-Bournville night, my face - the whole oval, fringe-ready shape of it - always gives the impression of being angrier than my brother when Chelsea unfortunately lose a match, terribly more so against a hot-headed rival. And when I do allow my blood to boil dangerously and turn me into a preferably-avoided, wild version of myself, my sudden rage is usually due to united couples of spots decorating my chin or forehead - a.k.a The T Zone (have you ever realized how many negative words begin with T? Tedious, terrible, terrifying...) - albeit less neatly like a pot filled with pretty, spring-coloured flowers.

Over the past few years since spots began to become a more regular occurrence and rudely butt itself into my otherwise happy-go-lucky lifestyle, all options which were once open to me have impolitely slammed their doors onto the tip of my reddening nose: in a drastic attempt to get to the impossible-to-discover root of the expanding problem, earlier this year I cut out ordinary milk from my diet and consumed dairy-free almond milk for several weeks, whilst eagerly anticipating a dramatic improvement in my skin. The miracle wonder, sadly, never arrived: in fact, I believed that my face looked worse for avoiding lactose on purpose, though the sudden surge in temperatures may have played in a leading role with my worsening complexion.

At the moment, I currently take one zinc tablet - which, from doctors to countless websites, have been praised for helping spot-prone skin and clearing the problem up - and multivitamins every morning, as it has been the case for several months. Since I came across surveys where zinc was listed as a leading factor in encouraging skin to return to normal back in the summer, my fingers are tightly crossed that I will begin to notice self-satisfying results within a while. Although I openly complain (and get on other people's nerves for doing it) about my havoc-causing skin, I can stand with my head held high thanks to the fact that I have not been placed with the heart-breaking burden of suffering from acne because my so-called 'problem areas' only persist around my chin, which, at the beginning of the year, was virtually flawless without so much as a single mark. On one more positive note, my forehead has taken a turn in terms of improvement and looks far greater than it previously did for years - how can I dare to complain about that?

The answer, which unfortunately is the only one I can hand over with confidence, is to keep my skincare as simple as Alekandr Orlov's 'simples' adverts: as my body attempts to handle the over-creation of oil, placing tons of unnatural creams and 'miracle' gels will not give me the look I pray each night to have. Waking up with a complexion (and body) of a famous celebrity does not happen or at least not within a few hours of going to bed, anyway.

Witch hazel has long claimed the throne as the oily/combination skin saver queen, which helps bring big-and-mighty spots to the surface and gently cleans the skin, too - a more meaningful and appreciated present than a lip-shaped Lulu Guinness bag (but who said that I was entitled to having both?). A nightly foam wash and twice weekly scrub containing the prized witch hazel equates to the best skin that I can possibly get at this time - without dedicating myself to daily lessons in understanding the crazy science associated with oil-producing skin, I doubt that I can strip my skincare routine any further as I have done as much as I can.

Thank God that these problems - the ones that every teenager across the world dreads with a heavy heart - are not destined to last the rest of my life - a few, terrifyingly extended years are more than long enough!