Teen in Panic Mode: Unlocking the Perils of Adolescence

Depending on whom I'm addressing this article towards, I sometimes wonder if anyone - either a been-there, let's-party-like-it's-1999 adults or a teenager who really is going through the easiness stage of puberty which everybody with a zillion spots envy - understands what it's like to wave farewell to childhood and its expensive toys at the nearest Olympic Stadium-sized Toys R' Us and take your first steps towards regaining part of your sanity as an adult. Really, does a single person even care about whether I'm keeping everything under control as I undergo the most traumatic (if you've ever felt a lumpier-than-a-50ft-deep-pothole spot swell overnight, you will definitely have the word 'traumatized' scrawled over your forehead) stage of my life, or am I more alone than I ever believed would be possible?

Whilst listening to Lorde's eerily cool track, Ribs, on Spotify a couple of nights ago, one lyric stood out to me more heavily than her smartless, jealousy-inducing brag about staying at home alone (try uttering the same thing to the girl who has to travel nearly two hundred miles to view some properties tomorrow afternoon). Hearing 'feels so scary getting old' over and over again throughout the track truly struck a chord with me, unlocking thousands of bottled-up emotions of whose existence I'd never known, and it brought home how, beyond the milk chocolate fingers I'd unlawfully smuggled into my system last night (without even receiving a telling-off from my parents, I broken part of my wishes to abstain from milk chocolate for Lent), I am afraid of becoming an adult because there are so many problems and issues which not even the bravest and richest people can avoid.

From dealing with finances to living independently and finally realizing that your beloved Cheer Bear can longer be snuggled against in bed (as I've imagined so far), stepping into the shoes of an adult overnight freaks me out to a certain extent, particularly as my years of a Freddo-consuming minor will be coming to an end before I even know it. As revising for my GCSEs are placing more pressure than an aged boiler on me with each passing day and the prospect of furthering my education beyond the realms of schoolbooks stands out as an increasing possibility, there are no means in the slightest of my plotting a potential escape from the participating in the most life-changing events which I'll ever experience; unless I ever find a way of hiding in the dust-covered realms of my wardrobe, my chances of remaining stress- and maths-free are all but very slim.

As I lie on a wrinkly leather sofa in a Cleopatra-inspired pose and nearly doze off to the neutral buzzing of cheers on Sky Sports News, all of my problems - such as learning how to master a neat, ballerina-style bun (minus the sprinkling of aromatic spices and mixed peel as found with the hot cross variety) and banishing my writer's block woes for good - seem to overwhelm me at once, bringing on a panic from which I can't switch off like a TV remote. Sometimes, everything gives the wrongful impression of appearing far worse than it truly is, which is only accelerated by my up-in-the-air hormones and frightful temper getting the better of my once docile nature, but as soon as I return to Earth (which, by the way, would never happen as I've never left England) all of my short-lived panic diminishes into a sigh of purely felt relief. Being a hot-headed teenager never guarantees anything but a can of wiggly worms being opened, creating plenty of misfortune which I never look for, right?

Without resorting to the irritating usage of the over-used adverb 'basically' - come on, has half of the population never heard of such a thing as a thesaurus? - my mood, in a sense, is partly defined by my age, securing a few hours of hectic behaviour and easy-to-prick irritation upon those who stand in my path. And today, as I typically set out to do, I'm going to be exploring my views upon the woes which are commonly found (and loathed with a passionate hatred!) during the teenage years. Although I have never been unfortunate in the sense that a sign of good luck or positivity has not landed upon my doorstep (receiving a bottle of my grandmother's signature perfume suggests otherwise), can it truly be denied that teenagers have a natural tendency to lean towards whatever ignites a ferocious fire within them?

Usually, the obvious culprits are those to blame for our mood swings and lifeless, dull-as-a-repeat-of-The-Waltons stare, but some things go beyond what we typically associate with the teenage blues. As the title of Beyoncé's self-directed documentary, Life is But a Dream, suggests, life should be appreciated because it is a gift which all of us are lucky to have. But, if you share any quirks with me, life is all but one massive headache at times - and wouldn't you just love to understand why?

Spots: Yeah, I had to state the obvious as you expected, didn't I? Despite my dreams of becoming an inspirational writer, I question whether I'm using my imagination to its greatest extent by returning to a topic which I've discussed at least three times. Just when will the spot-related dream ever stop? If my current collection of the yellow-headed beauties disappear, I will finally reach the end of my disastrous chapter with everything spotty.
Siblings may smirk, adults shake their heads in frustration at the ghastly, make-up-free sight of your face and your confidence takes an all-mighty toll; need I offer another reason for which spots threaten to ruin our lives? Along with adjusting to the countless changes taking place in your body and juggling a million and one responsibilities as a young adult, spots take way too much space on your already full plate - and often leave you with no other choice than to burst like a needle pricking a balloon!
The reason for which an estimated 85% of teenagers fall prey of acne still doesn't make any sense to me, but it has become an unfortunate problem which is associated with growing up, the words of which no teenager ever wants to hear. Contrary to what many believe, spots don't automatically appear once you turn thirteen nor do they become extinct at the end of your teenage years (perhaps enduring the first spot-free year is a celebratory cause for one's 21st birthday?), and I only know this fact all too well because my first spot appeared when I was eight - seven years on, the problem hasn't shown any signs of slowing down or disappearing!
I often revisit a fantasy where I lead a life without spots being part of it, imagining myself bursting with happiness and displaying a stunning set of Hollywood-style white teeth all the time. As long as a pot of mineral foundation is at hand, I manage to get through the day without transforming into a British accented She Hulk - just don't ever make any comments about my complexion after having washed it!

Hair (both my medium-length mane and the unwanted ones): Please, whatever you do, never make a negative comment regarding my grease-prone hair (a.k.a the mane of which I dedicate nearly an hour to washing, brushing and developing a near-blinding shine on a daily basis) unless you have a desire to become the unfortunate recipient of my ultra-sharp tongue.
Not only do I obsess about the appearance of my hair almost all the time, but it is my pride and joy - nothing reignites my faltering confidence like a mane of freshly washed, apple-scented hair! Therefore, hitting puberty early opened a horrid can of worms by overstimulating my scalp, leading to my once-clean mane transforming into stringy, oil-covered locks overnight. At one stage, one might have questioned whether I'd doused my hair in the deep fat fryer at McDonald's - not only had my appearance taken a turn for the worse, but I had almost lost all of my confidence which was struggling to cope with this spiralling-out-of-control matter.
Thankfully, I have since swapped to a better shampoo (an article regarding my love for Alberto Balsam was published several weeks ago) and regularly wash my hair, so that mane-related problem has almost been swept underneath the carpet.
But, to my annoyment, a new dilemma has claimed the throne which my oily hair used to rule: dealing with hairy legs. Ugh, no words can precisely describe my horror at whipping out my epilator and being greeted with thousands of hairs, many of which keep growing underneath my raw-red skin. And my eyebrows? So much for being blessed with the bushier style which is currently all the rage - eyebrow queen Cara Delevingne would definitely never be caught with mine!
So, plucking my eyebrows and shivering uncontrollably whilst waiting for my epilator to charge have somewhat become unofficial hobbies, both of which I undoubtedly loathe with a capital L. For what I may have gained in oil-free hair, another problem has arisen relating to my continuous hair growth on the legs which I always hide from the glare of the public. Is there any chance of waving farewell to my hair woes for once and for all? The outcome has yet to become clear.

Giving up laziness: Despite the title, I can definitely assure you that I am not lazy. Honest. Yet doesn't every teenager face up to the possibility of having to perform something single handedly without any help from your parents at one point?
Although I was thrilled at the prospect of cooking a meal by myself a few months ago - is there anything more exciting than taking a step further towards independence? - a family of butterflies settled into my stomach and maximized my nerves to a level which was impossible to handle. Instead of giving my mum the task of cooking the dinner, I decided to give her a night off the duty and do it myself but, as I quickly realized, almost all things are easier said than done.
In the end, my family (except my younger brother, who appears to have a dislike for my cookery skills) tucked into a delicious oriental stir-fry, but I couldn't cope with having to cook the whole meal by myself; sensing my nerves, my mum helped me out which gave me a few moments of breathing space, a token of which I greatly appreciated.
Whatever it is, taking on a role which was once reserved to one older than yourself can cause a breakout of angry spots to terrorize you (only joking!), and it is normal to feel afraid of trying something completely unfamiliar. After all, don't all of us have to start somewhere?
Hmm, as for writing this soon-to-be-a-bestseller story of mine; chapter one has yet to be put into motion...

Hopefully, one perfect day when I'm older and have firmly put my teenage years behind me, I'll be able to laugh about my currently not-so-amusing troubles and feel rather nostalgic about the spot which used to appear between my eyebrows.

For now, though, I'm stuck in the unlucky perils of adolescence until I hit 20 - when will the panic stop?

It's Sunday: Favourite Tunes

What do you know, Sunday - supposedly referred to as the day of rest (if a thirty minute lie-in counts) - has arrived, bringing a cloud-free sky and azure blue sky in its wake! I'm not sure about whether you are in the mood to run outside into the warm embrace of the early Spring sunshine at half ten in the morning, but standing outside for ten minutes truly brought a hint of colour to my Casper-white cheeks; regardless of what you may believe, make-up (even if you use an award-winning brand) is only capable of increasing your happiness to a certain level!

Therefore, I rather feel like donning my old tap dancing shoes - sadly, that practice is no longer possible thanks to my size seven feet - and moving to the irresistible beat of these favourite songs which I've listed here today, giving my typically essay-sized entries a relievable break on what could possibly be one of the warmest weekends for months. If the oven-hot sun is burning through my thin lace dress, I just know that my continuous wear of fluffy, kitten fur-like jumpers will all but be coming to an end within a few weeks - haven't I given enough reasons to describe my euphoria? 

Plus, I will thankfully avoid destroying my once knowledge ICT whizz title by uploading videos of today's chosen tracks directly onto the blog - why did it have to take me ages to remember one simple thing known as HTML? Thanks to messing around with a since-deleted entry on Friday night (there is nothing quite like a mini ICT lesson before crawling into the fur-covered mess which I still use as a bed), you will now be able to watch some very fascinating music videos - or ones featuring lyrics, as not all the best songs in the world were not credited with the honour of becoming a single - without copying and pasting a link to the most famous video-sharing website on the planet. Convenient, don't you think? 

And, unlike a few weeks ago (obviously before having my HTML-themed epiphany), I won't bore you with a mile-long commentary of how much I adore a certain song and what it represents to me. Today, I'll simply let the songs speak for themselves; since undergoing somewhat of a musical revolution a few years ago, I care about the lyrics as much as the beat and vocals, though I do make an exception for the ever-so-catchy dance anthems which have held a prestigious place on my non-famous Spotify playlist forever. 

Ready to embark on an intriguing adventure through the wonderful land of music and high quality YouTube videos? Let's find out!

1. Duke Dumont Ft. A*M*E - Need U (100%)

2. Daft Punk - Get Lucky 



3. Emeli Sande - Heaven



5. Paloma Faith - Can't Rely On You



6. Moby - Bodyrock



7. Soul II Soul - Back to Life



8. Neneh Cherry - Buffalo Stance



9. Massive Attack - Unfinished Sympathy 

Celebrating Women

Upon remembering that International Women's Day isn't long ahead of us - in fact, it will be celebrated around the world tomorrow, so a flood of relief gushed through me when it became clear that I had not missed out on the festivities again - I suddenly had one of my fantastic light bulb moments (the ones which typically occur when your battery-drained smartphone stops working) where a pang of realization knocked me off my feet: no matter what stood in my way, I knew that I had to write about the one day of the oh-so-long year which is solely dedicating to recognizing and celebrating the fairer and, in my agreeable opinion, the emotionally stronger sex. And who, if they believed in equality and achieving the same rights to the other gender, wouldn't wish to participate in enjoying the celebrations which truly make women proud?

Although I'm technically classified as a teenager (the title of the blog says it all) or a young, collagen-producing adult, there are some who may be skeptical to include our younger females as members of the international women gang. But I strongly disagree because a gender, if this makes any senses to your puzzled minds, is a gender, regardless of your age; despite being unable to look beyond the disastrous days of waking up with a yellow-headed spot and a lackluster desire to complete my maths revision, there is absolutely no doubt to the well-known fact that I and millions of girls my own age will enter womanhood some day, and many of us are already walking upon the tiring, yet rewarding path to becoming adults and admirable women in the distant future. So yes, I call myself many things - including The Moaner, which my brother would probably find pretty ironic (his moan-loving attitude is entirely on a par to my own) - and a young woman is an important part of my list.

Now that I'm older and have since opened my short-sighted eyes as far as I possibly can to the struggles and problems which millions, if not billions, of women face every day, I feel more determined than ever to stand up for our gender because we deserve the right - and are entitled to having it, if only others made an effort to follow the anti-sexist laws - to be empowered and no longer be defined as victims of injustice and offensivism. International Women's Day only strengthens and highlights my views to a bigger, more publicised level and I hope that, with each year and era which passes by, we will take a step further towards banishing discrimination and inequality for good.

But, as I keep asking to the lack of a proper answer, why is sexism as prominent and rife as it was hundred or so years ago? Over the years, so many historical events should have changed the outlook for modern day women because they supposedly broke the boundaries, therefore shaking the public's opinion on giving women equal rights to men, yet something must have gone wrong along the way. Otherwise would the word 'sexism' continue to be used with an ever-growing hatred of the daily bouts of discrimination which we unlawfully face?

Fortunately, I have never been placed in an awkward position where I felt threatened or uncomfortable because of my gender - ideally, my gut instinct is rather accurate by informing me of the places where I could potentially be harassed or whatever - but it doesn't mean that the possibility of finding myself in a similar position has never crossed my mind; due to my age and fresh-faced youth, I'm always on my guard wherever I go. From the jam-packed high street to the eerily quiet newsagent, there never comes a time when I can switch my alert-mode off like my phone (which I never do when I go out, regardless of whether I'm alone or not), and that harsh, yet honest fact saddens me.

Perhaps if I didn't display such an eager interest in reading newspapers or keeping up with current events, this deeply instilled fear of getting caught up in such a nerve-wrecking position would probably have never come into existence, but is there anything worse than letting your guard down at the worst possible moment? As I learnt long ago, being self-aware is both a gift and a witch-like curse, but I'd rather use my mind to its greatest extent instead of living in all-too-innocent world where I cannot bear the thought of something horrific occurring. Growing up in a world - one of which hasn't entirely given up its sexist ways - has taught me plenty of lessons which even the best private schools couldn't teach you, and turning into a young woman has brought the misery-inducing truth home to me.

I hope that, as International Women's Day rolls around the corner, plenty of people - both men and women - will realize that equality is still a massive issue which has yet to be sorted out for once and for all. Not only do poorer and male-run countries inflict unimaginable displays of discrimination against women, but the vile breed of chauvinism is a million miles away from dying out in countries which are commonly believed to be paving the way to equality. Although the word 'sexism' may not immediately flash through your mind, comments declared amongst men - and, in case you haven't come near them recently, young boys - which mock their 'girliness' or similar characteristics to girls are highly distasteful, but nobody appears to think twice about the offensive meaning which they so obviously represent! Time and time again, my blood boils more furiously than a kettle because young children shouldn't get involved in sexist behaviourism which I highly disapprove amongst adults; how will the dilemma ever be found a cure if it continues to exist through the next few generations?

For the record, I'm not the type of person who will moan or complain about every single wrong thing because some opinions ought to be kept to oneself - in case she stumbles upon this blog, I referring to none other than Katie Hopkins - yet there is absolutely no way that I will back down on my views over women finally gaining the rights to speak out and discover freedom until it becomes a reality for every woman on the planet. If nobody agreed, would Pakistani teenager Malala Yousafzai have risked her life in order to grant every single schoolgirl the right to gain an education, renewing the debate for equality from all sides of the world? I have strong admiration for women and girls of a similar age to myself, as sixteen year old Malala has shown, because they speak up for those who are too scared or fearful of letting their beliefs be heard. If more women stood up for themselves, we - as half of the world's population - could finally banish sexism and destroy discrimination as it should have been done long ago.

Together, we are indomitable, signaling that the message ought to be spread if we are to stand a chance of dispelling the long-discussed myths of women being the 'weaker' sex.

When International Women's Day comes tomorrow, I won't spend the day thinking about discrimination or the unwanted prejudice which merely ignites a tenth of my lightning bolt temper. Being a young woman/spotty teenager, I only want to dedicate Saturday to being one single thing: me. I want to be so many things - a high-flying journalist, a cookery whizz and intellectual with an IQ of 140, all to name a few - but I swell up with indescribable pride at the prospect of reaching womanhood within a few years time. I love being who I am and my gender shouldn't stand as an undestroyable barrier at fulfilling my ambitions - as I've always believed, why should it?

Giving It Up: The Hassles Surrounding Lent

Last year, I made a resolution which, had my strength been a single level weaker on previous occasions, would have never been possible to fulfill: giving up my beloved bars of smooth, decadently creamy milk chocolate for six exhaustingly long weeks during the social event of the year, Lent. 

To my disbelief and my family's shock (or so I believed, considering that I'd somehow managed to polish off the last of my Christmas-themed pile of chocolate coins and precious bags of Revels before Shrove Tuesday rolled around the corner), I mustered enough energy - by probably draining the electricity sockets of sparky power, therefore landing myself with a larger-than-ever bill - to live without a single square of milky, cocoa-flavoured goodness until Easter Sunday arrived, signaling the end of a month and a half's struggle against my mouth-tingling demons. 

And as today is Ash Wednesday - otherwise known as the first of forty days and nights where you fully know that a hefty battle is preparing to begin against your addictive fetish for food, shopping sprees or whatever you choose to give up - I wish to dedicate this entry to the fascinating, yet slightly glum (for a sugar rush is strictly forbidden under my self-produced rules) subject of Lent. A moody, hormonal teenager like myself just enjoys bringing up the most depressing topics, right? 

Anyway, I was humming and harring over whether to participate in my chocolate-free spell of madness for a second year running last week as it suddenly occurred to me that the one day of the year when I can proudly declare my life-long penchant for thick (without any references towards a person's level of intelligence), fluffier-than-Bart-the-kitten's-fur penchant and lemon-drizzled pancakes means that Lent is sure to follow the day afterwards, so the pressure to make an all-final decision placed an agonizing weight above my shoulders. Compared to the current hassles of moving away in three or so weeks' time, choosing whether I'm in enough of a genial mood (which, as my brother has recently formed the irritating habit of discussing the ins and outs of Minecraft like there is no tomorrow, is becoming more and more difficult to settle into like a new pair of tightly squeezed shoes) to follow the crowd willingly and wave farewell to a beloved treat for several weeks ought to be a piece of cake, shouldn't it? 

Perhaps I ought to give up bringing up the mouth-watering topic of cake, homemade chocolate chip biscuits and anything found in the confectionary section at the wider-than-a-WeightWatchers-attendee's-waist Asda in town until Lent is over because I'm sure that there are plenty of you who are a million times braver than myself when it boils down to chucking half of your cupboards' contents in preparation of six weeks of semi-fasting and a strict ban on Chinese takeaways. Talking of which, the cupboards in the kitchen are in desperate need of being cleared out before my family and I move away because it is the very least of our intentions to bring a warehouse-load of Heinz baked beans and half-eaten packets of marshmallows in the limited space we have in the car. Therefore, steering clear of temptation like a perilously cheap bottle of hair dye available in the 99p shop isn't even a proper dilemma at the moment because avoiding an on-going battle against waste and an opportunity to have a last bite of Christmas shortbreads is higher up my list of priorities. And who, if the choice is laid out before them, would complain?

But like so many other things to which I cannot even put a name, forging something strangely new or tediously difficult gives free way to your weaker side to unleash itself upon your vulnerable self, especially as the matter is all but preying on your mind on a regular basis at the oh-so-hard beginning. I distinctly recall a pang of sadness hitting me like a wrecking ball (who ever thought that I would willingly make a reference to Miley Cyrus?) when an evening passed without a single bar of chocolate being ripped open eagerly by my cocoa-splattered fingers but, within the space of a few days, the initial rocky waves of disappointment passed as I placed my attention upon other matters - the rollercoaster-like after-effects of going cold turkey cannot drag your mood to an all-time low forever, can it?

So, I successfully steered myself clear of other treats such as shop-bought biscuits, sugar-laden ice cream and a specially-priced bag of liquorice allsorts until the forty days of my chocolate-free existence came to an end. By now, it would have probably been expected for myself to be dancing with a childlike delight at the prospect of eating a quarter or so of my chocolate egg within a matter of days, but the once-strong hunger which I specially reserved for chocolate had all but diminished: sadly, my sixteen year old cat, Tom, had passed away two days before Easter, leaving my appetite in a state of shock and disrepair. 

Although I did eventually gave into having a little bit of chocolate on Easter Sunday - regardless of however I feel, continuing traditions like those is an absolute must - the chocolate had lost somewhat of its sweetness and didn't taste as wonderful as I expected, instantly making me wish that I hadn't touched any of it so quickly after Lent came to an end. And then the truth suddenly left a massive impact on me: whatever chocolate I'd ever tasted within my lifetime, the variety which I had usually been consuming just didn't taste as great as I once believed. All along, I'd been craving the small percentage of cocoa which barely existed in my chosen Easter egg, so from that moment on I made quite a large lifestyle change which I continue to advocate to this day: milk chocolate, famously riddled with a high amount of teeth-rotting sugar, is not my friend. Dark chocolate has proudly become a vice which I don't feel too guilty about consuming once or twice a week because, unlike the majority of chocolate brands being stocked around the world, the health-benefiting cocoa finally has a chance to take centre stage.

Therefore, making a decision regarding the items which I plan to give for Lent this year has been fairly difficult, to say the least. A couple of days ago, I came across an article which praised the goodness found in cocoa, declaring that a small amount - as I preferably have - is enough to benefit one's heart. Traditionally, the food-related items which people give up for Lent are typically unhealthy - think of oil-cooked crisps, sugary cakes and the ten or so biscuits which you usually reserve for special occasions - and so I intend to carry on with this theme. Yet unlike last year, during a period where my obsession with milk chocolate had hit an all-time high, cutting out a few treats is definitely going to be easier than ever; I've chosen liquorice allsorts/marshmallows (when my hawk-like eyes are not looking in his direction, my brother will probably finish the bag) and milk chocolate (as a tribute to last year), so I think that I'll do pretty well without any of those items until Easter Sunday. 

I hope that any of you who have made the decision to participate in Lent will succeed with their ambition and benefit from the joys of gaining self-control - good luck!

Remembering My Furry Pals

After taking immense pleasure in lazing around the house and stuffing myself with as many doughnuts and chocolates as I wished during the just-gone weekend - Lent will commence in two days time, so I ought to make the most of the sweet time I have left! - today I feel as though I've landed on Earth with a massive bump, a subdued atmosphere hanging in the air.

On what would have been their 17th birthday (which would have enabled them to attend driving lessons, if they were not of the feline variety), my old cats, Tom and Jerry, would have gotten a year older today, but sadly they are no longer with my family unlike the year before. 

Sadness, bitter and undeniably sweet, lingers in the air this morning because it has suddenly hit me how heavily I miss my first two cats who taught me two of the most valued lessons which humanity - and felines, I need to add - has to offer: love and friendship. Even though I got my head around the loss of my furry pals a while ago, part of myself still expects to hear the singing soprano Tom complaining about his meals like a fussy pensioner and marvel at the gymnastic-style spring which propelled Jerry to jump onto the bed next to me, his louder-than-ever purr vibrating beneath my feet. Isn't it strange how a beach-like wave of grief is capable of overwhelming you without a moment's notice, like a bucket of ice-cold water being chucked on your face?

Apart from that, nothing else can truly describe the mixture of emotions which I'm experiencing today, but the only option available is to carry on like I've always done - and writing when no other trick works, such as baking a deliciously scented batch of chocolate chip shortbread cookies as I did a few hours ago, is sometimes the sole cure to freeing myself of the trouble-wrecking demon swarming like an army within me. 

Anyway, Tom and Jerry only ever wanted myself to experience happiness at its best and I've just discovered that there are plenty of things to be over the moon about - a few moments ago, I was recently informed of the thrilling news that my family and I are returning to a county where we felt happiest and have all but been utterly desperate to move to for years, but right now I'm in a sort of daze of which I can't quite snap out! What with everything which has been going on lately (most of which I'll discuss here when the time is right, in case your inner Nosy Queen is bursting with an eagerness to find out), I haven't really had any spare moments to collect my thoughts except during the hours I dedicate to exploring views of my own which I never knew existed within myself, yet I have a strange sixth sense that life will return to a stable, hopefully pothole-free path in time. Sometimes, a gut instinct is all which you can rely upon - and cheering myself up only counts as one of the many great things which lie ahead of me like a tray of cookies awaiting to gobbled up to my heart's (and relentless appetite's!) content. 

In the past, I have mentioned Tom and Jerry in old blog posts because their deaths provoked my family to embark upon a tediously long search for two male tabby kittens, whom you now know are called Bart and Benny and bring piles of joy to all of us thanks to their constant antics and loving nature. Although I would do anything for the Two Kits within a single heartbeat - from giving a chillaxed Bart a warm cuddle to retrieving Benny's beloved monkey wedged between two wardrobes, I've done it all - part of my heart will always be reserved for Tom and Jerry as they grew up taking care of me, as they were only a few years' old when I entered the world as a cute and fussed-over baby (or so I like to believe) fifteen years ago. Who would still feel attached to those who knew them literally inside out from the moment that they became part of society, receiving love and affection without asking for it? At first, my mum and dad were concerned that Tom and Jerry would grow jealous of me as there is a tendency for there to be a bit of tensity between a newborn and pets, but there wasn't any need to worry about it; with some guidance, Tom and Jerry accepted me as a member of the family and continued to love my younger brother and I until they passed away within months of each other last year. 

Until Tom died towards the end of March last year (which, without a hint of irony, was on Good Friday), I'd never experienced pain or grief like never before because efforts had always been made to shield myself from being inflicted with sadness, but this time nobody - not even my parents, who were as devastated as myself - was able to offer any protection from falling onto my knees in shock, bursting into tears at the slightest mention of Tom's name. Besides, how would have it been possible to run away from the sudden fits of grief and relentless spells of crying unless my bond with Tom had never grown as strong and special as it did? And for that, I can fully appreciate the time that I've spent as a home-educated student because it has given me the time to develop an all-powerful relationship with each member of my immediate family, including our cherished cats who were world-class experts in the subject of love; had I spent my days in a school with hardly a spare moment to spend with my family, I question whether I would've created such an undying love for both Tom and Jerry. Most of my most vivid memories of the pair were in the past six years, around the time when I began being home-schooled at the age of eight, and I would never trade them for anything else - even the long-coveted Louis Vuitton handbag cannot compete! 

Probably what I missed so much about Tom was that, wherever you were at home, you could always sense that he was lurking around somewhere (due to his ever-loving passion of food, he usually spent his days in the aromatic comfort of the kitchen) and nothing cheered me more than a rendition of his whingey songs - for years, I was under the belief that The X Factor was missing out on the newest singing sensation! But, in the end, I didn't want Tom to be in any more pain as it wasn't what he deserved; and the same applied to Jerry, except that he got ill out of the blue and passed away before I could even comprehend what was going on. 

During the six months after Tom made his way to Kitty Heaven, I relied on Jerry more heavily than ever because he was the only cat who could be the recipient of my affection, and I was beyond desperate to focus my attention upon anything besides grief, mascara-streaked tears and loss of somebody so precious to me. Like myself, Jerry had quite a subdued nature which noticeably reflected in his constant desire to remain independent, but he was always open to receiving a cuddle from everyone, though it quickly became clear that he had an oh-so-obvious special bond with my younger brother - unlike Tom, I think that he actually found football rather fascinating! For what he didn't have in terms of an outstanding voice (unfortunately, an nearly inaudible squeak was all which he could muster), Jerry certainly made up for it by lavishing all of us with affection, friendship and endless devotion throughout his entire life. And is it a wonder that I yearn to stroke his coarse, yet silky fur and feel my lips curve into a grin at the sight of his cheerful face one more time?

Whatever happens and regardless of the amount of years which are sure to pass by, I will always miss Tom and Jerry with an aching heart because they brought so much happiness to my life, but now Bart and Benny are offering me thousands of reasons to wake up every day with a smile hinting on my face - the legacy lives on, so I believe!

As a tribute towards my honorary furry brothers, my family and I are planning on dropping off a couple of sacks of old clothes at the local RSPCA shop in town, the charity from which we adopted Bart and Benny - which, as you may remember, were rescued after living semi-feralily for the first two to three weeks of their lives - back in December. Unfortunately, there won't be enough space in the car for my brother and I to travel with our parents, so I've posted a few pictures of Tom and Jerry down below as a display of their eternal legacy. Enjoy!

Here is Tom sitting on top of our old washing machine, undoubtedly content at reaching new heights! Compared to his brother, Tom was rather long and elegant, sharing a similar appearance to a golden-furred lion - his front looked like it had been dipped in gold! As I mentioned earlier, he had quite a fondness of sleeping in or around the kitchen area, where the washing machine was located - as if he could ever bear to be far away from the glorious land of food!

As you probably guessed, this is Jerry, looking relaxed and as chilled as cucumber whilst lying near the sunshine! To our amusement, he was pretty short (those paws of his were stretched in this picture, I think!) and had a curvier physique, but nonetheless he loved nothing better than spreading his happiness and enjoying the numerous joys of being a cat. Oh, I can still remember envying his easy-as-pie lifestyle as I got ready to go to school as a young child - a few years later, that green-eyed envy still didn't cease to exist!

Despite getting older, it wasn't a valid excuse to avoid getting to grips with modern technology and Tom became somewhat of a computer whiz whilst surfing the 'net in our old leather chair! Talking of which, he and Jerry used to enjoy jumping onto the desk and sitting next to our ancient computer, long before the fateful day when it broke down for good!

Could they possibly look happier in this picture? Without a doubt, Tom and Jerry shared an enormous bond and were the picture of pure happiness whilst sleeping next to each other in their baskets (unfortunately for Jerry, he always had to squeeze into an uncomfortable position!), so this picture means a lot to me.

Was he asleep or did he detest the flash on my camera? You decide! Jerry, by the way, was sitting next to my kitten toy, Marie (how do I remember my old toys names whilst failing to revise Algebra?), on a hot summers' night when I got the sudden urge to take a couple of cute pictures starring himself! As you can guess, Jerry always looked rather cuddly and used to remind me of a fluffy teddy bear - with super-sharp claws, of course!

My friends, my furry pals, my beloved brothers. There are so many words which I've called Tom and Jerry, but I can never quite settle on just one. As long their memory continues to live on, I will forever look back at the past with pride, happiness and gratitude for the time which I was immensely lucky to spend with them.

Happy birthday!

Childhood Classics: TV Shows

If you really were pressed to give an answer, would you truly expect a modern day teenager - many of whom are associated with attending rowdy parties (or so the war zone-isque pictures posted on Facebook suggest) and pretend to behave in a similar aura to an adult - to remain on good terms with their inner child? Even I struggle to believe it when I trot like a giddy racehorse down the local high street from time to time on a Saturday afternoon and catch a glimpse of girls my own age chatting and dressing in a manner which would normally be reserved for, well, older people, or university-aged students, at least.

In a manic blur of hectic hormones, first time romances and the typical ups and downs of growing up, teenagers usually distance themselves away from the eager and spot-free children which they once were a mere few years before. Why hold onto a long gone era - one where a trip to the paradise-like park with your mum and dad was the key to unlocking happiness, instead of receiving a friend request from your floppy-haired crush on Twitter - during your life which barely represents the person whom you are now or have yet to become? Besides, everyone always have a couple of memories which they only wish to hide beneath the sofa in the fear of their cooler-than-a-Cornetto friends laughing at their reputation-crushing expense; from chucking my toys out of my parents' bedroom window to nearly flushing my beloved Cheer Bear down the toilet (a highly embarrassing topic of which I wrote in my English essay the other day, strangely enough), I've gained the badge to declare that I've been a victim of embarrassment over the years, especially during a time when red-lipped Bratz dolls were all but playing on my mind and I hadn't gained valuable knowledge regarding the perils of weekend football. 

Yet, between the lines of Smarties-related shame - in my youth (come on, the inch-thick layer of eyeliner ages me by around three decades!), I was considered as a chocolate-devouring badass by helping myself to a few pink Smarties before breakfast was served - and feel-good nostalgia, I can somehow put away my unmentionable moments to one side and be moved by my childish antics, making a dramatic return to a time which I'll forever cherish. Sure, my tastes and interests have undoubtedly morphed into something which once upon a time would have been beyond my wildest and most vivid dreams, but it is as easy as slipping into a well-worn pair of denim jeans when the need to let go of my teenage dilemmas pulls me towards the easiness experienced during childhood - from time to time, falling back to my child-like ways (whilst still applying my eyeliner correctly!) is my secret anecdote to freeing myself of stress and going on a mini holiday within the realms of home. Or television as you'll soon discover... 

Would you go into wide-eyed shock if I told you that television is probably one of my most beloved memories of childhood, deeming it as wasteful space of time instead of getting some fresh air like generations before us? Yeah, there have been moments during myself when a slight tinge of regret has found its way into my conscience and I could've done so much more - such drawing a picture of chestnut-coloured ponies, a long-defunct hobby of mine - instead of flopping myself onto the sofa to watch the latest animated episode of Bratz after skimming through my ever-so-dull maths book, yet the programmes which I used to watch as a youngster are a fantastic representation of my then-interests and who I was as a pink-clothed youngster at the time. 

Even now I still experience a heart-stopping pang of sadness that hardly any of these shows - which I'll discuss in a moment - are no longer broadcast on TV or available to purchase on DVD (without making an expensive visit to the German Amazon website, as I discovered on one occasion), but memories will live forever, especially as they were such happy ones. Let's hope that my newfound fetish for the juicier-than-a-Granny-Smith-apple (surely my IQ ought to take my extensive knowledge of varieties of apples into consideration?) The Vampire Diaries won't diminish the few flashbacks I have left of my cherished childhood programmes...

Kim Possible, Disney, 2002-2007

When I was little, Kim Possible was one of my earliest heroines - strong, feisty and definitely an expert in packing one heck of a powerful punch, she was not only a fantastic character who still found time to go shopping and juggle the daily hassles of teenage life, but a role model upon whom I based myself to a certain extent. 

The show was about a high school student called Kim who can do anything - as her surname suggests - who is best friends with a boy called Ron Stoppable (really, the creators were pushing it a little with the name), and they literally go out of their way to save the world from the shows' main two villains, spikey-haired Dracken and green-tinged Shego. Describing it, Kim Possible sounds pretty farfetched in comparison to countless other shows which share certain similarities, but it was - and probably would still be, if the Disney Channel bothered to stop airing Camp Rock or whatever in place of this every night - a wonderful spectacle in my eyes. 

OK, I was roughly around the age of starting school when Kim Possible appeared on our TV screens and therefore had a decade-long wait until I even came close to morphing into a teenager overnight, but I strongly remember being enthralled with each episode I viewed. A wild mixture of entertainment and a dash of sarcastic humour (redhead Kim was renowned for her temper, in a rather similar manner to my own), it is no wonder that I count it as one of my favourite childhood programmes - at long last, it has been proven that girls like me truly can stand up against the enemies who threaten to destroy our lives, whether they are the most popular clique at school or a manic scientist hell-bent on harming the worlds' unassuming citizens. And never have a single hair out of place!

Recess, Disney, 1997-2003

Back in the late 90s to early noughties, Disney was practically the sole source of good entertainment for young kids such as myself - and Recess, which amusingly showed the lives of six fourth graders (the equivalent to eight and nine year olds), was no exception, an animation of which my younger brother and I continue to discuss and joke about to this day. 

Part of the reason for which I had a special fondness for Recess is that it offered me a glimpse into a school environment, which was a breath of fresh air because I began being educated at home at the age of eight, but it exaggerated the tales of what kids of my age would be getting up to - and, as almost all of the episodes displayed, it was never any good! 

My favourite of the pack of fourth graders - whom, in their way, were the equivalent to the Brat Pack attending elementary school - was a tomboy called Spinelli, whose sarcasm was an early inspiration for me, whilst the leader, nicknamed T.J., reminded me heavily of my brother because of his endless stream of ideas and loveable nature. And who could forget the angry Miss Fincher and her evil accomplice, the school snitch Randall? 

With this show, I've laughed and felt proud for the youngsters who fight for the one thing which everybody is entitled to have - freedom. The school system and jungle kings (well, somebody has to control the large playground might seem a little over the top, but young children - and my imaginative self - don't mind because it puts their dreams into some sort of an animated reality. Need I offer any more reasons? 

Bratz, 2005-2007
Before I even begin my description for this stylin' (no grammatical error there, if you recognize the informal language used by the characters) show, only two words truly define it: guilty pleasure. Unlike Kim Possible and Recess above, I feel slightly embarrassed to be talking about Bratz because it seems a million years ago since I last watched it without my cheeks flaring red, but it definitely counts as a memorable show from my childhood - and how else would I have ever been introduced to the bizarre styles showcased at London Fashion Week?
In case you never got your hands upon the dolls - which, at one point, were the main rivals against the plastic-faced Barbies, creating a legal war between the two manufacturers - the show featured the four original characters called Yasmin (the one with the Cindy Crawford-inspired beauty mark), imaginative blonde Cloe, fashion queen Jade and hip-hop bunny Sasha, who ran their self-titled magazine. However, I far preferred the 'villains' whose fondness of a horrid shade of pink was a running joke for the show's entire run, which featured the Editor-in-Chief of Your Thing magazine (which certainly wasn't mine!) and her two workers, the Tweevils, a.k.a. the two pink-clad twins with a peculiarly evil nature.
Far-fetched doesn't even describe Bratz to the full because every single episode pushed the boundaries to breaking point, but it was a pleasant accompaniment to my then-obsession of collecting the dolls and I was like a dog following a bone whenever my pocket money fund was drained enormously with each constant purchase of the episodes being released on DVD.
Some things are spectacular when the moment is precisely right, and I think that Bratz was suited to that category; in general, I'm just glad that my pocket money is now spent more wisely! 

Review Time: Hair Products

Although the fact might not automatically click with you like a switched-on light bulb, I, LikeATeen, am utterly OBSESSED with my hair and it is the key to securing my happiness, generating a more ecstatic buzz than a slice of homemade lemon cheesecake ever will (sorry, Mary Berry!).

From the very fateful day that my on-going battle against the batter-inspired grease began several years ago, I partly dedicate my energy towards searching for products which not only keep my hair under control (and as oil-free as you could expect from deep fat fryer), but revolutionizes my style to a certain extent. Who ever said that you had to stop having fun with your hair during the oh-so-tedious teenage years? 

As with 99.9% of the whole planet's population, there are certain things which I love with an undeniable passion, but wouldn't I be placed in the same boat as the seemingly perfect Hollywood stars by failing to complain about my small bugbears from time to time? Sure, I may not intend to bore yourself with moaning about so-called 'problems' which could be viewed as heavenly gift in a few peoples' eyes - whether we choose to face the truth or not, all of us will always hear a negative voice which declares that our arms are as wide as a bucket of KFC chicken wings or the hairs which we believed had been waxed never truly disappeared (sometimes, seeing is believing if an army of stubby hairs are on the prowl!) - but I would probably have to be one in a million to avoid being prone to periods of sadness over having a body which isn't quite how I WISH it could be.

Over the years, I've lost count (as the maths-detesting fool I am at heart) over the amount of times that I've prayed to a glittering star outside of my window and gritted my teeth against yet another spell of greasy locks placing a miserable damper on my happiness, taking one aspect of my body which I always loved out of my hands and into the unknown. It quickly became clear that if I were to win back what was rightfully mine, trialing several of the thousands of self-praising 'amazing' products aimed at greasy locks and beyond on the hair market was in order - regardless of whether the results were what I'd wanted or not! 

As you will read later, I finally found my hair equivalent of Prince Charming from an unexpected source and, despite being obliged to wash it every two days (in total, my royalty-treated mane receives three-to-four washes per week, so you needn't place a horrible image of the blocked plughole into your mind), I'm definitely more confident about my locks than I did several years ago! Please bear in mind that you must follow the guidelines for your hair type because everybody, as I probably have been declaring a little too much recently, is different - the rule applies for virtually everything! 

So, take this advice from a teenager whose hair is miles straighter than Justin Bieber's criminal record and now reaches below the shoulder, despite being cut into a razor-short bob in the past. Although you would initially my hair to get rather thin due to the relatively long length, I'm either struggling to see without my glasses or it is true - my hair looks thicker than I can remember it, and these words are coming from somebody who spends twenty minutes or so gazing at her glossy, just-washed mane almost every night! 

Alright, alright, I'll stop bragging about how fabulous (well, the word is rather fitting) my hair looks and get down to business: which products do and do not help greasy hair? Let's find out!

Alberto Balsam Juicy Green Apple Herbal Shampoo, 400ml, £1, Asda

Before I even begin, there is an ever-loudening stampede trooping outside of my bedroom, shrieking at the unbelievably cheap price at this shampoo, which I swear by! 

Although the price might raise a few overplucked eyebrows as to whether the quality is any less than a more expensive shampoo, let me clarify (as clearly as one can whilst immersed in an apple-scented haze) a few things: first of all, Alberto Balsam - a brand of which is pretty much sold in every supermarket and cosmetics store throughout England - uses herbals in their shampoos (I use 'their' because I cannot truly imagine that one single man created the whole operation) . OK, I'll admit that I find it pretty difficult to make out which herbals are used in the shampoos because reading the list of ingredients is as boring as translating a page of Latin, but who honestly cares if your hair becomes bouncier than a Premier League football within a single wash?

At first, I was hesitant against trialing the shampoo - the time of which took place over a year ago, shortly after Alberto Balsam began their takeover at the local supermarket - because my hair was in a pretty fragile state, what with the bucket loads of measly-looking grease and lank appearance taking its toll. However, my inner bargainista couldn't resist giving this shampoo a go because I realized that a wave of money-related guilt would knock me off my feet if the need to chuck the bottle away arose - thankfully, I never reached that situation!

Within weeks, I noticed a remarkable difference with my hair staying fresher and looking cleaner for longer, which became somewhat of a life-changing revolution because I had grown sick of applying a squirt of Johnsons Baby Shampoo (despite being as simple as a cast member of The Only Way of Essex, it offered no solution to decreasing my endless supply of oil) every few days and frowning at the confidence-destroying sight of a greasy lock several hours after washing it thoroughly. Happiness, without a doubt, found its way into my life as soon as I began using this shampoo and I haven't swapped it since because the once all-powerful need to do so has diminished like the career of a one hit wonder - why try something else if you have finally found what you have been looking for? 

In case you were wondering, the reason for which I chose the Juicy Apple scent is that the bottle recommended it for both normal and greasy hair, which isn't awfully easy to come across whilst searching for a standard bottle of shampoo. My dad has added another scent, one of which features the acne-improving ingredient known as tea tree oil (for once, it is a type of oil which you can safely use!), to his essential products and it works perfectly well for him, so I think that anyone could give the Alberto Balsam range a go. 

Sometimes, price doesn't offer a proper representation for quality and it is a lesson which I have learnt very well from this shampoo - as long as I continue to use it, I doubt that I'll ever complain about greasy locks again!

Bristows Hairspray, 300ml, £1, www.chemistdirect.co.uk

Without even placing you in a position to open your mouth, I do not use half a bottle or so of hairspray whenever the need calls for it, which is only on the occasions that I wish to tie my hair into a secure, polished ponytail - although I would question quite a few people about their hair-related habits!

For years, I've been familiar with Bristows because my mum used to have a massive, semi-die hard penchant for the brand, but I wish to clarify that she has since cut down on her use of this well-known hairspray; nowadays, I am the one who uses the whole bottle! 

You are probably getting the idea that a £1 theme is beginning to form here, but this truly isn't the case; as my mum only buys this strong-hold hairspray very rarely, I'm always unsure as to how much it costs, though I'm pretty thrilled that I can always afford to get more of it! Despite probably not sharing such a large fanbase like the L'Oreal Elnett range, Bristows does its job just the way that I expect and a waft of loose hair has never once stuck to my face, regardless of the numerous storms and downpours of rain in which I've unfortunately found myself!

As with any other hairspray, only an idiot would fail to open a window or switch on the extraction (although I struggle to reach the button above the door, my wannabe 6ft supermodel spurs me to stretch beyond my usual expectations) whilst using it because the smell is definitely strong, but my wonderful readers are bursting with common sense, am I not correct? Only a couple of short sprays are necessary to cover the wanted areas, then you are ready to walk out of the house sharing a remarkable resemblance to the old-fashioned model on the bottle - or so I always hope! 

In my opinion, you can't really find a better hairspray than Bristows and the sight of it when I was a young child will undoubtedly remain with me through the whole of my life - at least I no longer receive a stern telling off for using Mum's special styling product!

Mason and Pearson Hairbrush
For those of you in the know, Mason and Pearson have long received critical acclaim for their outstanding collection of hair brushes, which stimulate the circulation in your hair and helps to achieve the natural glossiness which makes anybody turn green with envy.
As I received my brush on an occasion where my dad was rifling through a box of old stuff, I cannot give a price for the type which I own because I have absolutely no idea about the size in which it would be categorized - without a doubt, it definitely cost more than what one would pay for an average hairbrush!
Yet this is a special case where one truly pays for what they get, and I'm constantly using it on my hair (well, one has to find something useful to do during their lunch hour, especially as I'm educated at home) which would probably be nominated as the understatement of the century!
Within a single brush, my hair looks glossy, shiny and oh-so-thick, a word of which can only be viewed a positive when associated with hair - the thicker, the better, I say! My only complaint is that it isn't ideal for getting rid of those irritating knots I'm prone to getting whilst washing my longer-than-ever hair, but it's a small price to pay - or not, because it was handed down to me!

Aussie Mega Shampoo, 300ml, £4.69, Boots
Whilst embarking on my search for the Product of My Dreams several years ago, I took a chance by trialling this popular shampoo by no other than the Aussie brand, who has been long renowned for its usage of kangaroo paw flower (seriously, I've never been able to understand what kind of benefits it offers to one's hair).
At first, my hair seemed to improve drastically by developing a glossy shine which radiated like a pair of diamond earrings reflecting in a mirror - in fact, I was using a bottle which my mum had found whilst going through an old box of beauty products, and I had absolutely no complaints with it because my hair somehow appeared to working with the not only grease-controlling benefits of the shampoo, but receiving the volume which I had so long craved to have. Back then, I was all but desperate to achieve a volumized look as regularly featured in my inspirational fashion magazines - whatever I ever wanted in relation to my ever-so-precious hair, nothing would stand in my way of fulfilling my ambition!
Yet, as soon as I squirted the last of the sweet-flavoured shampoo from the old bottle, my hair-related destiny had practically been written in the stars: despite purchasing the same product, I never managed to successfully the exact results which I had achieved beforehand, placing me in a worryingly awkward position. Due to my lack of confidence regarding the problems which I was 99.9% prone to getting with fellow shampoos on the market, I felt somewhat obliged to continue using this shampoo, despite sighing à la the hair-stroking queen Bella Swan on a daily basis whenever I caught an unfortunate glimpse of my lifeless and duller-than-New Moon hair.
Even to this day, I still cannot find a logical explanation for which my dream come true with this Aussie shampoo morphed into a tedious nightmare literally overnight; frustratingly, it never occurred to me that keeping the original bottle was a clever idea, so I'll never find out whether Aussie changed the ingredients sometime in the future.
On a brighter note, my dad - yes, he is probably the one who ought to trial almost all of my hair-styling products because of his fondness for my shampoos - was bursting with praise for the Aussie brand because he truly believed that his short, thickish (in this case, it's a compliment, I promise!) hair looked healthier, although he hasn't noticed a slightest difference since swapping to the Alberto Balsam range several months ago.
Depending on the time in your life and obviously the type of your hair (when I was around twelve or thirteen, my hair was oiler than a serving of carrot cake; have you ever wondered why teenagers never like getting up in the morning?), not every single product guarantees the results which you seek and perhaps I'm not in a good position to complain about my unfortunate experience with the Aussie shampoo, especially as I've finally gained control over the production of my hormone-fuelled oil.
I've since learned that I should only choose shampoos which are specifically aimed towards greasy hair - if you've ever since this bottle, you'll quickly learn that the words 'oil' and 'grease' don't feature anywhere on it!

N.B. Considering that I appear to have an undying penchant for all things associated with shampoo, I truly don't need to use a conditioner to keep my hair moisturised. The reason why? Bearing in mind that I've been struggling against keeping my oil production to a relatively normal level since I hit puberty around five years ago (the early bird catches the worm, me thinks), adding the usage of a conditioner to my hair-cleansing routine would have secured the destruction of my plans to improve the appearance and health of my hair - regardless of what anybody or yourself may believe!
A larger-than-recommended squirt of shampoo more than does the trick for myself because it neatly covers what I could be missing out from a conditioner, and it is a practice which has always worked well; depending on what it is, some things are best unchanged! At this stage, I'm not interested in rocking the bottle because I've reached a point where my hair has settled down (as much as you would expect whilst tiny whiffs fly into the air like static) and adjusted to its stable cleansing routine, and as I'm placing my attention upon the damning dilemma of coping with spots, returning to my former grease-related issues is a thought which I needn't contemplate.
At long last, I feel proud about being blessed with my longish mane of chocolate brown and thicker-than-a-hardback-book hair!