Whirlwind of a Year: Defined Moments

Standing in front of the mirror in the main dustier-than-a-spider bedroom, I can't quite tell if I'm a ghost of the person I was a year ago. Hmm, my legs - the ones of which never see the hair-free light of shaving creams because they always turn the colour of uncooked spicy sausages - barely look any longer, so my dreams of transforming in a teenage brown-haired Jerry Hall have all but been dashed for all eternity. As for my face, the same trouble-making spots continue to terrorize me like the free shipping offers being sent from the H&M website, hardly ever offering me a welcome break from the hassles I've endured on a near constant basis.

Yet, as I've realized within the space of three hundred and sixty five days - unless using a calender is beneath your Jimmy Choo-clad feet, I mean a year - that one not only changes in appearance, but within oneself as a person, and the truth about getting a year wiser really brings everything home to me on a grander scale. As I've discussed on past occasions, losing two of the most valued pals in my life - furry feline brothers Tom and Jerry - within six months of each other last year literally knocked me off my feet in shock as I've fought a struggling battle against containing my emotions, but time brought an ease to my grief and I slowly, yet not entirely, let go of my sadness relating to saying goodbye to the friends who were there when I became a part of the world and grew up into the young woman I am now.

Although there still remains a certain stigma towards those who declare a love more fierce for their pets than for human counterparts, I'm proud of expressing my relentless admiration for animals because they continue to offer the companionship which we naturally seek, and spending time with my two six month old kittens, Bart and Benny, releases a sense of pride which only purely felt love can touch upon. But the past year hasn't just been based around letting go of what I'd known for the first fourteen years of my life and opening my heart to two new cherished members of my family, quite a few lessons - both as easy as passing a French exam with flying colours (I'm not joking when I declare my ability to translate a page of French) and more difficult than what I had ever experienced - have been learnt off heart which, without a doubt, have broadened my outlook on life itself and what it ought to represent to every one of us.

Despite not being blessed with the ability to skip back twelve months or so to lead my life as a fourteen year old, I roughly remember having one foot stuck in the path leading towards childhood and another teetering towards adulthood, feeling more uncertain and insecure than what I'd ever imagined as a youngster. As marketing makes more of an effort to appeal to teenagers through high school based novels, first love films and MTV-inspired music - due to being classified as independent in making our choices and a few years free of university fee-related worries, companies are desperate I'm still at a loss as to whether anybody understands teenagers on a whole.

Teenagers may often be depicted on screen and are somewhat of an inspiration for the world in which we live today - if that wasn't the case, would The Twilight Saga have ever stood a chance of breaking box office records? - yet no hard-hitting novels or angst-fuelled songs by grunge legends Nirvana can truly put an adolescent's up-in-the-air feelings into words. Even I, a self-professed lover of the Collins dictionary, faced a hard struggle whilst rummaging through the adjectives section because nothing described what I could latch my hands upon and feel a part of - call it a moody blues stage or whatever, but my ever-expanding mind was undergoing the biggest changes of its lifetime, and I was being cornered into a smaller-than-the-litter-tray room where I had run along with the times or be left behind. Growing up at that time only represented one thing: difficulties.

Whether getting to grips with my first-ever wave of grief propelled me to leap into action or I eventually grew sick of contorting my lips in a semi-permanent frown, I somehow pulled myself out of the slumber in which I felt torn apart from the world and set upon the path which I'm still following, taking one step at a time. In certain ways, I was indeed awake - my eyes were wide-open, if you question it - yet still half-asleep or whatever, but there came a time when I threw my fist-balled angst down the drain and breathed a taste of unpolluted, cleansing air. Some things, such as being ready to bang my head against the solid wall at a moment's notice, need to be released, and the opportunity to clear myself of mood-associated issues arrived at the right time. For that, I owe plenty towards Tom and Jerry, whom I hope are having a ball (or knocking back the pints of double cream with an eager relish) in the land of Kitty Heaven, as they left a very valuable lesson in their wake: don't hold onto what is no longer necessary. From bitter-flavoured anger to years-old leaflets from a nearby shopping centre, I cleanse myself bit by bit whenever I get rid of something which no longer represents a value in my life, and it could partly be owed to my packing boxes of late - as I've found, it's a lesson which keeps on giving!

As a teenager who likes to believe that I'm equally a smug-faced know-it-all like my spikey-haired animated muse, Lisa Simpson, I don't take it likely when I'm stood up by someone or something, especially as I'm quite firm in staying true to my beliefs and values. Yet recently a new gift has arrived on my doorstep and as each day passes by, its value continues to increase whilst lifting my spirits to an euphoric, if not platinum level: hope. Having mentioned the boring nature of packing boxes and placing my teddy bears in rather tight positions (don't worry, I won't exactly specify what), you can tell that I'm going to be moving soon and the date is set for Friday week in ten days' time; I couldn't possibly be more anxious about getting prepared in time for one of the most stressful, yet thrilling journeys of my life!

But before faith became an acquaintance of mine, it was fair to say that I was running out of it and had reached an all-time low because all my problems gave the impression of piling into one massive heap: I didn't know if I would be moving into the house of my dreams because certain circumstances played a vital role in securing the property, which led me to believe that I would be preparing for yet another round of disappointment on the one crazy roller coaster known as life. However, I was rather taken aback when it became clear that the house would indeed become ours - as I hadn't allowed myself to hope for it because I feared that I would be left disappointed, obtaining my dream-like home came as a massive shock and taught me that having faith can lead to happy situations.

Tomorrow, my family and I will be travelling over a hundred miles to sign the paperwork to officially become the proud new tenants of the property, and I'm literally buzzing with the excitement about the prospect of my new life on the verge of beginning shortly; within a couple of weeks, Little Brother (LB) and I will be returning to school after receiving a top quality education at home for the past seven years, and it means yet another change to my way of living. But, unlike being forced to live without a boiler during the November chill last year, this change is a welcome one, along with finally having my own en-suite!

My mum once told me that there is a seven year cycle in life and, bearing in mind that I have lived in the same property for almost seven days (I'm just a few days short of the full seven year term), I'm starting to believe that she is right. I'll only start singing from the same hymn sheet if it applies to my spotty skin, which developed its first blemish in the same year - perhaps some faith will offer the cure to my oil-rich issues!

Furthermore, I feel more confident and happier about myself as a fun-loving and smiling teenager than I did a year ago, having gone through both the best and worst experiences which life has to offer. No matter what, my heart will always pine for Tom and Jerry because they showered me with affection and furry cuddles, but in death they left me a priceless gift: the true meaning of love. Being a teenager, as you've probably heard one too many times, can often be deemed as a difficult stage within one's life, but now I'm appreciating my youth because it only lasts once - come on, there are so many times that I can obtain a grin-inducing thrill through (legally) purchasing 15-rated films at Asda! Moving into my new home next week has created more excitement than the buzzing atmosphere at a One Direction concert because it ticks another thing off my imaginary list: starting a new and oh-so-happy life.

It seems strange how so many things - such as tucking into my first and definitely not-the-last serving of KFC last week, writing my first novel and of course creating my own space (a.k.a blog) within the realms of the internet - can take place in just a single year, but that is way that life goes. I hope that I may get a rest from life's mighty lessons for a little while as my head is still spinning from the ones I've just learnt - but everything, I now know, will be alright.

Unless my brother gets BT Sports, that is.

Best Thing Ever: Chocolate Brownies

As you may well know (and have been bored to a near-traumatic death on several occasions), the hungry-as-ever teenager that I am has always had somewhat of a love affair with chocolate, instantly receiving a pick-me-up from a single, finger-licking mouthful. To many, it may strike one as extremely strange to go all gooey-eyed over a square of food which, in all honesty, isn't particularly friendly towards your waistline - and is often cited as a reason for which half of the population have become victims of yo-yo dieting - but it purely displays my appreciation for the delicacy, which I limit as a twice weekly treat.

Since donning my first pair of baking gloves around a year ago, I've had the joy of following recipes which not only make me drawl like Homer Simpson setting foot into a Krispey Creme store, but excite the rest of my family, who inevitably help themselves to whatever I make. From my failproof gingersnaps (in our household, the more spice, the better the flavour) to old-fashioned cherry cake, I've tried my grease-covered hand at a wide range of recipes which have thankfully been deemed as a success most of the time, yet I almost always find it irresistible to include my favourite cocoa-tastic ingredient if such a spectacular occasion arises - after all, don't we humans experience nothing quite as joyful as indulge on our sweet tooth?

After enduring a more exhausted-than-expected week piled high with packing cardboard boxes, travelling over 150 miles to view my family's soon-to-be-ours house and getting my head around my upcoming return to mainstream education (for the record, I'm still wandering in a shock-induced daze), baking something thousands of miles away from my current palette of issues struck me as a type of therapy, except that a bowl of butter doesn't really count as a medical remedy. Like miming the lyrics to Rolling in the Deep on my laptop on a late Saturday night, I have long included baking as a form of relaxation which enables me to be freed of life's daily hassles for a few heavenly sweet (if you bear the amount of sugar used in mind) hours, whilst doing something more productive and skillful than being glued to The Vampire Diaries for one evening.

And as I rifled through the ever-emptying cupboards earlier this morning, my brain - which, correct me if I'm wrong, was still fast asleep in snooze-mode, unwillingly to awaken to yet another warm Spring day - immediately came to life, recreating the electricity-draining resurrection scene from one of the many Frankenstein films which I could never be bothered watching. Thanks to splurging on a one-time-only offer in the chocolate aisle at the supermarket several months ago, I still had quite a couple of Ivory Coast dark chocolate left and had been struggling to think of ways to use it up before I move late next week - despite being a proud member of the chocoholics club, even my cocoa-obsessed self would quickly grow sick of tucking into my favourite treat night after night!

So, my mind switched into action-mode and a lighter-than-usual recipe for chocolate chip brownies rushed to the surface, captivating my attention like the singing cat advert currently being aired on TV (believe me, the UK shows the craziest advertisement campaigns in the world!). Beloved in their native America, brownies are somewhat a hybrid of a cake (for its spongy, cake-like texture) and a biscuit (whoever thought of this one, I just can't understand it - fudge-inspired brownies are not crunchy in the slightest!) and have become a true baking statement across the world, inspiring a legion of variations which cater to every taste. From milky white chocolate-flavoured blondies (without any association with the legendary 70s' rock singer) to tangy cheesecake-frosted brownies, it can be pretty overwhelming with the varieties of brownies which are popular amongst various audiences - yet, as I often feel about food, the simplest flavours have a tendency to be the best, and I'm unashamedly in love with chocolate chip brownies as the cocoa is all that my hunger craves!

Although a lot of bakers tend to lean towards following recipes given by a particular chef or celebrity cook, I don't particularly limit myself to just one person because, like many, I'm always on the lookout for more creativity and indeed variety! Saying that, my mum has been a keen follower of British celebrity cook Delia Smith for as long as I can remember and she has collected if not all of Delia's books over the years (Cookery Course is where I gained the idea for baking gingersnaps/gingernuts), and Mary Berry has recently claimed the much-coveted title of a baking icon thanks to her appearance as a judge on The Great British Bake-Off, making delicate butterfly cakes and old-fashioned biscuits suited to today's modernized style of baking. But I personally make an effort to steer clear of recipes which feature a vast amount of butter and sugar, an ingredient of which many studies have linked to obesity of late, as I don't want to wake up with a pang of guilt ruining my enjoyment of a rarely consumed treat - one can only become familiar with indulgence without taking it too far, right?

Despite swapping my original brownie recipe for smaller amounts of butter, sugar and sadly chocolate (that practise automatically waved goodbye to my hopes of snacking on squares of dark chocolate for the afternoon) several months ago, the results - if anybody bothers to notice - are exactly the same, if not tastier! Even when it comes to giving into temptation from time to time, I take nutritional values to heart because they needn't be forgotten at all times - and what is the problem if the flavour hasn't been sacrificed at all?

Even to this day, I don't quite know why I go weak at the knees at the slightest mention of brownies - sometimes, one may think I look like a bowl of wobbly jelly - but it represents yet another side of home-baking which reminds me of love, effort and a seriously good cooking skill. From chocolate chip cookies to even a brownie cake (perhaps I'll have a hint of two brownie cakes within a week), the chocolate-related fun seems endless, and that's how I always want baking to be!

As taken from Rachel Allen's brilliant cookbook, Cake, down below is the recipe which I've used on several occasions, resulting in a fudgey and oh-so-moreish texture. Don't blame me if you can't bring yourself to stop!

Ingredients
100g butter, sliced into cubes (in order for it to melt quicker)
125g caster sugar
100g plain (dark) chocolate (personally, I prefer a bar containing 70% cocoa solids; it neither sacrifices on the rich flavour or a hint of sweetness)
100g dark chocolate chips (though a bar of chopped-up dark chocolate is also fine)
75g self-raising flour
1tbsp (tablespoon) of cocoa powder (Bourneville powder works well)
a pinch of salt
3 eggs, beaten

Method
1. Preheat the oven to 180c and grease a 20cm square tin with 5cm sides (a napkin coated in a Flora vegetable spread is just as good as butter).
2. Break the chocolate into small pieces and place into a bowl with the butter over a pan of simmering water, melting the ingredients gently until the chocolate looks glossy and lump-free.
3. Take the bowl off the pan and leave to cool for a few seconds before stirring in the sugar and pinch of salt.
4. Add the beaten eggs and stir vigorously, then sift the self-raising flour and cocoa powder into the bowl and mix, eventually stirring in the chocolate chips.
5. Pour the mixture into the tin with a spatula (this enables the excuse to lick it clean later!) and even the sides in order to keep it level.
6. Place into the oven carefully - a trip to A&E with burnt fingers is not a wise idea - and bake for 30-35 minutes until a skewer comes out clean.
7. Take the tin out of the oven and leave to cool in the tin. As soon as those chocolate-fuelled hunger pangs become too much to bear, loosen the edges of the tin and place the brownie on a sheet of greaseproof paper (you really don't want to be told off for messiness by your mum!).
8. Cut into either 16 and 32 squares, depending on how many brownies you crave.
9. And what else do you expect me to say? ENJOY!

The Things I Love to Hate

Would I honestly be remaining loyal to my snappy-as-an-Instagram-selfie tendencies if I failed to let off some heated steam every now and then? Don't worry, I'm hardly bothered about biting off more than my fang-shaped gnashers are capable of chewing or banging my head against the wall in the heat of frustration, but instead I will write about my scarily opinionative views in a calm(-isque) manner: in my eyes, writing is as soothing as lying on your yoga mat for an hour, kidding yourself that stretching your strained muscles is a proper means of shifting those pounds.

Without a doubt, there are plenty of things which I love with a capital L - my ever-growing obsession of handbags is visual proof of this oh-so-true theory, if you've had the misfortune of taking a peek in my overcrowded removal boxes recently - and I never feel happier than when I'm performing a task which doesn't provoke an irritated groan to escape my lips, such as, um, peeling the sprouts (personally, I like to believe that I'm entitled to stealing a few after being boiled) and rummaging through my old photos and drawings, intrigued by how I got away with very messy handwriting at the tender age of six. Why complain about being unable to visit Paris if I can take an instant trip down Memory Lane by seeing pictures of myself at various times throughout my life?

On a whole, my personality enables me to fall in love with certain things rather quickly - hardly a good sign if a bar of indulgent chocolate is lying within a five mile radius - but this doesn't mean that I can never be infuriated or sense a wispy steam of black smoke coming out of my ears; my erratic hormones have long proven otherwise! From mushy peas which look more disgusting than Bart the Greedy Kitten's furballs to Sky Sports News succeeding in their domination over the television every weekend, I could write several books - heavier-than-a-Biggest-Loser-contestant hardbacks, mind you - about the various things which ignite a fury that the world has never laid their eyes upon.

If world famous moaner Karl Pilkington has taught me one thing which my enormous Algebra book failed to include amongst the baffling equations and misuse of letters, having a moan is key to releasing anxiety and ridding oneself of the stress which has a tendency to build up to the drastic point that only a needle can burst the invisible balloon pressuring your emotions. In simple-as-baking-a-pie English, I mean that moaning or indulging in negative discussions can often lead to feeling happy - how can one live contently if their troubles are constantly bubbling underneath the surface? Once I spit my dislike of turquoise eyeliner out into the open, nothing is standing in my way of moving onto something more fascinating and less likely to add to my overflowing plate of teen-related issues.

Like the packets of Doritos which many seem immune to stop eating at parties and on the sofa, one's feelings about anything will be released sooner or later, whether you are on friendly terms with your emotions or not. Lots of people appreciate the uplifting joys (and feel-good factor, if you can sympathize with my guilt over gobbling a cream-topped butterfly cake without heading to the local gym) of exercising because it allows them to take their minds off whatever is being a cause of needless bother, but everybody has the right to find their means of letting off some steam in a healthy and preferably violent-free way.

As you can tell from the amount of entries I've posted since last Halloween (according to my calculations, I've almost written seventy pieces!), writing is definitely my first-choice cure for battling against troubles and returning to the welcome embrace of freedom, no longer a prisoner being plagued by my life-long dislike of bumble bees. Baking is another favourite remedy of mine which usually guarantees a rush of oven-heated pride after seeing the finished product in all its delicious-looking glory, but even putting my head into a punctuation-themed quiz in my English schoolbook offers some time off from stress taking my breath away.

Since starting on packing away three quarters of bedroom several days ago, I've been becoming more and more stressed about the following fortnight which awaits me: in twelve days' time (28th March, if you don't have a calender to hand), I will be waving goodbye to the home in which I have spent the past seven years of my life and will move to another part of the country within the space of a single, yet extremely long day. My mind is already racing at a 100mph because I cannot stop thinking about the tasks which I need to do next - but I don't even know which ones they are! So, in comparison to packing away literally everything I hold dear, immersing myself in a secretly loved hatred of Barbie dolls can only be viewed as a positive at the moment, and each minute I spend here is counted as a blessing - one of which needn't be disguised!

Before I dare to move onto the topic of stuffing my beloved teddy bears amongst my now unused handbags (if any of them are thieving pickpockets, I will surely find out), down below are things which I, a teenager whom has an undeclared penchant for disliking them, love to hate. At last, I'm having a proper Grr! moment - I thought it would never come...

N.B. In order to avoid receiving a lawsuit from the county court, I will not extend my sharp-as-sour-lemons opinions to real people or any companies which can actually afford the costs of going to court. Sometimes, certain views - even the ones which I'm dying to share with you - are best kept to oneself. Unfortunately.

Old papers: Since making a resolution to rifle through my drawers and the numerous cupboards across my bedroom, it is fair to say that I've come across old papers - from drawings to diaries I kept as a youngster, I mean anything on paper - and most of it has been thrown into the bin, never to see the light of day ever again.
What annoys me the most about these old papers is that once I sit back and finally relax after an exhausting day spent with my head stuck in a dusty drawer, another lot of unwanted pages appear out of thin, which only adds to my excessive workload. What joy I had earlier throwing away printed pictures of my one-time country pop idol Taylor Swift whose songs and albums I no longer listen to nor own - when will my pre-spring cleaning hell reach an all-final (it better be or my fiery temper will make a rare, yet memorable appearance) end?
My face - usually on a par with a fair English rose -  nearly turned the colour of a cherry tomato when I read through my near decade-old writings about my primary school friends, many of whom I lost touch with years ago. Ouch. And I haven't even discussed my scribbly, unintelligible handwriting which was a pain to read, if I had to say the least - oh, the endless agony!

Minecraft: If you have never heard of this popular video game, I envy you with a glare which would turn anybody into cool, solid stone.
Since my little brother received his beloved Xbox 360 console on his birthday last year, he hardly does anything other than eat literally a whole bag of my Revels in a single sitting, sleep until past eight o'clock in the morning and play this game to his heart's content.
Despite being a self-confessed Sims lover, I still can't figure out why people enjoy sitting on their backsides for half of the day whilst playing a video game - wouldn't you become an inhabitant in the Land of Boredom after a while? Yet LB (little brother) utterly adores Minecraft because it enables him to do one thing which he cannot legally do on a noisy housing estate: build a property.
No, no, LB hasn't gained the legal qualifications or whatever necessary to use cement and bricks, but nothing prevents him from using his equally-vivid-as-my-own imagination by building a house via a couple of virtual blocks and wood. Even I have been pretty impressed with his work on the occasions that I sit on the sofa next to him, being lectured on a thousand objects of whose existence I never realized.
Perhaps what I hate about Minecraft is that I secretly like it, which definitely goes against all the rules of loathing; the piano music makes a vibrant change from the typical rock-inspired tracks played in the majority of boys-themed video games, and I have a fondness for several of the tracks which stay in my head long after they are over.
And, ahem, I need a brother to annoy sooner or later. Some duties are compulsory to be performed and Minecraft appears to be distracting LM from starting his annoy-LikeATeen shifts. Well, he has to work in order to gain his pocket money, right?

Saturday Snooze: Schoolbags

Since receiving the ever-so-exciting news of returning to school several days ago, it has been a struggle to say the least regarding to achieve a sense of normality as I begin packing away half of my possessions (and discovering that my once-tatty decorative leopard sofa was a mirror/jewellery box in disguise) and getting ready to lead a life completely different to my current one. Within less the space of a week, all of the stressful circumstances of setting in a new home have been thrown into the air like a sticky pancake being tossed onto the ceiling on Shrove Tuesday; if I didn't have the opportunity to write to my sanity's content, I wouldn't doubt letting go of my self-control in a manner which I'm rather keen to avoid.

As I constantly keep reminding myself (whilst revising the contents of my thicker-than-a-Scotch-pancake French workbook), c'est la vie and certain cases are likely to be found during our long journey throughout life, though tossing out a wooden broomstick which my brother amusingly bought for me several Halloweens ago wasn't exactly one of those occurrences that I ever expected to come across (and picking up the messy twigs should not have been my main priority, considering that I never even liked the stick). Like never before, the clock is ticking and apart from listening to snippets of Pure Heroine on YouTube every now and then as an instant pick-me-up (a square of citrus dark chocolate merely offers a tiny helping of happiness, mind you), all I can strain my ears to hear is the loud, nerve-wracking sound of a clock getting nearer and nearer towards me on a daily basis.

If there is a spare moment, that precious time cannot be wasted, regardless of the undeniable amount of hours I would spend chucking away unwanted items and becoming more irritable than Hulk's sharp-tongued girlfriend in the extremely long process of getting prepared for the day when my seven year tenure in this house has reached an end. And in case you were wondering whether I'd only offered myself to the dull-as-plain-wallpaper task of rifling through my drawers, I'm glad to say that you couldn't be more wrong: whilst I'm still getting my head (at the moment, I'm taking as long as a malfunctioning bank machine to process anything which is told to me) around setting foot into a secondary school for the first time, I've immediately leapt onto my laptop and have started to search for every single item I need.

From miniature English dictionaries to flat-as-a-bubble-free-Cola shoes, I never realized that there were so many items which were necessary to gaining a top quality education, knocking me off my feet to say the least. Due to having not yet applied for a place at the schools in my soon-to-be-inhabited town, I'm still in the dark about which school I will attend and since embarking on a tiresome search on Google for the schools in the area, I still feel none the wiser about which rules will apply to me.

Don't get me wrong, the very last thing I'm likely to do is to walk into my new school whilst clad in Gucci's latest collection (to my fashionista's disappointment) and breaking all the regulations by donning a set of vampish red nails and failing to carry a suitable bag which would fall apart at the slightest touch. Watching the entire series of the BAFTA award-winning Educating Yorkshire last year should have informed me of certain trends (if the Tango-orange fake tan suggested a hint about the popular styles amongst girls of my age), but I was far too mesmerized by the students getting away with wearing midnight black eyeliner and facial piercings that I didn't take any notice of the one object which I'm desperate to obtain: the ideal schoolbag.

Bearing in mind that if schools don't allow second ear lobe piercings (unfortunately, I fall into this criteria after getting my piercings last summer - with my parents' permission, of course) or an au natural nude lipstick, I believe that a smart, yet stylish schoolbag would offer a subtle indication to my style without breaking any of the fragile barriers which apply to the regulations at an ordinary school. For years, I've witnessed students at the local schools carrying colourful bags which share a startling resemblance to the bags taking the catwalk by storm so I cannot see how I could receive the unwanted title of a rebel by, in a sense, following what every other student appears to be allowed to do. It's just that I'm dying to find out whether I'll get a place at my chosen schools, though it is likely that I'll have to wait until next week because of the on-going weekend; the sooner I know, the quicker I can find a suitable bag which doesn't guarantee a spell in detention!

For the meantime, though, I'd like to offer my selection of backpacks - after much consideration, I doubt that I would come across many problems with storing kilo loads of homework in a backpack, unlike a smaller, yet more attractive handbag - and found out which ones you would personally choose, if you were placed in my position. Even if certain colours weren't allowed, it is still nonetheless fun to include them because I do have my head stuck in the clouds most of the time!

As for finding a pair of flat black shoes, I'm trying to put off the task for as long as possible because there isn't a thing I loathe more heavily than standing on a flat level; so much for growing three inches within a year...

N.B. Due to my lack of expertise relating to uploading pictures from certain websites, I have been left with no other option to direct you to the sites selling the goods, which has sadly spoilt my dreams of adding some pictures in today's entry. If only Blogger was a more common feature on the 'Share' button!

Black Metal Tip Croc Panel Backpack, New Look, £17.99
Ideally, I'd love to choose this backpack because it, if I must be truly frank, has it all: black is typically a desirable colour at the majority of schools, yet this backpack manages to give a hint of stylishness thanks to its croc-patterned design, a style of which I've always been eager to try.
Originally, the mink-coloured version of this backpack caught my eye because I do have a penchant for brighter colours, yet this black one fits the bill perfectly because it certainly looks the part.
The only downfall is that New Look - a popular shopping chain amongst young women and teenagers, whose accessories and shoes units are second to none - haven't listed the measurements of this bag, which has left me none the wiser about whether I'd be able to pile tons of A4 papers into it without falling victim to the risk of breaking what I would deem a beautiful product. A trip to the local store in the centre of town will probably be necessary if I do consider getting this bag - fingers crossed that it is available!
http://www.newlook.com/shop/womens/bags-and-purses/black-metal-tip-croc-panel-backpack_298691601


Converse Back To School Mini Backpack in Lacy Skull, £12.50, USC
Ever since I fell in love with fashion several years ago, my inner gothic chic has been dying to be awakened and brought to oh-so-glorious life; in other words, I have a secret, yet vivid passion for skulls and never seem to walk past a shop selling skull-patterned clothing or accessories without adding it to my wardrobe. If you were to ask me, I'm not quite sure why my ears prick like a cat whenever I hear about a skull-themed item, but that is one of the countless quirks commonly found in my personality and I've obtained a decent pair of Butler & Wilson earrings out of it.
So, in an ideal world where rules were not as dangerously strict as they currently are within schools, it wouldn't take me a heartbeat to purchase this backpack because the skull print screams me! me! me! all over it. Whilst browsing the website by pure chance earlier, I almost fell out of my seat when this backpack was shown on screen, making all my dreams of finding the artistically perfect backpack a near reality.
Also, it is currently on offer at a cool £12.50 which I wouldn't begrudge spending because Converse - a world-famous brand of which, despite owning a pair of lookalike trainers, I particularly like - offers enormous value for their products.
Maybe I'll buy this backpack when the time feels right and I know that a stern telling-off isn't likely to occur. A skull-loving girl can dream, right?
http://www.usc.co.uk/converse-back-to-school-mini-backpack-704442?colcode=70444202


Hype Space Backpack, £24.99, Asos
As always, online fashion retailer Asos never fail to disappoint with their uniquely styled products and this space-themed backpack, by American brand Hype, is an accurate example of this point, giving the main rivals on the high street a run for their money.
Never have I been interested in all things related to astrology and space; if one dared to bring the topic up, it wouldn't come as a massive surprise if I fell into a deep sleep within seconds! Yet this print proves otherwise because the colours look extremely pretty and feminine, whilst keeping a certain level of mysteriousness as I doubt that it is a style which many people recognize.
Plus, I would be in double heaven if I could find a backpack of this size as I've been greatly struggling to come across a plain, boring-as-Shakespeare backpack which appears strong enough to hold half my bedroom for more than five seconds.
Personally, I would be at a lost if this backpack was deemed inappropriate because sturdy bags are supposedly preferred at schools, meanwhile the print shouldn't truly be deemed as a problem - by the way, isn't space recognized as an educational subject? I rest my case.
http://www.asos.com/Hype/Hype-Space-Backpack/Prod/pgeproduct.aspx?iid=3844604&WT.ac=rec_viewed


New Look Dandy Formal Backpack in Mink, £17.99, Asos
Sometimes, plain is best and as I naturally lean towards more formal styles, this backpack would be staying true to my minimal-loving personality whilst adding a hint of office-smart style.
Although I constantly claim to have an eternal loathing for the colour pink - and all the brands of bubblegum available on the market - mink somehow slips through the net because it doesn't remind me of Barbie's funhouse or her eccentric pink lipstick, which is always welcome as I distance myself from childhood toys and games during my teenage years.
Despite being placed on the lower end of the high street, New Look nonetheless produce some great pieces with their accessories and bags ranges, regularly picking up awards for their up-to-date styles and fashion know-how. Whatever time of the year, I always prefer more neutral colours and patterns to the overly bright and garish prints plastered all over magazines during the summer months, and I would feel pretty content to be holding this backpack on my way to school. If only New Look could publish the measurements and I would be one happy customer!
http://www.asos.com/New-Look/New-Look-Dandy-Formal-Backpack/Prod/pgeproduct.aspx?iid=3555145&WT.ac=rec_viewed


Hannah Zip Front Structured Backpack in Black, £22, Boohoo.com
Like Asos, Boohoo.com is an online retailer and stock all the fashionable items you need - clothes, jewellery, hats and bags - but only sell items from their brand, one of which has been gathering a rather strong following since being launched in 2006.
Although I have never purchased an item on their website (a couple of months ago, it almost became the case but my chosen bag was unfortunately out of stock), I have certainly been keen with their clothing and indeed handbags, and this backpack immediately caught my eye like the supermarket offering a one-time-only deal with a chocolate Lindt bunny.
Similar to the plainness of the New Look bag discussed above, there are no wild-as-Ibiza prints or garish colours with this backpack, which gives the impression of being a crossbreed of a neutral Prada handbag and an office-suited backpack. Yet if my fantasy of carrying a skull-patterned Converse bag was to be dashed, I would happily make do with this backpack as the sense of style hasn't been diminished in the slightest.
Whether you are aware of it or not, perhaps the plainer an item is, the more profound and beautiful it truly is. Let's hope that Boohoo stock it this time, eh?
http://www.boohoo.com/new-in-accessories/hannah-zip-front-structured-backpack/invt/azz34765

Moving with the Times

After a day of being thrown up into the fog-polluted air and acting on impulse by overindulging on continuous bags of french fries, I'm back to where I belong - at home, sitting by my desk and typing faster than the speed of light. 

On the off-chance that you were wondering where I had disappeared yesterday - for the past week, I feel as though I've been spending almost all my time in front of my HP laptop, logging onto Blogger seemingly every five minutes - I can securely inform you that I had in fact been spending hours in the back of the family car, growing tired of the oh-so-dull sight of green trees and acres of farmland on the motorway. The reason for which I woke up at the crack of dawn (no kidding; within moments of stumbling out of my bed, I applied a thicker-than-the-Les-Misérables-book line of eyeliner onto my lids) and travelled all the way to literally the other side of the country was that my family and I had found the new home of our dreams. And, as I write with my hands shaking with immeasurable excitement, I couldn't imagine feeling happier than ever - seriously!

Without going into too much detail (unless you fancy reading this until midnight or whenever), there was no question regarding my steely-eyed determination to view a property, one of which is located in a quaint, yet modernized village - if you can push aside your initial beliefs regarding small-town villages, you and I may become the very best of friends - and my efforts to get there at all possible costs were thankfully rewarded when my family and I fell in love with the house as soon as we saw it, failing to give the pictures we had previously seen online any justice. 

To my astonishment, the Little Brother (LM, for short) didn't start a nasty argument over whom would get the largest bedroom because he was already over the moon with his chosen room which, if I had to be entirely honest, is slightly larger than my own. Yet would I, the older sister who had claimed control over the choice of bedrooms in the past, allow such a rare opportunity to slip through my fingers without a fight? Well, let's say that I got what my heart had desired for such a long time - an en-suite. 

Many of you may question why a small bathroom has become a prominent feature in my dreams, but if you had to deal with the excessive amount of cleansing and nurturing which I dedicate to caring for my body, I think that you would find it within yourself to understand my wish to have a small place where I can wash my hair (and use as much shampoo as I want without being slapped on the wrist for using one too many apple-scented squirts) and apply my mud-like honey and cinnamon facial mask without becoming the unfortunate victim of litter tray-related jokes. And wouldn't everyone in my family appreciate having some extra spare space in the bathroom without my shop-load of toiletries taking up half the room? 

Although I may not like to recognize the fact (for the inner little girl inside of me is oh-so-fearful of receiving a stern telling-off), I can create somewhat of an inconvenience for others due to my passion of obtaining a glossy, salon-inspired shine on my hair. So, despite offering my brother the itsy bitsy larger bedroom without enforming a one-off payment as an acknowledgement for my generosity (aren't I the nicest sister in the world?), part of myself believes that I got the better deal - for the whole household's sake, if not anything else!

Okay, starting a love affair with my en-suite isn't the end- and be-all with moving to a new property, but it was certainly worth driving over a hundred miles to visit the place which I will be proudly calling my new home - as I said before, I was determined to latch my hands upon it before anybody else saw it! Moving away from my current home to an entirely different area in the country represents more change than I have ever known; as I will be living in an area which offers outstanding and satisfactory education, this means that I will definitely be making a return to school, bringing my seven years as a home-schooled student to an end. 

With this news, I feel a mixture of emotions which are whirling around like a candy floss mixer - of course, I'm really looking forward to attending a secondary school and forming new friendships, yet a couple of jittery butterflies are swarming in my stomach at the prospect of starting something alien to me. Most of the time, I embrace change because it is a common feature of life itself and is practically unavoidable, regardless of whatever you do, but at the moment I'm getting my head around the fact that several routines - such as writing on blog at lunchtime in my bedroom, for example - will either be altered or finished in several weeks' time. 

Before the thought even pops into your mind, my return to mainstream education does not mean that running this blog will cease to exist - far from it, I believe! As more and more teenagers set up websites, I don't see why I should give up a hobby which gives me as much pleasure as gazing at Louis Vuitton handbags on Google; the only difference will be that I appreciate the spare time which I have, and I can obviously share my new, yet exciting life as a Modern Teen with you! 

For now, I'm spending any spare moment to packing away my books, CDs, etc before my family and I move away which, if any of you have ever moved, couldn't be a more boring task; at least I'm not the one who has to carry the muscle-straining box containing my possessions! Also, nothing can put my relief of avoiding deep-fried food into words after gorging on two servings of french fries and a packet of spicier-than-a-red-hot-chilli chicken from KFC which, believe it or not, was my very first purchase from the world-famous fast food chain! Needless to say, I will definitely pick up another snack pack from KFC when my family and I return to the property early next week, the day of which we will receive the keys and become the new tenants of the house. Yay! 

So, I hope that your eyebrows don't rise to the tip of your hairline if I steer clear of my laptop for the next few weeks because everything which is currently going on in my life is taking centre stage; until I come across my long-lost English dictionary, I don't think that I'll be able to find the words which truly live up to my excitement of turning a new leaf and securing the happiness which I have a right to claim as my own. Hopefully, in a months' time, I will be settled in my new home and will have unpacked all of my possessions, including my laptop - as soon as I have a bit of free time, I will log onto Blogger and chat away about my life as I always have here! 

What surprises me the most that, at one dark point, I feared that I wouldn't find a home which ticked all the boxes and guaranteed the one thing which I had been searching for: elation. And, as the countdown to moving out begins, I feel more and more elated by each minute - long may it last!

I'm Lovin' It

Food. My heart beats excitedly as I type those four letters, a hunger recently quenched by a heated bowl of leftover pasta rising to the surface as though it had never left me all, releasing a cat-like growl from the sugar-coated darkness otherwise known as my stomach.

Yes, I'm really sad, aren't I? Not many girls would compare their stomach rumbles to those of their angelic-looking, yet frightfully violent cats, one of whom possesses the freaky power to scare a black eyeliner-clad teenager away into a pigsty of a bedroom, though I kinda guess that there are plenty of reasons which make me stand out like a sore, cocoa butter-coated thumb.

Let's get one thing clear: however much I may wish to hide the evidence of yet another devoured bar of creamy dark chocolate, there are unfortunately not enough excuses in the biscuit-dunking world (well, doesn't everybody do that with their drinks, albeit an exception for fizzy cola?) to deny my twinkly-eyed passion for food. Yeah, being a teenager and giving into temptation on the basis of my still-slender hourglass physique might count as an acceptable excuse for devouring on beloved treats, but unlike those who supposedly gain an ounce of pleasure (and hopefully not in the unwanted form of weight) by sticking their hands into a box of sugary Pop Tarts, I'm sent to heaven and back when a square of chocolate - which, in case you haven't quite grasped the oh-so-honest truth, is my favourite food on this planet, after boiled/roasted vegetables and my mum's traditional Sunday roast - hits the tip of my tongue, melting into a spoonful of paradise within the cocoa-splattered haven situated in my mouth.

Without needing to lift a sticky finger (except to pop another square or edible substance into my mouth in a similar manner to a tongue-flashing snake/twerking Miley Cyrus), I've grabbed onto a delicious platter of happiness within the grasp of a packet, though my love of food does extend beyond the supermarket's mile-long display of half-price Mars bars in the confectionary aisle. Otherwise, why would I even be bothered to discuss a life-long love of consuming food with pleasure if I could place my ever-so-steady attention upon a box of yet-uneaten shortbread biscuits instead?

From honey-roasted parsnips to fluffier-than-my-kitten's-fur vanilla marshmallows to the oriental-inspired stir-fry I cooked/fried (however you wish to view it) as my birthday meal last week, I'm passionate about food from almost all categories and, as I've grown to take notice of in recent months, that passion has all but strengthened even more since I began to participate in the preparation and stages related to placing the finished product onto the jam-encrusted table. At this rate, I wouldn't collapse onto the paper-thin carpet in wide-eyed shock if I successfully applied for a place at the prestigious Cordon Bleu cookery school in the très beau Paris because nothing appears to be preventing me from gaining cookery-related skills and increasing my appreciation over flavour and quality, which, if you happen to stick your head out of those sprinkled cereal bars, is quite an enviable skill to possess. If you share any similarities with my cocoa-sniffing self, I mean.

Even when a groan escapes my lips whilst stumbling out of bed at the crack of dawn, I'm powerless to quenching my desire to race as gallop faster than a Grand National-winning racehorse down the perilously deep stairs towards the safe haven of the kitchen, grabbing a bowl of sugar-free muesli with a sweeter-than-imaginable apple added on the side. Basically, I find everything associated with food intensely fascinating and, as schools ought to remind our takeaway-chomping students, basically fun, from the very moment I get the ingredients out of the fridge to the time I sit down and am transported on a free ticket to wonderfully flavoured heaven within the realms of my not-so-Michelin-starred home.

A large cookie-sized chunk of the reason for which food conjures such a happy feeling within myself is that I associate it with the time I usually spend with my mum, who - just like millions of mothers across the world - has lent me her knowledge to cook a meal and one mighty chocolate fudge cake through preparing and making with heartfelt love, an emotion which I traditionally try to remain in touch with whilst grumbling about my revoltingly onion-scented fingers as my brother receives no demand to offer help out. Plus, I probably would've stood absolutely no chance of becoming somewhat of a kitchen whizz if my mum hadn't already gathered a lifetime's worth of cookery know-how, which is a rather sad truth within today's obesity-led society - whether we choose to recognize the truth or not, do we not develop habits similar to those of our parents, even the ones related to what goes on in the kitchen? So, as I tuck into a homemade apple crumble and allow the sweet, warming flavours of the stewed apples and cinnamon explode like a firework display, that smile detailing my satisfaction is partly owed to my mum and several well-known chefs, whose recipes have become classic within my dazzling sea-blue eyes.

Perhaps it's due to being proud of my traditional British heritage, but if you were to be transported to a normal, tanning salon-packed high street in my native country, it would be pretty hard to avoid coming across a shop - whether it be another store in an ever-popular chain or independently-run family business - selling food of all different varieties. Although I haven't picked up a so-called 'freshly-made' sausage roll from the local butcher's (which, if you think about it, is hardly the kind of place that a clothes-shopping teenager wants to hang out, is it?) for years, you needn't look far to find people carrying a slice of pepperoni pizza in their tomato-splattered hands or sitting down on an unclean bench to tuck into an iced doughnut. My seemingly affection for food all but comes to a drastic stop whenever I catch sight of an oily, disgusting takeaway meal being promoted in a leaflet which, to my misfortune, is often delivered as part of the junk mail on a near-weekly basis - I may sound like the hugest lover of food when chocolate and jacket potatoes are brought up in a conversation, but I couldn't run further from my ever-increasing disgust of cheap ready meals and nutrient-lacking Pot Noodles! As long as I stay in the safe comfort of home-cooking and artificial-free clutches of occasionally eaten sweets, not even the most calorific lamb kebab is capable of preventing me from grabbing onto my cake-shaped slice of bliss; those euphoric five minutes solely dedicated to temptation heaven on a starlit evening needn't be disrupted rudely because I feel, what's the word, untouchable, rather like that Ivory Coast bar of dark chocolate which I always nag at my brother to never ever eat as I rightfully claim it as my own!

So, once I hit a certain age, am I destined to lose all of the appreciation which I've gradually built around food, waving goodbye to a stably developed relationship? If anything, there wouldn't have been any need to hold a surprise party if I followed the path of numerous teenagers by gorging myself on bars of Snickers for breakfast (or so is the attitude in modern-day Britain), strengthening an all-powerful hatred of healthy vegetables and vitamin-rich fruit and devouring plates of pizza as though there is no tomorrow, but determination has thrusted me upon a path which I'm proud to follow, which only maximizes my enjoyment and pleasure surrounding food to a whole new level. But come on, I ought to remain true to my age from time to time, right? A pizza - one of which, I stress, is prepared with fresh vegetables and a light sprinkling of cheese (to the shock of many, the smell of strong cheese provokes a need to wear a gas mask, which I unfortunately don't possess) - is only bought as a treat around once a month, whilst I am making an effort to control my hunger pangs over chocolate as Santa-shaped chocolates can only last for so long.

I'm a teenager living in a modern-day world where food is consumed all the time. The only difference is that I make a difference to appreciate it whilst the mouth-watering moment lasts. How about you?

How To Be Like Me - The LikeATeen Way!

Before the thought even crosses your mind, I doubt whether it is likely that anybody or anything (sorry, the spine-tingling thrilling second season of The Vampire Diaries) can prevent me from logging onto my laptop and chatting nineteen to the dozen on blog at the moment, so any hopes of my staying well clear of Blogger have just been dashed - what would you expect me to do if there isn't a hint of the sunshine bursting through my window for the duration of this cloud-tastic day?

Immersing myself into the starry-eyed pleasure of writing to my heart's content, this colourless (if you've bothered to catch the weather forecast), yet pleasant day has inspired me to discuss one thing which never stands a chance of boring me to an oh-so-painful death: myself. Yes, LikeATeen has switched on the brag-till-you-stick-your-fingers-into-your-ears mode, but definitely not in the irritating ways which immediately come to mind.

You see, long ago I accepted that not every single person fighting a Facebook addiction or surfing the internet like a Hawaiian surfer is a young, wrinkle-free teenager like myself, despite the title of this blog proclaiming otherwise. Regardless of one's age, Life as a Modern Teen is a website which everyone is entitled to accessing, particularly if my grammatical skills are appreciated (am I the only person who screams with anger at the ghastly sight of text speak)?). And so, in order to get you into the mood of this blog's profound message, has the thought of not only learning about, but also thinking and behaving like a teenager ever occurred to you? Please, I don't want to be blamed as the culprit for a legion of pensioners being arrested for skateboarding near the local supermarket, a hobby of which I'll specially reserve towards my exercise-mad brother (well, he does love everything sold in Sports Direct, after all), but my idea of being a modern teenager are rather realistic and similar to the ones which many people can relate to.

Perhaps to the shock of adults everywhere, I have no itching, uncomfortable-as-a-pair-of-skinnier-than-Keira-Knightley's-waist-jeans desire to attend drink-fuelled parties or create a scrapbook-load of memories which I'd spent a lifetime trying to forget, yet would struggle to shield myself from the cheek-flaring flashbacks of losing all remains of my sanity. Even today I'm not quite sure what those embarrassing memories would be - a quick look at Katy Perry's Last Friday Night music video can only offer so much inspiration, you know - but there is only a slim possibility of my 'skinny dipping in the dark' and anything else ever taking place in real life!

Despite sounding almost as dull as eight year old brainiac Lisa Simpson or the glasses-wearing Saffy in Absolutely Fabulous, I can assure you that I was indeed born as part of the current Generation Y (for I am a nineties baby after all) and have been exposed the joys of modern living - how could you possibly get closer to living in the 21st century if a fail-proof Kitchenaid mixer is counted as one of your trustworthiest pals?

At the end of the day, I am who I choose to be and my teenage years - if you get past the spot-related trauma and the atmosphere-dampening moods which surely follow - have indicated that my personality and sense of self burst into existence like a blueberry muffin exploding into a cake-like beauty in an oven. And here, I'm going to tell you how to be like me - and what other way is possible than the one in which LikeATeen specialises? I'll be honest that the transition has not been an easy one and undoubtedly still has a couple of hurdles to leap over, but, like my parents have a habit of telling me, Rome wasn't built in one day!

I just hope that my little brother makes an effort to avoid my blog as usual (along with his lunchtime hobby of creating an unsaveable building on Minecraft, YouTube + Pewdiepie = no free time) otherwise I will have another moody teenager on my hands...

1) Scare your brother: In order to claim the title of a strong, not-to-be-messed-with teenager (a.k.a. moi, of course), sending chills of fear down the spine of your younger sibling - or in my case, a younger, yet annoying taller brother - commands authority and makes you feel surprisingly powerful, like the CEO of a successful business.
OK, I may not have super-duper aspirations to be the next chairwoman of Apple or the most respected businesses at the moment, but I do like to receive some respect from a person who irritates me more than anybody else in the world: my brother. After years of being landed into trouble because of his misbehaviour, age and a hint of adolescence annoyance have taught me quite a few things which are not necessarily found in one's GCSE Law book; in order to place one in their place, laying down the rules is a must, and that is exactly what I've done with my little brother in recent years.
From kicking him near his nuttier-than-a-bag-of-almonds area to threatening to grab hold of his beloved Soccer School trophies, I've finally got my message across to him - despite struggling to see the TV behind his bushier-than-a-tree head, I, his older and fantastically dressed sister, am the boss. Or so I like to believe when I thrust my fist in front of his eyes as he places one marshmallow too many onto his desert-dry lips at lunchtime.
Yet, as he has increasingly gotten stronger and is now in the running to appear in the next Marvel blockbuster, I'm questioning whether I scare him as much as I used to as a young child. Watching Alien multiple times must cure one of nail-biting fear, right? For now, I'll be looking for new tactics which will work as effectively...

2) Laugh, Laugh, Laugh: If I hadn't realized this secret years ago, my face would permanently be contorted into a miserable frown, which would certainly quicken the aging process in years to come (ah, the fears of getting your first wrinkle scares me more than the trailer for The Exorcist!).
In order to survive being the butt of jokes and the unfortunate victim of my brother's games - saying all of this probably makes my brother look like a cackling villain when, in fact, he is the best friend I could ever have - I came up with an idea which has so far taken my life by storm: laughter.
Despite what you may believe, laughing about falling prey to embarrassing situations is the cure to maintaining some self-respect because people do appreciate those who keep their sense of humour intact - and who wouldn't? If Jennifer Lawrence can get away with falling over twice at the Oscars with a massive grin on her face and become one of the most famous women the world because of it, I guess that the same is applied to myself though I have yet to receive a single ounce of fan mail.
Also, laughing supposedly helps you burn off last night's Chinese takeaway, which makes it seem far more appealing than stalking around the house like a gothically dressed ghost. Next time I tuck into a plate of fried chicken balls and rice, I hope to watch a comedy film afterwards - who would have the desire to swell to the size of a greasy ball of moist chicken? Laughs away!

3) Switch your brain on: If there is anything which I find more annoying than the tuneless vocalists somehow getting to the live finals of The X Factor, it is certainly behaving like a headless chicken - in other words, failing to use your brain to its highest ability.
Considering that most of us are destined to live for quite a while, we should aspire to achieve the most as we can whilst we are still living on this planet which, if the dangerous pollution levels suggest anything, is quite a wonder.
Playing down your intelligence to fit in with a certain crowd only stands out as one thing to me: stupidity. Did you read that? If you claim that you didn't, there is no possible way that I'm likely to repeat it - you know what I said. According to modern legend (or what many American high school films feature, to my annoyance), those who live up to their full potential at this particular age are immediately branded as 'geeks' and 'dorks', both of which seriously don't deserve a place in the English language.
Why should people display such frightful hatred to those who are making the most of their brain? Therefore, I stopped caring about what others think about me years ago because only one thing matters: staying true to myself. And if it means that I stand a higher-than-Mount-Kilimanjaro possibility of winning some money on a game show, that makes it even better!
You see, it definitely pays to be smart and the teenage years are the best time to strengthen your skills beyond a level which many don't deem as believeable. My blog is proof of this soon-to-be-famous fact, though I, um, haven't earnt a single penny from complaining about my complexion-related issues. Yet.

And finally (as a second round of rich tea biscuits tempts me), 4) Run a blog: From the offset, I definitely knew that this one would be on the card because running this blog has come to define me since I set it up last year; every other day, my family peek into my room (if I even realize it) and see me staring at my reflection on the screen, thinking of how to construct another paragraph or a witty anecdote which I'm willing to disclose to you.
Depending on the subject of your blog, certain rules apply when running it but if you were to create one vaguely similar to mine (please don't become a copycat - those felines are sincerely unwelcome!), I have quite some advice for you:
1) Be as natural as a Hollywood superstar can be whilst doing their shopping in their ultra designer clothes. In other words, write in a tone which you find comfortable and allows your writing ability to shine brighter than a Tiffany's necklace. Which I still haven't received.
2) Never feel tempted to follow the crowd because a particular style is trending; as you know, seasons change and so do interests, which makes a website solely dedicated to Justin Bieber's expanding criminal record a rather pointless idea. The best blogs are those which stay true to their original causes and don't strike the readers as a rip-off from another website which they may follow - and who wouldn't agree?
3) Live and breathe your passion for writing! If you're wondering why I dedicate such a chocolate bar-sized chunk of my time towards running my blog, it is purely down to my love of jotting down my thoughts and expressing my creativity through the all-mighty power of language. Also, I reckon that your English teacher would be pretty thrilled that you are using the skills he or she taught you in your spare time; perhaps an Easy A is only a blog entry away from becoming a reality...
4) Needless to say, don't think twice about using correct grammar and punctuation. Like stuffing a bag of salty Doritos down your throat, it is an absolute, no-questions-asked must. Enough said.
5) And, if you don't mind, I'd quite love to be some sort of an inspiration. I, LikeATeen, rather fancy the idea of becoming a writing role model - it would probably be the nearest I would get towards enjoying fifteen minutes of fame!

Oh, and I almost forgot one thing: have fun. No, I'm not just talking about running a blog or whatever, but it applies to every single aspect of life. You might not think whilst staring at your teacher's back during French in the afternoon, but life is supposed to be enjoyed and appreciated whenever possible - and now that you've realized the true meaning of it, why don't you search for your perfectly sized piece of happiness?