Modern Life: Is any of it essential?

As the creator of a blog which is solely dedicated to following the life of a modern day teenager, one would rightly expect me to know a thing or two about what surrounds us in this day and age, especially as I'm bound to use some of it to my own advantage. Indeed, I jump up and down with delight whenever Apple announce the latest edition to their iPhone range, despite it dawning upon me long ago that, unless my weekly pocket money of £5 increased dramatically (in line with the cost of living, of course), I wouldn't stand a chance in ever forking out enough money to buy one of my own.

Although the things which would attract a teenager as naturally as a clothing sale at Topshop (yet another costly expense, discounts included) are unsurprising at my age, my inquisitive nature knew that it wouldn't take long until I would begin to question the reason why certain aspects of modern day living are deemed to be essential - after all, aren't food and water vital sources in keeping ourselves alive? If the Flintstones had ever lived to witness the day that the internet went viral, it amuses me to imagine whether they would give up their caveman ways and convert to how we techno-junkies - and let's not forget that addiction lies amongst other areas, too - lead our lives in 2014. But if a bottle of grease-controlling shampoo had not yet been created in the Stone Ages, I wouldn't decline such an offer to leave that way of living firmly in the past...

For as long as I can be bothered to recall, hearing the words 'life was better in my day' from people of an older generation sometimes forces me to doubt whether living in such a technically advanced world is a benefit to all of us, especially when dramatic improvements in medicine, living standards and the availability of various products have been a highly influential part of our evolution in the past hundred years alone. Quite often, I feel as though not only my generation - who, once we have used up all of our acne-reducing cleaners and sorted through our adolescent angst, will eventually take over the country - is under threat, but also the era in which we are growing up, particularly as critical comments are targeted towards the modern day standards of living.

Whether we acknowledge the truth or not, life itself will never fully live up to the delightful image we create in our minds, though there will forever be aspects of long-gone eras and modern traditions which will either cause disruption or be a source of joy. But, on the whole, I'm grateful for living in an era where we have access to whatever we need and want - often with a click of a finger. And although being slumped on the sofa whilst watching a Premier League match is not necessarily the wisest way of increasing one's intelligence, I believe that people are smarter than ever because the tools needed to break the barrier preventing us from discovering life-saving drugs are no longer out of reach; as time goes on, research into cures against diseases, cancer and life-threatening conditions ought to become easier, which is one of the greatest things about evolution.

Yet, as too many of us have either realized at one point or is eager to ignore for as long as possible, modern day life is ever riddled with gadgets, features and creations which, in past decades, would have been slumped into a pile of needless junk. And, considering that plenty of what is lurking in our houses is hardly used or remains in its original packaging, these age-old beliefs needn't be forgotten - but when should we turn our backs on what evolution has made possible, and what articles in question does this practice apply to? In age where self-indulgence has become an every day part of life (sadly, I've learnt this the hard way thanks to my hidden stash of chocolate goodies in the kitchen cupboard) and more and more people struggle to conjure the strength necessary to beat temptation, addiction is as familiar as a well-known face which, when the time is right, must be dealt with.

So, does anybody fancy going cold turkey from Facebook for a month? As if I led myself to believe that Facebook-addicts would give up their accounts for several weeks; in several incidents, young people have been diagnosed with an actual addiction to the social networking website which, as many only assume that alcoholism and substance abuse require medical attention, is extremely worrying. Read on for more addictive issues - I hope that yours isn't among them...

Internet: As millions upon millions of the world's population surf the internet on a daily basis, it is fair to say that the internet is now as commonplace as the cups of steaming hot tea which are brewed every day in the family kitchen (obviously not a habit of mine, for the sake of caffeine addiction). Writing this entry requires an internet connection, so I'm getting my hourly burst of Google Time at this very moment, proving that I don't give a second thought to logging onto the 'net and surfing it without treading foot in icy-cold water.
Since the World Wide Web was made accessible to homes in the early 90s', our love affair with the internet has gone from strength to strength, especially that the young generation - including my own, as I was born just before the Millennium - are growing up with it, having not known any different. Despite technology going through leaps and bounds in the past decade alone, it is slowly lost its scary-to-use image, making it more appealing to middle-aged and older people who may have otherwise missed out on this very modern phenomenon.
Simply by clicking a button on a mouse or keypad, the internet transports its user to the very heart of a digital database, thrilling them with a wide choice of websites to visit and numerous services which would never have been created had the internet never come into existence. For example, would TV-streaming services such as Netflix have achieved success around the world if the internet remained an idyllic, but impossible fantasy in one's imagination? In many ways, the internet has produced thousands and thousands of offspring which have flourished in their own right, yet still owe their success to having an internet connection.
Yet, if my beliefs are correct, have we gone too far with the internet which, in certain circumstances, can be the sole root of one's personal issues? Although various websites which promote online dating may mostly be a benefit to those unlucky in love, it doesn't rule out the possibility of a situation spiralling out of control; of course, the internet holds no responsibility in how one may use it, but it doesn't take away the fact that, had it not been created, several incidents may never have happened at all.
Having grown up with the internet and used it from a young age (with parental supervision, though I mostly reserved my searches to the Bratz online fan club), my parents have stressed time and time again to be cautious about what I disclose online because, almost nine times out of ten, it usually cannot be erased after declaring it. Perhaps if I didn't get my head glued in horrific stories where lives have been lost due to young children meeting up with so-called online 'friends', my wariness on the internet might ease a bit but, having been brought up with a head screwed on tight and showered in common sense, I would prefer to feel that way than being dismissed as the most naive girl on the planet.
Sitting on a screen and being entertained brings pleasure to many people - including myself - yet the thought of strangers abusing this service plants a deeply rooted fear within myself, especially as nobody has the powers to prevent it. And, as my question asks, if trouble and criminal activity is often associated with the internet, should we be stepping away from it or keeping a steadier eye on others' motives?
As I only use the internet for the right purposes - none of which threaten to throw my morals in jeopardy - I will carry on using the internet because it is a valued source of education, which I count as an essential. But everything which goes with it? The world can live without the unnecessary features - and we know it.

Celebrity-endorsed diets: However hard that parents steer their children - typically of an innocent and impressionable nature which somewhat exists to a smaller degree during adolescence - away from what could potentially catch their eye, one would have to wrap their child in cotton wool to protect them from the dangers surrounding diets, most often endorsed by celebrities whose figures are as skinny as a fat-free celery stick.
Being female and at a time when my body is gaining Beyoncé-style curves, I disguise the facts that even my clued-up self gets conscious about my appearance from time to time - and when pictures of ultra-beautiful women are plastered over almost all the magazines aimed at my age group, who wouldn't be surprised?
One modern-day battle which the feminism movement has unfortunately failed to win is destroying the Photoshoped image of beauty for once and for all - although it couldn't be more obvious that celebrities adorning the latest cover of Vogue haven't said no to a bit of airbrushing, these false illusions often prey on the minds of the most vulnerable girls and boys in our society. Ever wondered why diagnoses of anoxeria nervosa and bulimia are on the rise for both sexes? Even men are unable to escape the trap which encases insecurity with our looks and, as fad diets have proven over the years, our weight. And it needs to stop now.
Although plenty of celebrities don't openly endorse a diet or, in some instances, don't even follow one, it irritates me beyond belief that there are several who make no secret in limiting their calorie intake, especially when their bodies couldn't look more perfect to the naked eye.
From Jennifer Aniston's calorie-free Atkins diet (bad breath anyone?) to Gwyneth Paltrow's carb-avoiding rules which even extends to her young children, the world has been awash with A-List stars who clearly have nothing better to do than to think about themselves 24/7. After all, isn't that what their jobs enable them to do? While many of us 'normal' people might find immense pleasure in devouring a decadent chocolate cake, various celebrities lean towards to over-indulging in their self-obsessed ways which, after making themselves appear high-and-mighty when discussing their size 6 figures, in turn we begin to judge ourselves as we wish to live up to Mother Nature's image of ideal beauty.
Ah, life is an exhausting cycle and so often leaves us exhausted, but do diets - most of which have been criticized by doctors and researchers alike - endorsed by celebrities contribute anything positive to our lives? At the end of the day, if a celebrity is getting paid to promote a diet or spread the latest trend sparked around Hollywood, it's a case of needs must to bring dinner onto the table (if they even eat it).
A job is a job, yet it is a step too far for people who may not realize the consequences of depriving their bodies of essential vitamins and minerals. Appreciate your body and treat it like a precious jewel - but slimy green smoothies? No, thank you!

Deep fat-fryer: Thanks to my mum occasionally switching a particular shopping channel which sells warehouse loads of Tefal deep-fat fryers, I often find myself questioning its usefulness in an era where, despite obesity levels rocketing through the roof and you needn't look far to discover a takeaway, plenty of people are conscious about the amount of fat they consume.
But, as a heads-up to the fabulous comedienne and Fashion Police star, Joan Rivers, here are pieces of her classic wisdom which, even when my cravings for KFC become too much, I return to again and again, though it wouldn't surprise me if Adele's lawyers were to sue me in the near future: "Rolling in the deep? She should add fried chicken?"
Now you know why deep-fat fryers should cease to exist immediately!

Social networking sites: As soon as I started to type my first words on this entry, it dawned upon me like the morning sunrise that the subject of social networking sites would be brought up at one point or another as it is indeed a vital part of the media, internet and of course its users in today's society. Why else did the famous celebrity selfie at this year's Oscars' ceremony break records around the world?
After having a full-on debate about it last year, I made a resolution to not create an account with the likes of Facebook and Twitter, purely by the horrifying cases which have been convicted in the past few years alone. Although I did sign up to Google+ when I joined Blogger last year, I have no interest in using the account as, unlike Facebook, hardly celebrities use it, so my hopes of reading a witty-ditty by a heartthrob are pretty slim.
My views are purely my own and won't be pressed upon those who don't give the slightest toss about them, but I often feel like I'm the only teenager who has willingly decided to stay away from social networking websites - at the end of the day, I don't want people to assume that my parents has forced this choice upon me, especially as I consciously make decisions sans the help of my mum and dad. If anything, what would I say half the time? Tweeting about my cats' tossing dried clothing across the kitchen floor is unlikely to entertain my followers, let alone interest them, so I truly don't see the point in becoming a member of Facebook or Twitter.
In fact, the nearest I get to enjoying social networking websites is viewing celebrities' accounts, partly because I'm in need of finding something to do and also as I never say no to a cheap pick-me-up via a lame joke. But, whenever my loathing for celebrities and their diets takes centre stage, this activity loses its edge and, once again, I resume to leading a tweet-free existence - and couldn't be happier.
Yet, behind the pouting 'selfies' and amused messages, does having a social media account offer you a burst of joy which is non-existent in your life, hiding problems behind the screen? Too often, I sigh on the occasions that I catch a glimpse of teenagers - a few of whom might appear in the newspapers for tragic reasons - gazing at a fuzzy camera, trying so hard to emulate an older woman or man yet cannot disguise the child who lurks beneath. If that is what is promoted by teenagers my own age, I have no desire to be a part of it as an obsession to keep up with my peers will entail, resorting in who knows what.
And is it just me when it seems that having a social media account is a way of bragging about yourself? A picture here and there isn't a problem, but one can easily be swept into madness and lose all sense of maintaining some dignity. All I'm saying is that you can still have your cake and eat it, but in moderation - even as the years have flown by, society doesn't appreciate a show-off, does it?

Education, Education and Education: Why Can't I Secure It?

First of all, I begin this entry by declaring several sincere apologies if I provoked your daydreaming self to jerk out of your seat in this morning's Maths class, thanks to my rather intimidating title; one couldn't really escape from the ouch-that's-hot topic of education, could they? My reasons for repeating the word 'education' were not made in reference towards the new Kaiser Chiefs album (for music fans, I clearly missed out on mentioning 'war'), but as an expression of my current feelings towards a matter which holds a high importance within my life: securing a good education.

As parents, homework swots and even ordinary people hear on a daily basis, plenty of teenagers make no effort to disguise their hatred of school, some of whom go as far as playing truant or failing their exams in a professional (albeit unintelligent) matter. Indeed, a school may appear to share resemblances with a prison because a student is obliged to remain on the premises for the duration of the day or, once he or she reaches a certain age, may receive the privilege to leave the building for a while at lunchtime, purely judging by the bags of Walkers crisps and boxes of pizzas as large as a plasma TV being carried by teenagers at midday. However, as many realize at one point or another at their education - or live to regret past mistakes as an adult, like many expectant parents never let you forget - school is the very foundation of whom we are destined to become, beginning a journey towards adulthood and getting the best start possible in our working lives. 

Although I can't pinpoint the exact moment when a spectacular epiphany - one relating to my education, of course - occurred, I was young, yet old enough to appreciate the values which an education can offer you, though those privileges only become valid if plenty of effort is made. Since that life-changing moment took place when I was roughly around eight or nine, I've vowed to follow the path necessary to securing a solid base for kickstarting my working career - preferably one in journalism - into action because, at an age where I'm free to be as versatile and original as I wish without facing restraints, these years as a full-time schoolgirl are probably the most important ones of my entire life. And, without going into full-on detail, I realize the significance of studying hard a little too well: otherwise, why else would I bother to write this article at all? 

In case you are unfamiliar with my background or have gotten too caught up in your own issues that mine have ceased to remain in your memory, I'll give you a glimpse into the events which have just taken place in my personal life, proving for once and for all that my inner blogger does not spend all day in front of a laptop (though, if The Sims 2 is fished out of a cardboard and is ready to play, it is tempting nonetheless). 

Over six weeks ago, The Waltons - um, I meant my family and I, including two bundles of tabby-patterned fur (a.k.a. Bart 'Barticles' and Benny 'Hissy Kitty') - moved to a village in the heart of English countryside which, despite having only had a limited amount of time to adjust to my new surroundings, I love with all of my heart. Prior to The Big Move - which, unless you were confused, is unrelated to the latest exercise regime at Weightwatchers meetings - my younger and I had been educated at home by our parents for the past seven years. 

For those of you who remain unfamiliar with home-schooling, I can assure you that the typical stereotypes - for example, children educated at home are often dismissed as loners or looked down upon as 'weirdos', comments of which are greatly hurtful to those who couldn't be further unassociated with those claims - are untrue and doesn't limit students from achieving success to their school-attending counterparts. Besides, how many people have become as successful as the world-famous singer-songwriter Taylor Swift, who famously educated herself at home? When we were originally taken out of school, the figures for home-schooled children - a practice of which is recognized as illegal in several European countries, including Germany - were relatively small, but had significantly increased to almost 1500 students by the time that we moved away from our previous county, proving that home-schooling is no longer a rare practise in my native country, England. 

Anyway, we decided to return to mainstream education when we moved away due to the schools being of a more superior standard than our former residence, a problem of which had contributed to our being taken out of school in the first place. In all honesty, the prospect of starting a new school - and making new friends - was one of the few things which helped me through the hassle of moving away, otherwise I doubt that I would have ever built the courage to go through with it at all. Along with returning to a county where I gained such beautiful memories as a youngster (my family and I had previously lived there around a decade ago) and getting my very own en-suite, turning a fresh leaf at a new school was a source of excitement and something to look forward to when packing boxes was getting too much to handle. 

After The Big Move happened in a manic rush one sunny Friday morning towards the end of March, my family and I took a few weeks to get used to living in our new house which, compared to our old property, is as large as a mansion - therefore, a full-on Spring Clean was forced to go underway! Despite the matter of finding a school for my brother and I continuing to persist in my thoughts, it took a back seat for a while as I focused my attention (and ungloved hands) upon scrubbing cupboards, showers and sinks to an inch of their lives; clearly, there were more important tasks needed to be completed. 

Once the worst of the cleaning, unpacking and finding-a-decent-takeaway tasks were finished, I almost yelped with joy - yes, I'm not exaggerating by saying yelped - when my parents put on their ready-in-action masks and started to phone the schools located in the nearest town. For as long as I can remember, being offered a place at girls' secondary school has been one of my main ambitions, partly due to my mum and aunt attending one and the fact that almost all of my old friends studying at a well-respected girls-only high school, so I was determined to achieve my dream at all costs. But, after my mum put the phone down and kept telling me that all of my preferred schools - the popular ones nonetheless - were oversubscribed and were unable to offer any places until September, here began my first encounter with a new-found arch nemesis: frustration. Again and again, my mum and I would scour through Google and reach for the phone as soon as we found a number but, to both our ever-growing disappointment, we would hear the words which every hopeful student - and parent who, no matter what, will try their hardest for the sake of their children - dreads: there are no places available. 

That's it, all hopes of being offered a place at one of the respected schools are dashed within moments, bringing another round of frustration for the affected parties; had I not vowed to steer clear of alcoholic drinks (and actually be the required age to consume it legally), a drop of the brandy reserved for Mum's Christmas cake would have passed through my lips, warming what little of hope I had left. As circumstances had significantly changed at this point, I had all but abandoned my dreams of emulating my mum's education and realized that enrolling into a girls' school was a very slim possibility - how it pained me to give up an ambition which had never waved in all my years of praying for it to happen, but I was unfortunately left with no choice. 

Not only did I have problems with finding a school, but looking for one which my brother could attend was proving more and more difficult, particularly as we had reserved our searches to single-sex schools beforehand. In the end, though, I had to suck it up and get real with the fact that teenage boys - and towering forms, making me look like a pint-sized doll in comparison - weren't an unknown species, especially as I'm living with a football-mad adolescent myself. So, our search for mixed-gender schools began - and, to this day, hasn't fully ended. 

Much to our frustration (and hot-headed tempers), almost all the schools in the surrounding towns - most of which are ten miles away from our village - are oversubscribed or received damning reports from the educational authorities, known as Ofsted. Despite our problems in finding a school, there is no way that we are willing to sacrifice our educational opportunities by attending a failing school or academy, as many have become known in England. We have already thrown away our dreams of enrolling in a single-sex school which, as more mixed-gender schools are supposedly 'available', should have made our search much easier than before. But settling for schools to which barely any parents would send their children? It doesn't even bear thinking about. 

At the moment, we are waiting for a response from a secondary school which, rather ironically, is our nearest school and, if the county council had its way, would allocate us there. Unlike all the other schools which we have contacted in the past month or so, this school is located outside of a village four miles away, so my brother and I would stand a higher chance of mingling with teenagers who don't live far away from us - or may even reside up the road! My fingers are crossed that we will receive the news that we have been hoping to hear for weeks, which would bring an end to this endless misery of a mess. 

But what annoys me the most is that, despite staying on the right side of the Law for all my life and having a passion for learning, I'm turned away from schools which would not only help me progress within my education, but could be a place in which I may be a benefit to themselves. Whilst the government is wasting taxpayers' money on campaigns for which hardly anybody cares about, valuable money could be placed into creating new schools for future generations of students - how else will this country cope with the booming population? What I hope to avoid for not only myself, but my younger brother is being yet another one of the system's victims; it goes without saying that every student is entitled to gaining a good education, as it has been the case for hundreds of years. Yet why, in this modern day and age, should students like my brother and I fight to obtain it - if anything, isn't it one of the most important Human Rights known to mankind?

For now, however, I'll continue to keep on searching, my eyes alert for any chance in circumstances and fighting a battle against powers beyond me. Surely there will be a fairytale ending - and horrid-looking school uniform - at the other side of the tunnel, or is it a battle too far? Perhaps I'll just keep on looking...

100th Post: Celebration Time

Before I enchant you with sprinkles upon sprinkles of my famed (so I wish!) humour and rattle on about something which couldn't be further unrelated from a particular theme, there is something - a couple of words more meaningful than an aching desire to spill the beans regarding a buried-deep passion for teddy bears, as I have often compelled myself to not do for the sake of my dignity (and uber-cool persona) which I need to say. Have you poked your head out of the Sunday newspaper by now, your eyes as alert as an oh-so-playful kitten? I hope so because speaking my mind about a matter which means the world to me isn't a common occurrence, nor is it destined to become a regular feature on my blog.

When I set up Life as a Modern Teen (LAAFT) on what I remember as a dark and soggy-as-cold-fries evening at the very end of October - this is no joke because it was indeed Halloween, though its age-old scariness had long worn off due to a lack of chocolate lying in the cupboard - boredom had pushed me beyond my usual means and, as I had all but been consumed by desperation to find something remotely fun to do, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to set up a blog. Whether I've mentioned this in the past or have had my memory swiped in order to forget that it was merely a false belief, I have created blogs or at least blog-inspired websites about a wacky array of subjects - at one point, my younger self dedicated one site towards my old cats, Tom and Jerry, and would have a tendency to post pictures of Jerry squeezing his eyes shut whenever my camera flashed - though, as my priorities now solely rely here, my interest for these sites faded as quickly as a glimmer of hope, marking yet another return to the miserable land of boredom.

To make matters worst, last October might have very well been the worst month of my life because one significant event - the loss of Jerry, who was the remaining brother of our original 'furry brothers' - had threatened to tip me off the edge, and I was a ticking time bomb as fighting the temptation to give way to my raw emotions drained me of the little energy I had left, especially as Tom's death six months before had thrown me into the arms of despair. Needless to say, I was at a particularly low point when the idea to revisit my blogging past - albeit a short-lived one - entered my thoughts which, as my family and I had just begun the agonizing wait to adopt two kittens (who sadly never came into our ownership due to certain circumstances, though we found our new pair elsewhere over a month later), was filled with grief, sadness and a slight, yet significant twinge of impatience.

Sticking to my roots, it is rather fair to declare that I have a prominent impatient streak which, from counting down the minutes until dinner is served to receiving an all-important letter, appears out of nowhere by the slightest nudge. At a time when I was grasping my last signs of hope like it could be ripped from my hands, dealing with my impatience - and itch-like wish to get what I wanted immediately - added to my stress, probably forming my first premature wrinkles in the process. So, as my fingers began to type on the keyboard and I relaxed by doing what brings me a child-like pleasure - writing, of course - a sense of relief showered over me because, for the first time in an extremely long while, I felt as though life itself would settle down and coping with the general stress of it would get easier as time passed on.

And, like many people whose names I cannot remember say, the rest is history. Here I am, seven months on, and an eager interest in running a blog has not ceased, nor can I imagine it happening anytime soon. Why I'm bringing up the relevance of writing LAAMT is that this very entry will be the hundredth entry I've posted which, considering that there was a dreadful point when I lost faith in my writing ability and feared that a life-long dream to become a journalist/savvy writer was over, is a very poignant moment for me, bringing past memories - both as joyous as a bird's song and ones which I would rather remain firmly in the past - to the centre of my mind. To think that I exceeded my own expectations is a feeling which hardly any words can describe, along with spreading my message about teenage life on the internet for my readers to appreciate at any time within their lives.

Since my journey into writing heaven began last Halloween, my skills and appreciation towards writing have not only flourished, but I barely recognize the person that I used to be, having dug deeper than a JCB digger into the parts of myself that were previously hidden from the world, let alone myself. I have a renewed confidence which has reflected in my eagerness to showcase the skills which I've honed right here, a place where I'm immune to fear settling in my throat and preventing me from fulfilling this blog's main ambition: saying what is on my mind. Entering adolescence has played a significant role in my on-going search for discovering a voice which is entirely my own and understanding life as we humans know it, so being able to share my journey - oh gosh, haven't we X Factor addicts grown tired of that over-used word? - with you has been a privilege on my part, if not for your own pleasure.

Although several of my posts have not necessarily stuck to the theme of discussing life as a modern teen, I have no desire to be restricted to certain subjects because it would break the most important code of all: expressing myself at no restraint. Despite my two eight month kittens, Bart and Benny, developing a habit of getting hold of my tongue when I need it most, I can run at full flow behind my laptop's screen, brave to declare what is on my mind and giving a glimpse into who I am as a person. Though my real name is anonymous and I wouldn't dream of posting a picture of myself in a million years - do you really wish to catch a glimpse of a girl whose mind is constantly glued towards her blemished complexion? - I like to believe that you know me as well as a friend and, for all that I know, I could be a pal, which makes my duty of hiding away in my bedroom for hours on end more worthwhile and fulfilling.

Over these past seven months ago, my life has been piled high with glorious moments of happiness, mouth-spluttering amusement (especially if I've taken a huge gulp of Diet Coke) and waves of salt-flavoured tears as events as living itself has taught me all of its tricks, along with settling into who I'm going to be for a few more years: a teenager. When my parents informed me about moving away back in January, I was a mixture of crazy-and-high emotions, feeling as emotional as I did when both of my cats had passed away the year before; whilst a major part of myself was chuffed to bits with the prospect of relocating to a better place, the rest of me was captivated with fear as to what the future would lie ahead as, at that point, nothing was certain. If my head wasn't stuck in a bag of salted Doritos or I ran out of episodes of The Vampire Diaries to watch, my thoughts would instantly concentrate upon what I would later refer to as 'My Impending Doom', gripped with worry about the changes confirmed to take place in my life in the ever-nearing future.

Somehow, as the weeks passed by and moving day no longer filled me with dread, I pulled myself out of fear's grip, most noticeably due to spending more time than usual in front of my laptop and, without a doubt, my blog. In March alone - the month in which I moved house - I posted twenty entries, a feat of which I hadn't achieved since November last year. Up until the day before I moved over one hundred and fifty miles to a village in the heart of oh-so-glorious countryside (and amongst the many rapeseed fields), I was still raving about my excitement over starting a new leaf and, in typical teen style, posting videos of my favourite tracks on YouTube when my mind should have been focusing on other matters. Like grabbing hold of my coat before the removal firm took it away in their massive lorry, instead of singing the lyrics to Lady Gaga's G.U.Y....

Over six weeks since my high-heeled self landed in a street reminiscent of a countryside version of Wisteria Lane, I've dealt with the hassles of unpacking my possessions, getting to know the area and, to my horror, cleaning up after the purple fluff left behind from the towels in my beloved haven, also known as my very own en-suite (how I very much enjoy rubbing that fact in!). Above all, I'm very happy in my new home and wouldn't trade it for the world which, after working myself into such a worry when I found out about our impending move four months ago, is a major relief indeed. The only things needed to complete my perfect chapter is finding a place at a secondary school - which, having been taught at home for the past seven years, brings my days as a homeschooler to somewhat of a bittersweet end - and maybe a new Sims game. Well, a teenager deserves some fun once in a while after all!

Throughout the many changes in my life, this blog has been my precious rock and source of inspiration which, as a blogger who has fallen prey to a bout of writer's block from time to time, is utterly invaluable. Posting entries about whatever has sent me on a heated rampage or has brought me immense pleasure is a joy which extends beyond the typical realms of a hobby, making me realize that blogging is so much more than a way of killing some spare time. As I type the last few words in an entry, I'm dancing in the air with delight that, once again, I've destroyed the demons which used to torment me whenever I struggled to discover the inspiration to lift a pen, let alone type a whole entry. And, having neared towards the end of today's poignant message, I'm about to experience a wave of emotions - holding such a beautiful significance - wash over me, along with a sense of achievement.

Despite never picking up a trophy at a Chelsea Soccer School like my younger brother nor winning a competition in living memory, I feel like I've won something highly prestigious, which is the reason behind the smile lighting my face like a candle. I'm a winner for finding my voice and standing my ground, no matter the cost or struggle it took for me to achieve it. Thank you for reading this paragraph alone as it expresses how I - an ordinary British girl living life as a modern teenager - feel deep inside, and I doubt that I would have ever discovered my feelings up close and personal had it not been for creating LAAFT.

For now, though, this girl is enjoying life as it is, most noticeably for being a modern day teenager, of course.

What Am I Going to Be? The Questions that I Didn't Want to Ask Myself...

From time to time, a second-long burst of hunger - hardly a Snickers-craving one, but a stomach ache which I cannot bring myself to ignore nonetheless - takes control of my senses, driving me mad like an inch which, regardless of the many times that you scratch it (and turn your skin as raw as rare beef), never goes away. As this hunger begins to distract me from my duties (e.g. looking out the window and wishing I didn't feel like Rapunzel stuck in her tower), I ask myself what these feelings relate to; do I, the person who knows myself inside out, have the necessary means to answer my question or it is destined to be another unsolved mystery?

Although distinguishing my wants and needs is hardly a cause for concern unlike a grizzly murder featured in Agatha Christie's crime novels, I never feel entirely satisfied until my mission in learning a little bit more about myself is completed, making me feel as relieved as one does after a hard day at work or school. Since I became a teenager (and the terror of residing with an irritable young adult sent a chill down my family's spines) two years ago, I have researched more and more about unearthing the deepest parts of myself which, despite being left in the dark of what lurks beneath the lipstick-coated surface, I wish to explore because, at the end of the day, all I want is to be at ease in my skin.

As I realize that there are many years ahead of me - hopefully ones not mostly taken up with searching the beauty halls for the latest must-have anti-wrinkle cream, as it seems to be the case nowadays - and being my own best friend is essential to finding happiness, going beyond what one on-looker might see upon glancing at me is an interest of mine which I strongly take to heart. In fact, I've never had a problem with being left to my own devices - and thoughts - for long periods of time which, considering that many people prefer to be surrounded by others on a regular basis, I feel pretty proud about as it proves that accepting and appreciating who you are as a person is as important as immersing yourself in company.

But, by having taken the time to get used to hanging out alone, I have developed somewhat of an instinct which has provided some help in relation to maintaining my values and keeping a cool head for most of the time. In plain English (minus the Oxford-fancy expressions), I don't easily fall prey to peer pressure, which is most commonly present amongst teenagers who, unlike a wise and done-it-all adult, may not necessarily possess the gift of standing their own ground and freeing themselves from one's pressurizing nature. Perhaps if more of us got to know ourselves a bit better, the consequences which might follow giving into peer pressure may vanish like the stigma which may be attached towards having too much time on your hands - otherwise recognized as going skin deep.

And, in traditional LikeATeen fashion, today I intend to delve into the lively and oh-so-vivid world which is my mind. My world still in a dizzying spin, more questions than ever are spilling out of my mouth as I wonder about what the future will hold; but, having dismissed my buried-deep views long ago, do I hold the answer which is the key towards unlocking the happiness I seek? Unlike what I might have always preferred to believe, it may well be the case that I do know it off heart, but chose to ignore it or bury my head in the sand for a day and age. As if I'd willingly choose to dunk my hair into dusty sand; I don't wash my hair for nothing, you know...

Question: Am I short? Like Tinkerbell-short? Ugh, I don't even know if I'm the Little Plum Fairy, but Little Brother (LB) keeps joking about my height, especially since he began to tower over me several months ago. Excuse my irritability, but these 'little' bird had to catch the worm at six this morning...
Answer: Whoa, calm down! Hold your horses, shut your mouth up... um, forget that one, if the green-eyed monster is your name (thought my eyes are actually blue)/
Hmm, this is a tricky dilemma and I should know because it has been crossing mind for ages, but sometimes an answer cannot be conjured out of thin air. From a young age, I was conscious about being above average height (the older ages on the label of my clothes said so) but, instead of feeling uncomfortable about it, I embraced it with heartfelt pride, feeling it within my duty to stand tall - literally - for long-legged girls everywhere.
Then, as my soon-to-be-written autobiography will include, puberty hit like a killer wave, destroying all of which I used to believe and ruining any future possibilities of wearing my favourite black-and-purple dress again. Tout d'un coup, I shot up and was constantly growing, almost reaching the height of a sunflower, my most loathed flower.
But, as the story unfortunately goes, my years of growing came to an abrupt STOP and no new measurements have been recorded since the age of eleven, going on twelve, to my utter dismay. Although many may not automatically classify me as 'short' at the height of 5ft 4in (and a precious quarter), this nonetheless doesn't take away my beliefs that I'm destined to spend the rest of my life going to shops aimed at petite women which, bearing in mind that I used to be tall as a young child, is as crushing as the sudden cancellation of my favourite witch-themed programme, The Secret Circle. As I keep hearing, the world's population is supposed to be getting taller, but I feel like the one true exception from this fact, especially as my fears of no longer growing are almost confirmed.
However, there is a teeny-weeny part of myself which screams with rage about my complaining about a truth which affects plenty of people around in the world; in several countries, such as Vietnam, being 5ft 4in tall would be deemed as supermodel height (the average height for a Vietnamese woman is 4ft 10in which, if my memory is correct, was my height as a nine year old). According to recent statistics, the average sized woman in both the UK and United States is 5ft 4in which, as I obsess about height to a certain extent today, is a small comfort to my ever-lasting agony.
So, here's my answer to my over-the-top question: I, despite nearly having panic attacks over my petite-ish stature in the past, am not the shortest person on Earth and, in some people's eyes, may look like a high-heeled giant. Health and talent is more important than one's looks, as I ought to have realized long ago, and if being a little on the petite side brings me a gift in writing, so be it.

Question: What will I do once my education ends?
Answer: Usually, I love discussing anything related to education because, like the weekly routine of catching up on Revenge with my equally-entertained father, is is of an extremely high importance to me. Not only do I find learning as fun as playing with my two kittens (though the same couldn't be said about studying maths), I appreciate how it can open so many doors when I hopefully begin a successful career some time in the future.
But answering a question about what is likely to happen in years' time to come? Sorry, I barely know what the weather will be like in five minutes, let alone what I'll be doing in five years' or so time. Yet who ever said that I should stop dreaming?
Since I realized my burning ambition to become a journalist at the tender age of eleven, I've working non-stop towards making my dream a reality, most noticeably running this blog as a means of getting a feel for writing articles as a full-time job. Although I've come across several hurdles along the way - a long-term bout of writer's blocks and failed applications to gain work experience at newspapers, to say a few - I have nonetheless leaped over the other side, in the hope of living the future of my dreams.
So, like all wannabe journalists whose minds permanently run at 80mph, I've created my own five year plan which, even if a slight dilemma forces me to come to a full stop, should work to my benefit, providing that I put in the hard work necessary:

• After gaining good grades at both GCSE and A-Level, I intend to finish my education at school and prepare to get my first taste of working life, my head in high spirits over gaining the necessary qualifications which could contribute to getting a good start in my career. 
• Preferably, I will contact various newspapers and journalism agencies which may offer an internship, opening a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to immerse myself in the working environment of my dreams. Also, putting my writing past across could work in my favour, especially as skill - and not the grade you may miraculously achieve in an exam - matters most, which is the truest indicator of one's abilities.
• Once an internship comes to an end, I could use it as a reference to get my ideal starter job - working from the bottom, yet able to showcase my writing - either at the same place or elsewhere, which could send me on the path towards writing mania.

One shouldn't really think too far ahead into the future but, as writing means the world to me and is a job which would guarantee a smile on my face, I cannot stress upon its importance. For now, I can only remain hopeful that the future remains as bright as a countryside sky, though my path could change by the time that I'm old enough to take my first steps into the working world. Will I be a journalist? All I can say is that I hope and pray that my dream will come true, but I can't always have the answers, can I?

Question: Do I stand a possible chance of ever fulfilling my lifetime want - purchasing a designer handbag? You needn't look as I wipe away a tear of sadness, green with envy at the sight of the latest Louis Vuitton creation...
Answer: Do you remember anything, my great forgetful self? The other week, my parents gave me the very best advice I could ever have which, as I'm determined to walk into a designer boutique by the time that I'm 25 (perhaps 20 if luck and a major Lottery win is on my side). was music to my ears: marry a rich guy. Even better if he is a member of the Royal Family or has aristocratic roots - one would needn't think twice about forking out on a decent bottle of champagne!
However, if the above fails or I put my size 7 foot in it (though I don't quite know what 'it' is) on my first date, be prepared for several years of money saving, hard work and a few sacrifices along the way. When I mention 'sacrifices', of course I'm referring towards splashing out on a Kitchenaid of my own (preferably sex siren-rouge red) and putting aside my fantasies of being a Domestic Goddess, though at least I'd be one without a peculiar speck of 'flour' or 'sugar' up my nose. Anything which contributes towards satisfying an eleven year old's fantasy matters enormously and, throughout years of hardship, it will be worth it - but now I have to decide which bag I'll buy!

Question: Who am I? Obviously, I know my name [the real one of which cannot be disclosed] and what my birth certificate, but I'm referring to what is beneath the layers of my blemished skin.
Answer: As always, my spot-loathing self can never quite resist an opportunity to bring up the frightful topic of acne, though this time it needn't be said that I'll be searching beyond what one may see upon reflection, truly going skin deep (and perhaps the source of my puberty-related hassles).
So, as the question asks, who am I? To many, the answer would simply be that I'm a fifteen year old girl living in the countryside, with a newfound fondness for walks in the sunny outdoors and a talent in writing to her heart's content. But, if you dig deeper, more information - all of which is related to who I am - will spill out, bringing a whole new sense to myself and enlightening you with a fresh insight into the person who writes this blog.
Behind every smile, I aim to please and spread joy to those surrounding me as being caught in a saddening atmosphere makes my heart plummet beyond the deepest ground, wishing to maintain a relaxed attitude at all times. However hard I may try to hide it, I cannot completely disguise my guilt whenever I give into my 'erratic' tendencies and lose my temper because, as always, I recognize how my behaviour might affect others who, if they didn't know me so well, could develop a bad impression of myself, a disaster which I'm constantly eager to avoid. Although getting on with what I want to do - mostly for my own benefit - is my greatest source of pleasure, it is almost impossible to ignore a desire to help others who are in need of it because their needs, as it soon occurs me, are usually nine times out of ten of a higher importance to mine, bringing home the meaning of putting others before yourself.
Apart from that, I am so many things - a daydreamer who performs her imaginative activities as a part-time job and a secret TV lover, to say the least - that I wouldn't have enough space to mention everything, unless you have plenty of spare time (and energy-boosting drinks) on hand. But this question has provoked me to accept that there may probably never be enough words to offer a complete and full-on description about my personality because, as many of you might have realized long ago, none of us are definable. And, for the sake of my aching hand, I'm proud of that as I aspire to stand out as my very own person, renewing the inspirational image of embracing individuality.

How I Gained My Paws (and Frightful Claws)

Ever since I moved to my new village over a month ago, my ever-buzzing mind has been focusing its attention on all the things which play a role in making me happy, more eager than I've ever known to grab its hands upon a me-sized slice of happiness as I adjust to countryside/noise-free life. From achieving the grades I want - and, as schools will undoubtedly never allow you forget, vitally need - to snuggling onto the sofa for a night-long marathon of my favourite shows, it is all too easy to lose count over the countless things which contribute towards my feel-good mantra, of which I never wish to sight as I progress within my life. Yet, throughout the hardships that I - and many others, if not the entire world - have experienced, one thing has always found the cure to lifting my spirits and giving me a reason to burst into a smile at the worst of times: my cats.

Oh yes, these furry, cuddly and extremely genial creatures may appear to be as ordinary as the rest of us, simply only bothering to roll out of their beds for a bite to eat whenever their stomachs begin to grumble every few hours, but for those who have adopted or grown up with cats, it's an entirely different kettle of fish (pardon my foul-smelling pun). For literally as long as my extremely short memory can remember, I've been surrounded by two furry-purrys - an affectionate nickname for my two past-and-present cats, Tom and Jerry (otherwise known as The Originals) and now Bart and Benny (a.k.a. The New Kits on The Block) - which, over time, have come to define myself as a person.

Although one might face an all-mighty struggle to witness a hint of my expressing any emotion or deep-as-a-pot-of-mousse feelings when I'm throwing a hissy fit over the perilous state of my bedroom, I unleash a love as never seen before whenever I'm surrounding by my furry friends, their presence a wake-up call to shrug off my irritation and turn into something as loving as a cuddle (or, in Bart's case, a slap in the face from his tail). In other words, cats bring out the very best in me because, unlike the perils that I might endure whilst standing in a lengthy queue in a shop for hours on end, I hardly need to lift a finger - at least not towards a need-to-be-cleaned litter tray yet - to immerse myself in joy as my cats hang out with me, their purrs echoing in the long cave which is my new home.

As cats have forever featured in my life - indeed, Tom and Jerry were nearly two years older than me when I was born and were constantly by my side, acting like two sharp-clawed, though soft-as-butter guards (unfortunately the same couldn't necessarily be said about nightclub bouncers) - it is only natural that I feel subdued and completely comfortable in my skin whenever one is in my presence, from the strays I see crossing the street to the troublesome kittens my family adopted shortly before Christmas last year. In general, I'm rather shy and would run away at the thought of being thrust into a noisy crowd of people, instantly craving to return to the two pals with whom I'm never afraid of being myself: Bart and Benny. Though I have often wished to hold a proper conversation with them, I find it quite smoothing that Bart and Benny cannot respond to my words because, unlike humans, they cannot judge or turn against me - as long as they receive three meals every day (and a lick from my ice cream-coated finger from time to time), they have no reason to give me the cold shoulder!

My relationship with cats in general - and my former kitties, Tom and Jerry - blossomed into an outstanding beauty when, at the age of eight, I began to be home-schooled along with my younger brother, meaning that I would be spending more time in home and, as it may have already crossed your mind, my two cats. Beforehand, I hardly have any recollections of the time I spent with Tom and Jerry when I used to attend primary school, most of which was taken up with birthday parties, playing with my toys (ah, how I miss the days of being left in the dark over the rudeness of Barbie's bare upper-top) and being glued to the Disney Channel. In fact, my main opportunities to hang out with Tom and Jerry were on the rare occasions that I had to stay off school whenever I was under the weather (or rarely craved the teeth-rotting goodness which was pink-coloured Calpol), but all of that changed when my seven years of home schooling began.

Suddenly, my friendship - or should I say bond, considering that they were indeed my 'honorary' furry brothers? - with Tom and Jerry grew into a love so strong that I blink away tears of a happiness twinged with still-present grief as I write this, immersed in pride that I was able to spend more time that I'd ever hoped as a home-schooled student. Being on good terms with my cats meant more than ever to me because I didn't have many friends which, in a sense, gave me a motive to savour each and every moment I spent with them, realizing that family - in whatever form - was the most important thing that you could ever have.

As I wrote about in frank detail in past entries, Tom and Jerry sadly passed away within six months of each other last year, bringing my world to an abrupt halt. Having maintained my child-like values for as long as possible, my eyes were wide open to a whole new meaning, one of which represented the sadness which followed death. As Tom and Jerry had been a part of my life from the very beginning, losing all that I'd ever known sent me into a dizzying spin because I struggled to get my head around the painfully true fact that, however hard I prayed and crossed my fingers in hope of my prayer being answered, none of them were going to return into my outstretched arms, waiting to give them the ultimate cuddle of a lifetime. Even when I had been swept into the belief that life couldn't be harder at the most desperate of times, the darkest days of my life was the period following both Tom and Jerry's death because, unlike before, we didn't have any cats who could conjure a silver lining or raise a smile on our lips.

Over a year since Tom died and seven since Jerry was reunited with his brother, I still experience a hunger-like craving for the brothers to return to my family, despite discovering fresh hope and reignited love for our newest additions to our clan, eight months old Bart and Benny. If such a dream was possible, I would love nothing more than for Tom, Jerry, Bart and Benny to be together with my family as each of them has claimed a fish-sized piece of my heart (though Bart has developed a penchant for my mum's green plants) which, even after surviving the aftermath of earth-shaking death, continues to live on.

Although many in the same position might have been placing their thoughts on purchasing another box of Kleenex instead of adopting a new pet, the thought of introducing a pair of playful kittens renewed the remaining spark of hope inside of me, giving me somewhat of a break from the grief I was going through shortly after Jerry entered Kitty Heaven. Jerry was my shining light and reason for which I even bothered to get out of bed after his brother passed away because, despite his noticeable sadness, he nonetheless carried on with his duties (for example, going outside in the garden was a daily job) and was a soothing presence when I fancied nothing more than crying my eyes out. At a time when I couldn't have been immersed deeper in my emotions, I knew that adopting two kittens would bring a sense of happiness to my life again and, after being a source of pride for sixteen years, Tom and Jerry would have wanted us to follow our hearts, too.

If I were to go into full detail over the hardship we endured whilst searching and reaching the adoption stages for our two kittens, this entry probably wouldn't be finished until next week, but I'll spare you the difficulties my family and I faced on the bumpy-as-a-pothole journey towards bringing our new friends home, now known as Bart and Benny. In the end, it took two months until our home was ringing with the cries of baby meows and bloody scratches from our newest additions, both of whom endured the most difficult start imaginable in their short, yet hard lives.

At the age of two to three weeks old, Bart and Benny along with their two brothers were found in somebody's garden without their mother - believed to have been hunting for food, yet unfortunately never discovered - and were later shipped off to a nearby animal centre, from which we later adopted them. Despite being noticeably older by the time that we brought them home, Bart and Benny were nonetheless very nervous and had a tendency to scratch and hiss towards us if we came too near; needless to say, the first few weeks was hard work! But, as time has passed and their confidence has considerably grown, Bart and Benny are a million miles away from the tiny, petrified three month old babies they were last year, their playful nature a force to be reckoned with.

As I'm writing this, I keep catching little meows and their 'happy' voice which they significantly use if it's playtime, and it is a sound of which I count amongst my many joys. Adopting two kittens who may or may not have had the pampered life that they - along with the millions of cats on this planet - deserve is one of my proudest achievements because, despite throwing my hands in the air at first and sometimes wishing that I didn't have so many problems on my plate, all of it has been worth it, especially as happiness is utterly priceless.

Wherever I go and whatever I do, I'm determined that cats shall always be involved in their plans as, at times, I could lose my mind without them. Those two months without a feline to stroke or talk to - can I really rely on my little brother to listen to me if the football is on? - taught me a vital lesson, though it is one which I have no intentions of revisiting in the near time future: cats are the very best friends I could ever have. Throughout my fifteen years on Earth, I have only been able to rely on my friendship with cats and family because, as I mentioned earlier, they never judge you for who you are. If only more humans could pay attention to the behavioral habits of cats - their laid-back attitudes is a source of inspiration for me, along with their easy-to-love personalities and desires to be loved.

Since moving house, I'm hoping that I'll be able to volunteer at a nearby cats' rescue centre which, after adopting Bart and Benny from a similar background, would be my way of giving back to the creatures who give me something to smile about. If it wasn't for cats, I wonder whether I would ever discover the true meaning of happiness - and vibration-like purrs - at all. I hope that you've realized it with your furry friend, too.

Galloping Back to My (Horse-Mad) Past

Once upon a time, there lived a young short-haired girl whose gap-toothed smile brightened the world, her feel-good energy as contagious as the need to devour several episodes of Mad Men in the space of an evening. The little girl was an expert in keeping herself amused and, at that time, didn't have an inkling on what an iPhone - the future object of her green-eyed envy - was, preferring to dedicate her time to playing with her half-dressed Bratz dolls and yelling her little brother's name at the top of her lungs whenever he pushed his luck a little too far. If it wasn't for the oh-so-famous fact that she was capable of kicking her father near the peanuts area as a so-called 'joke', nobody would have thought twice about this girl being an angel, a heavenly glow radiating from her acne-free complexion and blue-as-sea eyes which told of a happiness deeper than the ocean itself.

One day, the young girl experienced an epiphany - a second-long burst of light, shall we say - and was transformed into something which, until that moment, had never crossed her mind as a potential possibility: a horse lover. All of a sudden, she was swept into a dramatic wave of madness as a new-found passion for the equine kind became her main focus of attention, brushing aside her life-long love of dolls (unfortunately of the plastic kind) and making away for an interest which was destined to follow her throughout a lifetime. Or, if the calculator on my smartphone is working, it is a passion which has remained in my thoughts - and, most important of all, within my heart - since my love affair with horses first came about when I was eight years old, setting my path in a completely different direction.

Whether you'll even bother to believe it or not, I - the self-confessed moodiest teenager to have ever walked on Plane Earth - used to be this sweet-natured (with a penchant for sugary confectionary, of course) little girl who was a complete novice at the now-honed art of moaning in style, my bedroom filled with as many cuddly toys and dolls as one could imagine. Even writing about my younger self continues to fill me with surprise because it amazes me that I - who, according to the numerous pictures taken on my Mum's Canon camera, used to willingly walk out of the house without a scrap of make-up - have since evolved in what seems like a different person, though it doesn't sever all ties with what was my very horsey past in the slightest.

Like many young girls, nothing wooed me over more than picking up another high-heeled doll at the supermarket - depending on the brand, the dolls had either undergone a boob job by Playboy's models' preferred surgeon or were unsuccessfully trying to disguise an eating disorder, judging by the wasp-thin waists alone - which, in many ways, made my new love for horses rather sudden indeed. However, I guess that I have always been drawn towards animals because my life literally began with them - cue my old cat Tom leaving a few scratches on my head the night before I was christened - but horses had hardly ever crossed my mind, their show-stopping elegance a mystery yet unsolved to my bewildered self. Sometimes, though, a passion can be taken to a whole new level when it springs upon you without giving as much of a hint towards its appearance, jumping out of the blue at what is later deemed to be the right time. And, as it probably clicked with you long before I got here, the moment when I not only realized, but truly embraced a love for horses and ponies was perfect.

As a TV-watching youngster (saying this makes me feel like a veteran, bearing in mind that I no longer hog the Sky remote as I once used to do so), I was instantly attached to watching programmes typically steered towards a feminine market, particularly the ones aired on the kids' channels. Most of the names of these shows have all but slipped from my memory because the plug was pulled on them long ago but, with the internet becoming an increasingly productive way of spreading the word about various articles, I would often log on the long-deceased desktop computer and search for my favourite programmes, in the hope of finding and possibly joining their website. Whether the details disclosed to registering with these 'clubs' have since found their way in a fraudster's hands, I suppose that I'll never know, but I created somewhat of an obsession with joining as many as I could; in my young mind, the more I was a part of, the more popular I was.

Anyway, my brother endured several months of hardship and agony as I consistently robbed the remote off his fingers and was glued to the TV, partly due to a new girls-themed channel being launched and a premonition of what the future held in store for me (nine months of the year taken up with Premier League football - and that isn't even including this year's World Cup). This was related to a new programme, aptly titled Horseland, starting to air on my then-favourite channel, and I instantly fell in love with it, its animated characters and horses (some of whom had coloured streaks in their manes; who ever said that a horse could enter a hair salon?) grabbing my attention. And so it hardly took any time at all before I began searching for its website and, inevitably, a fan club where I could pour all of my love for it but, as destiny had in store for me, an interest in a short-lived American cartoon was only the warm-up to what would eventually morph into something beyond my wildest dreams.

Unlike what I had anticipated, the website was actually the main source of inspiration for the TV show, having originally been created in the early 90s' as a virtual game for horse-mad gamers. And, as soon I clicked the 'confirm' button on the registration form, I was hooked on playing the game, which involving taking care of your customized horse and entering 'competitions' - and horses, as it goes without saying!

To many, it may strike you as strange that my love for horses developed simply by joining a website which catered towards experienced gamers, but it was only when my parents purchased an equine-themed magazine aimed at children for me that my interest stood a proper chance of flourishing, avoiding the occasional pit-falls of a short-lived hobby. The magazine in question, called PONY Magazine, was like my very own bible, except that pictures of handsomely groomed horses and cute-faced ponies dominated the magazine which was published on a monthly basis. And, to make things even better, my upcoming birthday couldn't have featured more horse-themed gifts; from equine care books to even a Bratz horse, I was literally living in my very own stables!

Talking of stables, the possibility of sitting and riding on a horse was rapidly becoming a hot subject because, after all, being with horses in person would have been a dream come true and, to my delight, I fulfilled my ambition several days after celebrating my birthday, being the nicest ever icing on the cake. The stables where I attended what was a taster lesson was a couple of miles away from my town and lived up to my image of a perfect stables: I saw and met plenty of horses who, as I had not yet experienced a growth spurt (nor had discovered the uplifting perks of wearing heels), towered over me, yet were the gentlest creatures I had ever stroked and spoken to. However, the pony that I rode, a uniquely called Syrick (to this day, I still don't know where this name originated), was as placid and as sweet as I'd hoped, making my first horse-riding lesson a day which I'll never forget - and, to everybody's amazement, I didn't even fall off!

If you ever wish to experience something unlike ever before, I strongly recommend horse-riding as a best way of getting a thrill whilst engaging with what I believe are friendly and highly intelligent animals, learning a skill which, back in the days where riding a horse was the sole means of travel, continues to be essential and a joy to many today. But, due to the rocket-high fees for even a thirty minute lesson at the stables, I only returned once again a few years' later, putting my dreams of becoming an advanced horse rider on hold.

And, as a lot of us are bound to experience at one point or another within our lives, there is sometimes the downfall after experiencing the highest of all highs, beginning the process of drifting elsewhere without even realizing it. Unlike several incidents, my fading interest in horses didn't occur overnight, sparking an automatic change in my once horse-obsessed existence; as time passed and I grew older, I shifted my attention to other subjects, such as fashion, writing and finding out who I wanted to be. The it's-all-or-nothing moment reached a head when I let rip at my desire to no longer purchase PONY Magazine which, apart from the horse-themed website I used to access, had kick-started a feeble interest in equines into a heartfelt passion, for which I solely lived, slept and ate. Although I was glad to have a few spare pound coins every month, it sometimes hit me that an unforgettable stage within my life - one of which was a path towards discovering who I truly was, beneath the make-up, New Look-bought clothes and bow-shaped earrings - had finished, its finality more profound than ever.

To this day, I've drifted in and out over my passion for horses which, at this moment in time, is in somewhat of a hiatus, gently bubbling beneath the surface. Whether my horse-mad persona will be resurrected for many years to come remains to be seen, but I have a feeling that my years of being glued to articles about grooming kits and coat colours will stay where, deep down, I know where they belong: the past. As a nine year old, I couldn't have been more passionate for whatever was associated with horses as my interest had just been born and was at its peak, the best that my love for equines will probably ever be. And, however hard it might be to let go of a time which is a stark contrast to my life now - for example, the spotty agenda hadn't reached an epidemic level yet -, I realize that hanging onto something which won't live up to my expectations will only diminish the glory of my horse-mad days. That cannot happen, can it?

For now, I will look back at my past and burst with pride at the first time when my name - obviously not under my LikeATeen title - was published in a nationally published magazine which, of course, was all about horses. Horses gave me the push I needed to realize my dream - becoming a journalist - and put all my heart into fulfilling it, for which I will be eternally grateful. But, as I've had to realize, evolution is one aspect of life which we cannot avoid and, if needs be, I'll do all I can to evolve into the best person I can be.

Still, I wouldn't mind galloping to the local stables any time soon...

Hairy Removal Business

In life, it needn't take the likes of genius to realize that destiny awaits a lifetime of trouble and deeply unwanted hassle which, in order to strengthen and gain faith in our abilities to cope with being caught in an unearthly disaster, we need to go through, otherwise we would be turning a blind eye to what we truly are at heart: human. Even the most privileged of society cannot entirely escape the problems which continue to plague every day life, whether this dilemmas are miniscule or as big as the increasing ache developing in your head, but we learn to get on with our priorities and make the most of what is untouched from any imperfections.

Still, I couldn't really care less about this theory, which takes a back seat in my mind when I go on a wild, hormone-fuelled rampage from time to time. The reason why? If I were to show you the physical evidence - which, along with causing plenty of red-faced embarrassment for myself, but would also put you off eating for eternity - the hysteria which would bubble over the surface and create a full-on disaster is all too dangerous, plus I'm hardly in the mood to strip my tights off in the oh-so-chilly morning.

In case you hadn't already guessed it, let me free you from this agonizing ache which comes with using too much brain power at such an early time of day: I have a hairy problem. From my legs to my arms to other places which aren't even worth mentioning (nor worthy of the time dedicated to shaving), I've been battling against controlling the stubby, dark-as-night hair which regularly grows on these problematic areas for years, continuously robbing me of vital energy which could be put to better (and epilator-free) use.

Plenty of girls might be able to relate to my irritating issue because it usually comes with the territory of embarking on the path towards adulthood - ah, the endless perils of puberty strike again - as our bodies begin to produce hair which one of the many parts associated with becoming a woman, some of which immediately send alarm bells ringing. To make matters worse, my hair is deep-as-sea dark brown which, despite sharing a similar appearance to the enviable locks which L'Oréal spokeswoman and model Cheryl Cole keeps in fantastic condition (albeit I don't have a native Geordie accent), puts more than I can handle onto a massive plate.

Apart from my desire to remain on-top of my cleaning regime, I only wish to focus my attention upon gaining the best marks possible within my education, but I cannot turn a blind eye towards my hairy issues (once again, I apologize if the adjective makes you lose your appetite for a week or so) which, like having a daily bath and ridding my hair of non-cookery-related oil on a two day basis, counts as a major part in maintaining my hygiene. If I believed differently, would I even be making a big deal over this issue at all?

At times like these, I turn my green-with-envy self towards wishing for blonde, almost invisible hair which wouldn't require as much as epilating - an option of hair removal which I'll discuss in a moment - like I currently do, but whenever I'm not experiencing a mini panic attack over my hair-related problems (the unwanted kind, of course), I generally enjoy being a brunette and have no desire to dye my locks to a lighter colour, rendering my dream of having lighter hairs on my arms and legs unnecessary. All in all, morphing into a pink-obsessed Barbie lookalike overnight would probably not cure me of my undiagnosed moaning disorder - if the hairs, regardless of their colour, are still there, my problem hasn't found a cure, has it?

Anyway, my unwanted hairs didn't necessarily appear out of nowhere the moment that puberty officially arrived several years ago, partly due to being a member of the dark-haired gang and my initial reluctance to get rid of the oh-so-noticeable problem. When I used to attend a primary school - which, by the way, was the greatest school that I had ever attended and was where I had formed plenty of bulletproof friendships - in the county to which I've just moved back as a cute-faced youngster, I recall one occasion when several of friends - both boys and girls - noticed the tediously long hairs growing on my legs, giving a remarkable resemblance to a field of tall rapeseed. One boy, which whom I was close friends, even suggested that I should remove the hairs, but my young self was unsure over how to go about it; as my head was mainly filled with passions for Bratz dolls and occasionally topless Barbie dolls (as I couldn't be bothered over finding a decent top for her), what would I know about something which was strongly rooted in adult territory?

Skip forward several years - where my hatred for all things hairy (though I made an exception for my mane of glossy locks and my old cats' silky-soft tabby fur) became a matter which I could no longer ignore - and I was trying my hand at a hair removal cream, otherwise known as the popular brand Veet, as a vain means of gaining the hair-free legs of my dreams. Having had no knowledge regarding shaving creams - which my mum picked out as a blade-free introduction to the life-long regime of hair removal - I was taken aback by the horrible stench by the cream which, had I not known better, looked as appealing as a bowl of whipped cream.

Whenever my mum applied and washed the cream off me after around ten minutes - in all honesty, I should have ran hundred miles or so as soon as I caught sight of the strict 'don't leave on beyond ten minutes' warning on the tube - my legs would feel as soft as I'd always hope and I would have no qualms about wearing a skirt for the rest of the day, desperate to show off my hair-free legs to the world. It was even more so of a relief when the shaving cream was used during the summer as either donning a pair of shorts or a skirt was a compulsory order, putting my mind - scared stiff of having to bear two legs scattered with as many hairs as a farming field - at ease for a while.

However, on the occasions that I did try to use the cream by myself, I never quite managed to get rid of all the unwanted hairs, despite using the required amount and leaving the cream on for the maximum time period. If this ever occurred, I was often left with the choice of plucking the remaining hairs with my fingers as using an ordinary shaving blade would have provoked the hairs to grow back in a stubby form, most recognized as a hair removal disaster. So, with my dreams of having heavenly smooth legs - and not to mention the other areas under threat - in tatters, I set upon the task of discovering a revolutionary method by waving au revoir to my loathsome enemy and welcoming a new friend: epilating.

For those of you who may not be familiar with the method of epilating, an epilator is an mechanical device which, once charged or inserted with batteries, plucks the hairs beneath the root and is associated with decreasing the amount of hairs that grow back, unlike the method of shaving or using hair removal creams which only get rid of the visible hairs on the surface. At first, cue plenty of watery eyes and perhaps a couple of tears as you get to grips with epilating which, when one has been used to shaving for a certain amount of time, always hurts as hell for the first couple of occasions until your skin and hair growth adjusts to the tingling sensation. When I plucked (pardon the pun) up the courage to borrow my mum's epilator a few years ago, I sobbed like a baby for the first half an hour because the pain was beyond unbearable; do believe me when I say that epilating is a pain like you have ever experienced!

Along with turning your nose a measly shade of red (one of the many joys of sobbing your heart out) and making you wince every five seconds, epilating is supposed to make hairs grow back finer which, after being faced with stubby remains in the past, is a positive to the many setbacks you undergo when the switchover from shaving to epilating begins.

However, this doesn't necessarily mean that darker hairs like my own will become so fine that only a magnifying glass would be able to see them as, several years of converting to epilating, I continue to get hairs which I can (and also feel) still see, which is a pain nonetheless. Even after purchasing a Braun epilator for my birthday over a year ago - besides a homemade chocolate cake and a set of hair curlers, an expensive hair removal gadget had to steal the limelight on the best day of the year - I'm unlikely to declare that I've left my hairy days behind in the past, despite the famed epilator being of some benefit to me and having a pure-white light which makes the weekly chore much easier.

All in all, I've come to the conclusion that, as my body gets used to growing hairs and developing in other areas, it will be some time yet until the speed at which my hairs grow slows down, a dream of which will hopefully become a reality in the nearby future. For the downsides that I may get for being burdened with unwanted hairs, I ought to appreciate the uplifting benefits of being in good health which, after recently catching the plague (a.k.a. a common cold), I no longer take for granted.

Factoring the time that it takes to charge the device (which unfortunately cannot be used whilst plugged into a socket) and getting into the nitty-gritty itself, epilating only takes an hour from my time each weekend, though I often wish that it could be a quicker task as there are more interesting matters - such as relaxing on my two education-free days, for example - which I'd prefer to do. Once again, I've wondered about going back to shaving as it wouldn't take a massive chunk out of my time, but I live in hope that using an epilator will significantly reduce my hairs sometime soon.

This hairy business of mine - and of so many women around the world - might be an extreme bother, but at least we are in a position to remove it; how would we survive without our must-have tools?