Two posts in one day aren’t you lucky, I have been thinking about a lot of stuff recently. how our past shapes our future and all the things I dreamed of being when I grew up. (I say that like I'm some kind of adult now Haha) and there are a lot of jobs I went through before I decided what I want to be (I'm still not decided) this is a rough order from about age 5 to now of all the things I wanted to be.
· A princess (how original)
· A cat (i was a bit special)
· An artist
· A Pokémon trainer
· A cartoonist
· A children’s writer
· A singer
· A shop owner
· An inventor
· A writer (again)
· A voice over person For cartoons
· A t shirt designer
· A politician
· A video game developer
· A chef
· A DJ
· An author
· A photographer
· A child care worker
· A magazine publisher
· An actor
· A film editor
· Simon Cowell
· A comedian
· A comedy writer
· A famous YouTube viral person
· A Hollywood script writer
· And finally a super awesome blogger (just kidding I have absolutely no idea what I want to be)
When I was thinking about this I was looking at how writer comes up a few times and how I always sort of felt like I wanted to be a writer in-between all the other stuff. I have always loved writing, but one thing that did kind of inspire me was when I was about 14/15 my friend old Martha was always a really good writer (and used to write online for the viva Lewes for a while) and she had a really good way with words and I admired that. I also sat next to her in English and copied her. And wished I was that good but I looked for an old article of hers that mentions me (why else would I want to find it) to show you what kind of style of writer she was and I couldn’t find it but I found a similar thing to the article, she wrote on her old blog and I just wanted to put it on here
I will also put the link to her old blog below but there are only a few entries.
Walking out onto the running track outside school, I was already out of breath… I had only been outside for around 20 seconds, and already I wanted to go back.
The teacher, let’s just call her Miss Sports-Nut for now, bellows out threats of detention for anyone who refuses to conform. I begin to weigh up the pros and cons, as I find myself faced with the choice: 30 minutes detention in the company of 3 of the bolshiest women on the face of this planet, telling me about how stupid I was to be so weedy… or the E word… exercise… for one whole hour.
The heat is practically blistering, I snap out of my thoughts to find that my feet have made the decision for me, I’m already there.
I have hated sports of any kind since I was very young, I remember my best friend as a child, Lorna, and I used to dread sports day… our noisy peers sweating from the artificial thrill, the overly-competitive parents, screaming from the side lines, the luke-warm glasses of fruit squash, full of drowned flies, spending their last moments of life suffocating in sticky sweetness.
And the teachers… I’m sure we’ve all had one of them: the aggressive, out-going ones: alpha males and females, always ready for cut-throat action, wherever they may find it. Let’s call him Mr Sports-Nut, (wow, I’m creative with my pseudonyms today…), the man’s man, can often be found at the pub watching football on the fuzzy analogue television, glass of beer in hand. He looks like he has two boxes of corn flakes stuffed down his Adidas shirt and once conducted an entire assembly clad in a lycra bodysuit, not many can carry that off. He’s the type of guy who once sneezed and Miss R.S exclaimed in alto tones ‘God bless you’ and I accidentally got a serious case of word vomit and said ‘He doesn’t need God’s blessing. He IS God.’
Last year, my biscuit-tin dweller, Bridie, and I, (she hates that joke) were P.E buddies. Our teacher was Miss Tangerine, a Jack Wills-clad, bleach blonde woman with the personality of a boiled potato and the voice of a dying drag queen. We managed to almost give her a mental breakdown by standing at opposite ends of the netball court yelling ‘Wing defence’ ‘Goal attack’ over and over again. It really unnerved her: ‘twas tremendous fun, until she gave me a level 1 and everyone else a level 5-7 at which point it was even better. My father was so proud.
The teacher, let’s just call her Miss Sports-Nut for now, bellows out threats of detention for anyone who refuses to conform. I begin to weigh up the pros and cons, as I find myself faced with the choice: 30 minutes detention in the company of 3 of the bolshiest women on the face of this planet, telling me about how stupid I was to be so weedy… or the E word… exercise… for one whole hour.
The heat is practically blistering, I snap out of my thoughts to find that my feet have made the decision for me, I’m already there.
I have hated sports of any kind since I was very young, I remember my best friend as a child, Lorna, and I used to dread sports day… our noisy peers sweating from the artificial thrill, the overly-competitive parents, screaming from the side lines, the luke-warm glasses of fruit squash, full of drowned flies, spending their last moments of life suffocating in sticky sweetness.
And the teachers… I’m sure we’ve all had one of them: the aggressive, out-going ones: alpha males and females, always ready for cut-throat action, wherever they may find it. Let’s call him Mr Sports-Nut, (wow, I’m creative with my pseudonyms today…), the man’s man, can often be found at the pub watching football on the fuzzy analogue television, glass of beer in hand. He looks like he has two boxes of corn flakes stuffed down his Adidas shirt and once conducted an entire assembly clad in a lycra bodysuit, not many can carry that off. He’s the type of guy who once sneezed and Miss R.S exclaimed in alto tones ‘God bless you’ and I accidentally got a serious case of word vomit and said ‘He doesn’t need God’s blessing. He IS God.’
Last year, my biscuit-tin dweller, Bridie, and I, (she hates that joke) were P.E buddies. Our teacher was Miss Tangerine, a Jack Wills-clad, bleach blonde woman with the personality of a boiled potato and the voice of a dying drag queen. We managed to almost give her a mental breakdown by standing at opposite ends of the netball court yelling ‘Wing defence’ ‘Goal attack’ over and over again. It really unnerved her: ‘twas tremendous fun, until she gave me a level 1 and everyone else a level 5-7 at which point it was even better. My father was so proud.
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