Kate Beaton’s Wonder Woman comic strips are my favourite thing in the world.
My name is Anna. I am seventeen.
Stay tuned for more exciting details into a cynical and downright typical London teenager's life.
I don’t understand why people aren’t even a bit flattered when some random (young) creep hits on them. It happened to me today for the first proper time and though I was fucking terrified by the cunt and I got the fuck off the tube as soon as I could, I also know that those weidos in big caps and baggy trousers don’t do that to ugly people.
Although now I realise under Tina Fey’s wisdom that this happening makes me stop feeling like a child forever.
I was supposed to get my braces off tomorrow, but my dentist fucked up. I have had braces for four years.
The hardest thing to come to terms with is the fact that getting my braces off won’t be what I want it to be. I’ve always had this magical perception of who I should be at 17 and it won’t happen until I have normal teeth, but it’s not like that.
- Because of 15 years of insecurity, I will never be content with my teeth.
- I will always have one tooth that is a different colour to the rest.
- I will never be who I expected myself to be at 17.
Aside from the pain of having my teeth wrench apart again and the anger at my dentist for fucking up again, there is this realisation of a psychological issue with my teeth that will never go away, even if I do get my braces off next week.
Today half of our RE lesson was cancelled so we spent the time being angry at the world and watching Twin Peaks on my netbook.
In French I managed to get away with using my wonderful netbook to watch Black Books without disturbing the exam happening in the rest of the class.
And I dodged tutoring Latin and instead watched Thor with Rachel and drank tea and conversed with her father and her cat. So today has been full of wonderful TV replacing work. Therefore, ace.
Baker Street is such a wonderful area of London. There’s the beautiful antiquity in the buildings and, of course, the Sherlock Holmes museum, but brought back to the age I want to live in through the marvellous Beatles and Rock’n’Roll shops. I love the little community my dad has found in the pub down the road and I love the shitty little art museum below the Hovel full of dumb “conceptual” art.
I marvel at a place with a farmer’s market on Sundays even though it’s in the centre of London. My dad’s place, the Hovel, has such a disgusting, Hovelly charm that BBC Sherlock managed to capture so perfectly in the first series.
I made a twitter, oh no, now I will spend my time getting angry at things that are happening in the world! Oh wait, there’s no difference to my life at all.
If I am clever, maybe this time I will not leave my coursework to the hour before the lesson and consequently be late and denied entry to the lesson.
If I am clever.
I don’t think I’m very clever.
I have come across a Spiderman villain called Swarm with the best supervillain power ever.
His power is that he is a FUCKING NAZI MADE OF BEES
BEAT THAT, SPIDERMAN
NOTHING IS WORSE THAN BEING A NAZI MADE OF BEES
RARRRGH
I have a little pendant shaped like a tiny switch-blade (the blade actually comes out!) which, aside from being the epitome of my violent undertones, will come in quite useful in dull lessons - a tiny blade hanging inches from my jugular vein is all I have ever wished for when French teachers won’t shut up about present tense conjugations.
My dad’s feminist, journalist and generally super cool flatmate Laurie Penny gave a speech at the Nadine Dorries protest. I want to live at my dad’s Hovel all the time so I can just idolise her as my Caitlin Moran. To quote Lisa Simpson, a role model in my very own home - how convenient!
Today we went to a protest about Nadine Dorries’ abstinence bill and I am still buzzing from the combination of a cause I believe in and almost catching hypothermia out there.
By the end, the bill was withdrawn and I didn’t lose my toes to frostbite! Now that’s what I call a successful day.
How the hell am I supposed to focus on essays when Sherlock is dancing through my head in his little deerstalker cap with two fronts?!
If you do any of the following things, you have what I call a Conversation Complex:
- Freak out and have a mental shut-down during a conversation because you have nothing to say
- Rejoice and have a mental shut-down during a conversation because you have managed to say things
- Store away conversation topics in your head for emergencies like those above
If you have the Complex quite badly, you will rarely talk to people because you are too lodged in your own mind.
I was hoping that through secondary school and forced interaction with Other Humans I would fix my conversing issues. It turns out that’s not the case. Today someone walked away from me mid-conversation because I couldn’t think of anything to say within a space of two minutes.
