In conclusion, I run away from everything.

I'm not dead. I'm sitting around waiting for something to happen that isn't the hormone-drunk rambling of a teenage loner who isn't pregnant, because even that would be a turn up for the book right about now.

I don't do much. I wake up, walk to school, trip through lessons, sit through free periods, go home, shower, do homework, read blogs, go to bed. Wash, rinse, repeat. Five days a week.

I've got nothing to say, or do, or write. I come home tired and aching and drained and go through the motions.

It's not that I don't have tons of ideas. I want to write about things like why I can't make eye contact with people, or why I act like a steroid-fueled fucknut at every chance I get, but every time I sit down to type stuff up something else comes up.

And also I feel like I'm dragging on every one's mood and pace n' shit. People have stuff going on in their lives that make them happy or sad or angry but they blog about it and it's exciting to read and you can dwell on it later, or people are happy but have nothing going on in their lives, but you can still tell they're happy and that's good.

I'm neither happy nor living a shiny happy life right now, and I feel like I'm disappointing everyone, even though 'everyone' is a pretty small number (FYI I love you all, you smart, sexual people).

So I'm pulling out (that's what he said?) until I can get my butt in gear and pull myself together a bit.

And then I'll be back, baby. Possibly with cookies.

Dear household.

Dear Household,

Stop shouting. Stop arguing, cheating and lying. Stop trying to get your own back, stop eating my food after you spend the day in bed. Stop making me do stuff for you when I'm working. Stop guilting me with stuff that happened years ago. Stop telling me I'm a bad person. Stop telling me to stop arguing back when all you ever do is yell at each other anyway. Stop spending money we don't have. Stop bullshitting. Step back and look at yourselves and stop telling me I'm being dramatic.

You're making it really hard for me to love you.

Everyone deserves a chance to fly.

I spend an awful lot of time at home. My family freely admit that they think that because I'm at school, I have no social life and so have no problem finding time to myself when they need me to babysit all the effin' time. I actually hate it. I live in a council house with two bedrooms, one of which I share with my sister, there is no lock on the bathroom door, it's cramped, you can hear everything and there is no such thing as privacy. Generally I find it less stressful to be at school around over a thousand angsty, whiny, excitable teenagers.

I hate spending time at home.

Yesterday I had no plans for the day when I woke up. I hate that. But my brother swooped in and saved me via the phone. Two hours later I was on the Knavesmire (York Racecourse) at a fair with my sister and my brother's family.

My nieces at 3 and 6 years old are complete and utter adrenaline junkies. There was not a ride they wouldn't go on. Me and my bro felt sick after the first ride we went on and my sister wouldn't go on anything other than the bouncy castle. My SIL loves fairs and my nephew was too bewildered by the chaos around him to do much else besides stare.

Kelsi (oldest) dragged me around all the rides, making me drop most of my money somewhere along the way (always seems to happen... always hate it) and nearly repeat my breakfast. Eboni (middlest) was determined to be as brave as her sister and went on as many rides as she could, despite being too small for most of them. They went on rollercoasters, ghost trains, haunted houses, funhouses (me and my bro are going into business making 'adult funhouses' for stag nights/bachelor parties - awesome). until the monster trucks arrived and caused some damage. That was awesome.



We ended up leaving the fair and helping inflate hot air balloons.



Kelsi has been desperate to go on a hot air balloon ride since she's been able to tell us so. But not today, so she had to make do with getting them in the air. After one caught the wind wrong and fell over we offered her that one, but she wasn't too keen after all... Especially when the passengers fell out of the basket.

Eboni contented herself by waving to all the people who had actually made it up into the air.



After an impromptu High School Musical rave (my brother has the soundtrack in his car, 'for the kids' he claims.) I ended up back at home with a night to kill off.

Phone rings. "Hey Nicky, can you come with me to see Epidemic tonight? Al got wankered and pulled out."

Awesome.

So spent the rest of the night in a bar I used to go to all the time with my dad listening to THE heaviest metal ever, gradually losing my hearing and dodging the ever-expanding mosh pit. (Have you ever seen a full blown mosh before? It's like break dancing only totally uncoordinated and with more hair. And you deffo don't want to get in the way of it. Ouch.)

Oh, and having drinks spilt on my flip-flopped feet.

NEVER go to a metal gig wearing flip-flops. You'll thank me later.



And just by having done something with my day that didn't involve being tied down in one place, I felt a lot better.

Now why can't my life always be like that?

My technique is more than satisfactory, thank you very much.

(Sorry this is late. I got drafted out to meet up with my 12-year-old friends whilst they sit around smoking and talking about the night of getting stoned and laid that they have planned, whilst I stood there in my 16-year-old glory, HATING LIFE and babysitting.)

I have friends who go on lovely holidays to lovely places where it isn't so hot you pass out and end up in hospital and also you can drive there, rather than spend five hours in a sealed flying tin with who is probably the most annoying person to grace the earth (That's my sister, by the way).

Also my friends can remember their holidays, I have a gaping blank hole where my summer should have been.

Sucks to be me.

Anyways, my dear, darling, beloved Anner went to Italy and brought me back a present.

It was not gold.

It was not silver.

It was not a trained monkey. (Dance, monkey! Dance!)

It was... PENIS PASTA.



Imagine my surprise when I was handed a packet of these in the common room.

Imagine the look of awe/horror/what'sthelittlefreakdoingthistime? on various people's faces when I squealed "OH MY FUCK THAT'S AWESOME!"

Priceless.



Eating for feminists everywhere! BURN!

It basically supplied a whole day of penis-related humour, which is never really in short stock in the common room anyway.

"You gonna eat them?" - "All at once!"

"They're already hard." - "That's usually best..."

"Surely the black ones should be bigger." - "You know it!"

"How're you gonna react to having all that inside of you?" - "THAT'S WHAT HE SAID!"



Then came the deformed ones... God bless them... They made the boys cringe.

"That one only has one ball! AARON! IT'S YOU BROTHER! WE'VE SEEN YOUR BROTHER IN THE PASTA! HAIL!"



And then when I got home it got SO much worse.

"Mum! Why didn't you cover them up? They're going all hard!"
"That's how you want it, isn't it?"
"SHUT UP YOU SICK PERSON OH MY GOD HOW COULD YOU EVEN SAY THAT? YOU'RE OLDE, REMEMBER?!"

And then my dad arrived...

"So are the black ones best?"
"Quiet. Eating."
"Don't chew!"
"Jesus Nicky. You're dad's right. There's something wrong with your technique."
*Swallow* "What?"
"It's meant to get harder when it's in your mouth, not softer."
"Bollocks to that, mother. My technique is awesome. Ask anybody."
"... Pardon?"



And then I gobbled it awwwllll up.

The end.

PS. All go over to Jassie's blog because it is her birthday (well, the timezones are all effed up but believe me, right NOW it his her birthday. Right here. In this small part of the world. Look. Just go, okay? I'm sure she won't mind if you're a few hours out. She may even have some penis cake left to share with you. It looked awesome. It had whips and chains and everything. What are you still doing here? GO!).

If my train goes off the track, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up.

I've got into this awesome routine now I'm back at school. I'm only studying four subjects so I have one helluva lot of free time, so on a morning I walk down to the much-loved Big Bite and get myself a fried egg sandwich. I had the good sense to hide in the park the first time I ate one so when I bit into it and egg yolk exploded all over my face I had some concealment.

Scared the shit out of the kids though. And their parents. I think they thought I had a dire case of acne.

I'm loving sixth form, though I'm currently one of 113 people who are suffering from The Great Bewerley Hangover. I wake up in the morning, having not slept (mostly due to the stupid, evil HPV vaccine that makes your arm hurt like the dickens and sends you into a fever) and with a runny nose and sore throat, walk run to school with a headache and spend the first two lessons, or until I head down to Big Bite, feeling like death and wishing I was somewhere, anywhere away from school.

And then after a couple of hours it goes. It's a sweet little routine.

Lunchtimes are especially awesome because we have the common room to ourselves, away from the lower and the lower lower schools, and we BLAST music. Note the blast, it's blast as in surround sound and not being able to hear the person next to you screaming in your ear or the guy that just yelled because the table he was raving on collapsed. It's ah-may-zing.

Aaaand finally my teachers are crazy. One of my media/film studies teachers is my beloved ex-English teacher who is just totally great. One of my English teachers is my old drama teacher, which isn't so much. My part-time psychology and sociology teacher is seriously cool and the other guy that teaches me psycho and socio is also my form teacher and is undoubtedly, for lack of better phrasing, out of his fucking mind. But he was the one who suggested we all start blogs or get twitter or start a Facebook group in order to keep on top of our work which gets epic amounts of marks in my book. So there.

So all in all, I'm a-lovin' school right now, which is great because last year all I wanted to do was kill people. (Oh, you don't remember? I had a shitfit over a seating plan, broke £2000 of glassware whilst working and scalded my hand after getting groped by a gorgeous Dutch guy).

Now my biggest problem is just having to comb egg yolk out of my eyebrows.

...And then they paid me.

[Hola! Waiting for more pictures from last week to surface on Facebook before I write about it, so this here is how I 'recovered' from the week]

Last week at Bewerley Park was crippling. I'm green with bruises. I very nearly totalled a canoe. I fell from a platform onto a trapeze at fifty feet. I was shucked over a nine-foot wall only to land on my face. I fell into some rapids.

I'm a mess.

So it's totally okay that the first thing I said to my mum after a week of zero contact was 'need... vodka...'

Fast forward to the next day...

"Don't forget you're babysitting tonight."

Babysitting?!

Pah.

I was meant to be looking after my friend Helena, who's totally awesome and acts almost twice her age.

And look what she brought.



Most of this is gone.

The girl has initiative.

So basically we spent the entire night eating takeaway and watching Miami Ink because OH MY GOD IT'S SO COOL and then we lost the lids to three of the big bottles so we had to drink it all. D'oh.



I was feeling pretty ill by this point.

And then we relocated and ended up on Facebook, and then Helena went on webcam where Helena was getting slagged off by her 'friends' because she was showing off a wee bit too much with le alcohol and they were right crazy jealous because she's 12 years old and then I took over and started challenging them like the AWESOME big fake-sister I am and won, so I'm sure Helena has awesome street rep now, assuming it is all measured in units.



Denying the fact that I'm the worst person in the world.

And then I stayed up all night. Not even in a sane way. I stayed up all night on webcam because my parents were doing filthy things that I cannot be expected to lie down in the dark and listen to so I plugged my headphones in and stayed on MSN until I fell asleep at 7am and woke up at 9am, still on webcam, pondering 'what the fuck'.



Screensaved by my mum at 8am.

And then! And then! BFF Main Gay.5 called and told me that I was meant to be in Wheldrake for a BBQ so ended up at his house where I fell asleep at least fifty times and ended up so slap happy from exhaustion I got no sleep that night.

And then I went to school.

There are many thousands of things I would rather have done than gone to school at that cruel time in the morning. Eaten a puppy, backflipped off of a moving bus into a vat of snakes, touched a spider - possibly -, anything, ANYTHING, other than waking up to that alarm.

All this after coming back from a week Bewerley Park, people.

Moral of the story: Be ye not so fucking stupid.

Space, the final frontier...*

*I'm sure that guy was talking about packing suitcases.



I have no idea who that guy is, but I think I'll be doing something similar to that this week (the trapeze, not the guy).

I spent the whole of yesterday packing, realised I'd packed the clothes I was gonna wear today and had an all-out battle with the suitcase over the right to wear underwear on this trip. And then my brother showed up with a black eye and four dislocated fingers and like the good sister I am I gave him my bed and ended up sleeping on the cold, hard kitchen floor except I didn't sleep at all and when he went to work at 5am I crawled into bed and here I am, blogging.

The world is cruel.

Anyways, I'll be back on Saturday at the latest, probably with more extensive injuries than my brother, and I'll probably one or two tales of teenage mutant ninja hormone-fueled horror to tell.

Arrivederci.

Teenage jeans, so hard to beat.

So as of today I'm officially a sixth former. Spooooky, because for the last five years I have lived in knee-quaking FEAR of the sixth formers at Fulford School. In fact, I'm 97% sure that I should still be scared because there's still the year above to fear and I know that at least three of them want me dead.

Oh yes ladies and gentlemen, I'm in for a BILLBOARD time this year!

For what it's worth I'm quite liking sixth form so far. The teachers don't quite want to kill me so much, the crowd of younger years part when we walk through the corridors and did I mention that we get to eat ANY TIME WE WANT?!

Awesome.

Also some fantastic male specimens have been added to the year. Fabularse. But shhhh... I didn't say that.

What am I saying? I'm babbling.

Basically I'm loving sixth form, despite only having been there for half a day, only having half of the actual sixth form there and having done no work what so ever. My form tutor is a crazy, crazy man who can do things with a Rubik's cube that can make your eyes water and my head of house (yeah, Fulford's gone for the whole Hogwarts approach now) is none other than P. Daddy, my beloved ex-form tutor and all round good egg.

Life has never been so good.

Particularly now that I get to do rock climbing and origami as LESSONS.

Seriously, how effin' awesome is that? Whilst my sister gets tested in maths, I'll be forty feet in the air folding pieces of paper LIKE A PRO.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go pack for a horrendous, Lycra-clad adventure I've been press ganged into going to next week.

That distant scream you'll inevitably hear next Wednesday? I fell down a waterfall.