Comiserations and celebrations.

Today marks the end of an era.
In a few hours I will be sat back at home eating a cheese toastie contemplating how my drama exam went . But this isn't just any exam; this is my last A Level exam. Also the last time I will see most of the people I have spent the last two years chatting to, laughing with/at and pissing off.
Not only do I feel a great sense of loss laddies and gents but I also recognise this as the last time I will write to this blog under the immense weight of the thumb of Runshaw. Runshaw College, for me, has always represented a sort of juxtaposition, the hustle bustle of the corridor always put me in mind of a stream of fish and myself walking to a lesson a weakling clinging on to the sides and swimming against the current. No matter how many dirty looks and snotty comments from chavs Runshaw has dealt me, its always repaid me with lovely people who if not completely sane are at least kind natured, intelligent and a little bit cooky.

The occasional member of unkind staff and the ridiculous rules about attendance and student freedom (as well as the welsh dragon) are like a Nazi regime minuscules in comparison to the Eden of diversity I liken to the student body. So Runshaw you have given me EMA with one hand and reclaimed it with the other in the form of over priced and undercooked hash brown sandwiches and extortionate drinks from the maximum fizz vending machines. You have raised my self esteem by showing me I can achieve academically and charged it via chip and pin to my dignity with your staff and their dedication to creating a student willing to comply and ready to achieve.
I have everything to thank you for and an equal amount to hate you for. You have taken my childish view of society and replaced it with knowledge.
I have decided upon reflection that I despise Runshaw the institution but love a fair amount of the people within it.

After today no more struggling for time and sanity.
After today no more laughs including library balloon Olympics, fag shed antics and games of dares designed to annoy the librarians.

I suppose all that's left to do is wish everybody good luck for uni or whatever they plan on doing and to hope the future hold something good for us all.

PS= People you have no idea how long that picture took me to do.

Mourning the death of small things.

And no, I don't mean children and animals.
Today boys and girls I will be talking about the loss of youth and the everyday changes that usually go unoticed.
I think back to just a few months ago and so much seems to have changed. I feel I'm going mad and I sit thinking that I can't be that different to how I was..I just couldn't change that much practically over night without realising it. But it seems I have.

I'm sure I'm not the only person in the world who's changed recently. Almost everyone in college is completley different to how they were when college began. Within the ranks of my fellow bloggers I see complete contrasts between them now compared to when we began college.

It's not that I don't like change or that I'm unwilling to change...It's just that it seems unreasonable that I should be so busy that I can't even enjoy the development and change within my own life.

So this entry is dedicated to mourning the death of the small things we lose as a byproduct of the aging process and although I'm only eighteen I have alot of mourning to catch up on already.

The first of these is 'The magic of the library' ; writing this from a public library I shouldn't be too judgmental, but I will be. As a child I cherished visits to the library. The colours the cushions the vast amount of stories lining the walls just waiting for you to delve into and be transported to a world where theirs never any chores to do and ice cream never gives ytou an ice cream headache. I'm afraid to say as I have grown older I've realised that chores are inevitable and niether relish the thouht of marigolds and flash 'all purpose' I neither detest it either, I've become desensitized to the labourious work of chore and that, my friends is worse. I blame school and college for causing me to not be content with story hour and a quick book on tape. Not obnly are libraries now object I associate with Brecht, set texts, textbooks and general none fiction my local public library is next to the supermarket. I'm ashamed to say that instead of enjoying the peaceful blanket of silence laid upon me by crossing the thresh hold of the library my brain begins to use it as an opportunity to start a virtual shopping list. The internet in the dark seedy corner looms, bringing in unwanted and unwashed drifters. I see these people as the dirty line of filth arounf the bath of society. And I move quickly as I type to tell you that the state of those who surround me as I write make me feel as if I have wandered in on 'peado's hour' in the conmputer suite. I'm yet to work out if the man sat next to me is actually publicly masturbaiting via a hole in his pocket as the movment of his hand might suggest.

The next loss I will mourn today is the ability to not wear make up. Don't get me wrong; I don't wear make up every day. But I see those days when I don't wear make up as a chance to get my own back on society by making them gaze at my grusome paintless face all day long. It's a sad day in a females's life when she changes from wearing make up to look older (getting into pubs and the like) to wearing make up to look younger. A sad day indeed sadder still that mine came on my eighteenth birthday coinciding with my new found ability to become an angry, paranoid mess whenever somebody guesses my age as a couple of yuears older than I am. My remedy for this; stop asking people how old they think I am and wear make as the mood takes me. I've lost that ability to get up and leave the house without hours of preparations and the layers of products and make up that I layer my head in cause me to see myself in my mind's eye as a sort of Elizabeth the first character with the 3cm thick layer of plaster securing my face and thick cobwebs hanginf down from the end of my hair.

So ladies and gentlemen raise your virtual glasses of wine and join me in my banquet celebrating the death to the young Kashka Georgeson and her naive ways and toast with me to the new older, and hopefully wiser version of a self that we once knew.

"Like a search for murder clues in a dead mans eye".

Although I am fully fledged nonsupport of long quotes of lyrics on blogs, I have buckled and used one as a title for this entry.

I'm sorry people even a godlike genius like me eventually disappoints.

However, the reasoning of this action should become clear.

This line was in my head for three hours whilst I tried (and inevitably failed dismally) to sleep last night. During this no mans land of restless half sleep I eventually became very annoyed at myself for saying it over and over. I'd just be drifting to the land of sweet Brecht less, Vince Noir-full sleep and BAM (no Phoebe not a bus) that line playing out in my head.

Despondency got the better of me and the part of me longing for dreams of Vince Noir resigned itself to the eternal state of Vincelessness.
After I had finished listing all the metaphorical connotations of this line in my head, I began listing all the literal meanings. I decided it would be pointless unless the murderer was small enough to hide out in a tear duct.

I then began to think of all the useless things that people do. Believe me guys there are allot!

And the nominations for the most annoying useless things people do are;

1) When people get annoyed and they pinch the skin in between their eyebrows to calm themselves down. Why do people do that? It's stupid I imagine it as a sort of cycle of life. One person get annoyed and does it and then someone sees them doing it and becomes so annoyed that they have to do it and so on...

2) Talking about crap. I don't mind the funny stuff but come on people? Does the whole bus really need to know about what your pet frog died of? Also in this category is having to talk to people who you don't know well enough to like and know to well to ignore. Asking people how they are and what they've been up to is ridiculous.

3) People who collect things. I don't care f its stamps, ornaments, elephant tusks, pyjamas or kids I don't want to know about it and I sure as hell don't want to see it. I also hate the fact that people who collect things always ask if you collect things and if you don't they give you a look of sympathy. Don't look at me like I'm a blind kitten just because I'm not sad enough to devote my existence to collecting and worshiping Star Wars memorabilia.

These are the three main ones that I decided on in the end. There were more including; blue tooth headsets, loud mobile conversations and when people look at you and laugh as if you know what joke Mr Boring-person-on -the-phone just made, those little tins of spaghetti with cartoon characters on as if this is going to make people buy them (however I think this is just because of my deprivation of cartoon pasta shapes as a child).

Eventually after deciding on what colour drapes and table arrangements I would have at 'The Annoying Bastard Awards' 2009 (instead of baftas my winners would receive bastard trophy's) I fell asleep. only to wake this morning and find that I'm back in this world of annoyance again today. However I am willing to put up with it as it's also the world of Vince.

Losing Battle.

Recently I've been despondent.
Less than despondent downright depressed.
Sitting in my flat with the canaries is usually a happy pass time for me I do my best thinking at home sat around writing, listening to the radio and reading. But just recently life hasn't measured up.
The reason why came to me as I was drifting of on Thursday evening.
Thinking about death and life...in that order.
I've spent a lot of time wondering who will remember me when I'm gone. Have I really touched anybodys life made a difference by existing.
I wont leave my mark on society and I sure as hell won't be remembered for my good deeds (which extend to cleaning my mother's house as she broke her leg).
I became unsettled by the idea that I wasn't achieving anything. I wasn't changing society, my own or anybody else's life.
You know you need to hit the vodka or the road when you don't even make a difference to your own life.
A lot of the time when I get in one of my moods, I don't try and get out of them.
But this time I talked myself down.
I told my self that I am making a difference if not in my carbon foot print then at least to the people I talk to everyday.
It may not be a lasting impression but at that moment for those few seconds , I'm changing that person's life.
I decided to talk to my mum. Not about feeling down (don't get me wrong I'm not a nutcase).
Before I conclude this post I will point something out.
My mum has been stoned for as long as I can remember. She's a lovely woman but she has her own little ways and habits. When I was little she was the super mum of the year. Coveted and admired in equal measure. A few years later and a few months apart and our relationship had suffered. We talk to each other in a transactional and solemn manner.
And this is what I changed.
For one hour I sat and talked to the woman who was my best friend and my worst enemy and for the first time in at least a year I made my mum laugh.
It didn't solve everything, nowhere near.
I'm not about to tell you that when I left her house it was to walk into a street filled with butterflies, rainbow and mirrors that made me look skinny and pretty.
But it helped. I changed not only something in someone else's life but something in my own.
My new resolution : start winning the little victories and forget about the life and death issue, for now.
And?
I realised I win battles everyday.
Today's battle? Writing about my mother on my blog.
And not feeling an sense of remorseful guilt.

Men who struggle with women who cuddle.

We've all seen the senario, laughed at it, related to it or at least acknowledged it.
That classic steriotype Ross and Rachel or Friends, the one night stand trap and maybe even in our own lives.
The post sex cuddle.
What I am discussing today ladies and gentlemen is the steriotypical view that women want to cuddle after the knocking of boots.

It's not a new topic and not one of great importance but I feel it is I who must put this one to bed (pun intended).
It all clicked for me in Mrs Wearden's G.C.S.E Health and Social Care class. After watching a gruesome video of a woman giving birth to what appeared to be a relative of Old Greg crossed with a blamonge I watched the women craddle the baby that just seconds before was pushed out of her downstairs exit.
Imagine Ewan Mc Greggor climbing out of that toilet in Trainspotting and your not even close.
Whilst my class mates turned pale, shook, sat aghast and came over all faint, I wondered silently why the woman smiled down at the creature that just ripped her downstair area up and caused her an unspeakable amount of pain.
When I asked Mrs Wearden about this she told me that hormones released after the final contraction made the woman want to cuddle and cherish the baby.
And that was when it clicked.
Childbirth is just one big, messy, painful orgasm.
Without the simple release of hormones we wouldn't want to cuddle our slimy offsprings.
Without those hormones we'd be happy after sex but we wouldn't want to cuddle.
This also explains to me the reason why sex for men seem instinctual whereas sex for women is always presented as an act of love.
And men, altough this isn't changable, just be safe in the knowledge that without the chemically induced post coital cuddle you'd have to deal with the brunt of a women who after fifteen hours of childbirth was looking for the man responsible.
It's a small price to pay.