The adventures of my left foot.

I love shoes. They can be cute, they can be hot, they can be excruciatingly painful, they can fix depressions of any calibre. Most importantly, they cover up feet- one of the most disgusting appendages which have the sole function of displaying beauteous footwear. And allowing us to walk, however that is an essentially useless skill for someone like me who sits and studies all day- although i do admit that feet act as an anchor of sorts and go some way to prevent me falling off my chair. But, the point is, feet are deplorable and if not for the need to wear sexy shoes, they could be completely abolished.

Feet can also cause a fair bit of grief, particularly to old or even middle aged people. Instead of enviable stilettos, they find their feet adorned with afflictions such as bunions, callouses and fallen arches; and an inability to walk in even the most diminutive of kitten heels. Even those who are not so old, find their feet covered in weeping blisters upon the removal of innocuous-looking, bow-embellished shoes.

Following the events that have plagued my left foot recently, I have no choice but to declare war on it. Which could present even more of a problem then first appears, as I have been described as having two left feet, and I might forget which one I have declared war on. Amazingly, I cannot impugn my prolonged wearing of damagingly high heels for my foot's apparent misbehaviour- although I do have a pair of cute orange heels with zips up the back to thank for the four blisters they bestowed upon Left Foot.

Left Foot first made its abhorrence towards me apparent yesterday afternoon. I was happily walking along when I tripped on a crack on the concrete and somehow landed on the road- and on Left Foot's ankle. As my mother laughed at me, I was forced to remove my cute pink shoe and pathetically limp to the car.
Several hours later, the weak pain had subsided. Mum decided to ask me, from the next room, whether or not my foot was okay.
"I think it's fine," I replied, before tripping over and landing in much the same way, on the same ankle. Thank you, Left Foot- I mean obviously this isn't the result of my own clumsiness, or anything.

But wait! That's not all! This morning, I managed to drop my hair straightener on Left Foot- clearly it was Left Foot's fault for getting in the way. Several minutes later, more harm came to Left Foot- this time I stubbed my toe on my door. Once again, demonstrably Left Foot's own fault for trying to go where the door was.

So that's it. It's war.
My first attack? The next time I leave the house, I'm wearing my new Paris Hilton shoes, no matter how much Left Foot screams in blisters of protest.

Pervy Old Guys: the next installment.

A common vein that seems to run though way too many of my blog entries, is the topic of Pervy Old Guys. As if they are not already abundant enough in real life, for reasons that are undecipherable even to myself, I insist on immortalising them through writing. What better way to combat this tendency, then to write about them yet again.

My first encounter with a Pervy Old Guy today occured not ten minutes after I had deigned to leave the house. On my way to the Barbie exhibition, I dressed in what most would describe as too much pink- head-to-toe, topped off with a pink umbrella as it was raining, much to the detriment of my hair. So it follows that I looked like a complete idiot as I stood at the bus stop trying to prevent my umbrella from inverting, a bad habit that it seems to adopt at only the most inconvenient of times. The bus was, as usual, ten minutes late- this is such a common occurence that it would be worrying if it ever turned up on schedule. Still, crippled with the fear that it might be punctual and i would be forced to wait for the next bus for the better part of an hour, I arrived at the bus stop several minutes before it was meant to arrive. The result of this was that I was standing at a bus stop in the rain, completely in pink, for almost fifteen minutes. In this time, I got a number of strange looks from people in cars, however most of them slowed down to look at me like they would a traffic accident, then sped off.

A certain Pervy Old Guy, however, did not. He did the usual slowing down, and even opened his window. He then proceeded to ask me with a creepy smile, "Do you want a lift?", patting the empty passenger seat next to him. I politely declined his alluring offer, remembering what had been reiterated countless times to every child: don't accept lifts with strangers! Pervy Old Guys included. The thought of what would have happened if I actually was as stupid as I looked, does not bear thinking about.

However my encounters with Pervy Old Guys today, didn't stop there. Actually that kind of was my last encounter with a Pervy Old Guy, the next story which I will go into features a Weird Moderately-Aged Guy. Carmella, who I went with to the Barbie exhibition, and I were happily sitting in a populous shopping centre looking doubly stupid as we were both sporting an excess of pink attire. Much to my confusion, a man who appeared to be not too old but certainly older than me, caught my eye and said "Hey, girl, can you answer a question?"
Unsure whether or not he was addressing me, I looked at him, bewildered. "Hey, girl, Hey, girl" he repeated, then looked at Carmella as I was still wide-eyed and speechless. "Hey girl, can you answer a question for me?"
"Uh... okay," she replied tentatively, as I slid my Barbie bag closer to my body and further away from the Weird Moderately-Aged Guy.
He then proceeded to ask, through his accent, whether or not we could tell if people like each other from looking at a photograph. He believed that one can, whereas Carmella riposted that no, you can't, not just from a photograph. Whilst he began saying something which I could not understand due to his accent, I interjected that indeed you cannot tell from a photograph as they are usually posed. He said something about facial expressions- I kind of agreed with him, particularly in the case of candid shots, but didn't fancy mentioning it.

Following such a strange question, which he kept pressing however continually changed the exact wording resulting in the meaning becoming mutated; Carmella questioned him as to way he wanted to know. He wouldn't answer! She repeated her query but he outright refused to address it, instead repeating his original question again. We hastily made our excuses and left- while we were not in immediate danger of any kind, it was really strange!

Hopefully that will be the last Pervy Old Guy/ Weird Moderately-Aged Guy story for a long time.

Let's donate everything we own to charity!

This morning, I was procrastinating and avoiding the imperative items on my to-do list, and read this article. For any of my paltry readership that cannot be bothering reading the article, it is about Paris Hilton. In my opinion at least, she is the cutest and prettiest heiress ever; despite the disdain that is afforded to her by most (although those who adjudge and reprobate her are probably the very same people who fap over pictures of her when nobody is looking).

One of the many accusations that Paris is subjected to is the view that she should donate all of her money to charities rather than engage in unrestrained shopping. This asseveration was expressed in a comment on that article, as reproduced below, complete with bad grammar and inarticulate ratiocination:

"children are dying in third world countries and she's wasting her money on that many shoes and converting what would have been a very nice (and expensive) house to her liking? it makes me feel sick. for every designer shoe that she brought i bet she could have saved a starving children. this *** is going to hell!"

Of course, I left a scathing comment in reply, however it is currently pending approval, meaning it will probably never grace the computer screens of those reading Paris Hilton articles. If people who are actually interested will never hear what I have to say on the matter, then the apathetic readers of my blog will.

It is ridiculous to suggest that those with money should donate it all to charity. That's like communism, but backwards- the result of such philosophies being implemented on a macro scale would be that there would be no incentive to work hard for anyone in society's upper crust. The whole point of earning money is to enjoy it- and in saying this I am not defending my own personal interests, because as you may well know, I am from quite a penurious household.

Most celebrities, Paris included, champion a few charities, however boring ventures like that do not make headlines, so not knowing this is perfectly excusable- even the fountain of knowledge that is Wikipedia doesn't give her charity work a mention. However to then state opinions like the one extracted from that site on a platform of ignorance is unethical and slanderous.

Paris Hilton supports a multitude of charities for a diverse range of causes, including ones for the poor "children in third world countries". This is a little-reported technicality and one of the many ventures her career has explored. Perhaps she is best known for her sex tapes- the court case that followed is also etched in the public mind. However one small detail seems to always be omitted from this well worn tale: she bequeathed the money that she was awarded in the lawsuit to a charity! But it is important to remember that charity donations are voluntary- despite the sizeable amounts she has contributed to various causes, she is in no way required to donate any of her fortune. She is absolutely entitled to enjoy her money however she would like, be that on her impressive refurbished house or endless rows of designer shoes. She shouldn't have to live a destitute life just because she was born into privilege.

Any declarations that Paris should give away all of her money engender the pertinent question of what they themselves have done to support charity. I suggest that the person who left the comment as cited above, sells the computer they used to browse and leave their uninformed thoughts all over the Internet; sells anything else of value that they happen to own, withdraw all of their savings from the bank; and donates all of the money to starving children in third world countries before passing judgments on others.

Sleep is a waste of time.

Recently I have been spending a great deal of time staring in horror at my lengthy to-do list- after utilising my beloved CAS calculator, I discovered that in fact the tasks on my to-do list will take more hours there are to complete than hours that I am awake in the next week. However if I don't sleep, then I should be able to squeeze almost everything in. Of course blogging is near the top of my priority ordered list, which illustrates how important the things I have to do are. Also, all of the smaller tasks seem to end up on the top of my priority list for reasons that are as yet unknown, however there's a fair chance that it is due to my being inexorably lazy. As a result, blogging, which takes me under half an hour per day, somehow ends up around number five, and my hefty pile of homework makes an appearance sometime thereafter, even though it is the only thing that will actually affect me in the medium term if I fail to complete it. Which is why I am blogging at the ungodly hour of 9:45 AM, yet have not touched any books today.

Perhaps the taks I actually need to do could be moved up the list if there was more time at my disposal. The only means of attaining this is to eliminate the need for sleep. While I already do this to some degree by mass consumption of instant coffee, there comes a point where I fail to concentrate and eventually need to sleep, much to my distaste. If I didn't need to sleep, then all of my problems would be GONE. Someone who is not sleep deprived (as I perpetually seem to be) and can concentrate for more than an hour at a time needs to invent some means of dispensing with the requisite of sleep. Whilst they're at it, they could even work out some method of eliminating the need to eat, because it's little more than a waste of time that I only engage in so that I don't accidentally drop dead, fun as that sounds.

Maybe I need to add 'inventing sleep and nutrition substitutes' to my to-do list. Although, I will probably never get around to it as it will take more than an hour, so it will end up at the bottom of my priority list.

Bagging Britney doesn't make you cool.

I have exciting news: I am going to Britney Spears's concert in November. Of course, if you have had any interaction at all with me over the last few hours, or even have me as a friend on Facebook or MySpace, you will of course already be well informed of this thrilling announcement; as I have not shut up about it since receiving the news that my tie* managed to secure tickets. Upon my gleeful revelation of the most exciting event that I will ever attend in my life, noses are turned up and misguided statements such as "she's a talentless train-wreck" ensue. Not that this is a new phenomenon, it seems that nobody has any love for cute and girly entertainers and celebrities. This of course encompasses many others that are not Britney, such as the Spice Girls and Lady Gaga, all of which are extremely talented, beautiful and condemned.

Britney is frequently slammed as being devoid of talent- no assertion could be more wrong! She is an amazing singer and dancer and above all, entertainer. Her proficiency is often overshadowed because of her tumultuous personal life and bizarre antics. To quote Chris Crocker, leave Britney alone! Being mentally unstable does not abrogate her aptitude and achievements, and anyone who thinks it does is clearly ignorant and cannot see past their own efforts to be "too cool" to enjoy Britney's music.

Rejecting what is perceived to be mainstream for more alternative styles does not make you cool or hardcore. Hating Britney because she is pretty just makes you look like an ignorant bigot. Britney Spears is nothing short of iconic and anyone who disagrees seriously needs to be enlightened. I prescribe listening to all thirty-four of her singles, youtubing her music videos and sampling her perfumes.

*'Tie' as in the end half of the word 'bestie', as Carmella and I each possess one half of one of those juvenile best friend necklaces. My half says "bes" and hers says "tie", thus she is my tie. She is also my tie in that she completes my outfits, as without her expert fashion guidance I would be one very lost child, swathed in crocs and ponchos and whatever else my poor misguided eyes lead me towards.

It takes more effort to be lazy than it takes to actually do something.

Despite my aversion to physical activity of any nature, one of the many things that annoys me to no end, is when people avoid any responsibilities at all costs, and try to relegate their meagre workload to others.

School, the place where I gain all of my limited life experience, provides me with countless examples of such slackers. There are WAY too many students who are only still at school in year eleven because they have nothing better to do, even if they clearly do not want to be there. Even those who want to be there, are all too frequently reluctant to complete the meagre workload we are given. Honestly we don't have that much to do, and I hate to think of the rude shock we'll all get once we enter the real world, where there are actual ramifications for being unreliable and lazy. We have it pretty easy at school- achieving a 90% on a major project is applauded, yet if it was in the big scary real world, we would be vituperated for missing that last 10%, which could be crucial for the operation of whatever it is you were working on. If it is so easy to excel at school by simply completing all assigned tasks and doing a bit of study, then anyone who values their education should do it rather than decide that they cannot be bothered.

Furthermore, it is boring when you have no intellectual stimulation. You can't avoid it with such passion and then complain that you are bored. I know a good way to combat that, why don't you try PUTTING IN SOME EFFORT AND TRY TO COMPLETE THE PITIFUL LITTLE ASSIGNMENTS THAT ARE ALLOCATED TO YOU! And then the very same people who consistently put in little effort have the cheek to complain when they receive bad marks. What do they expect will happen!

One final thing to consider is that in the time you spend manufacturing some pathetic excuse, and stressing about leaving everything to the last minute, you could have done something constructive and made a start on whatever it was you were meant to do. And, in the context of school at least, whatever it is you were meant to do is probably not that challenging, and if it is, then there is plenty of help readily available.

We should all be nerds and study all the time. Then we can be like Germany and have cool cars and hot scientists, AND save the environment.

This is why I love public transport.

The following is a true story, devoid of any exaggeration or embellishment that would make it of higher entertainment value, as the unaugmented version as you see it below is already funny enough.

Several months ago, I boarded the bus home after a stressful few hours of draining my bank account at Chadstone. Unfortunately for someone who suffers mild motion sickness as I do, being 100% nerd; all of the forward facing seats were taken. Being the last person to board the bus, I was the only person on a backwards facing seat. Aren't I lucky!

So whilst sitting on a backwards-facing seat, I could see all of the people on the bus in the forward facing seats that I was so envious of. And as seems to be the case on most modes of public transport, there was a Pervy Old Man of an obvious nationality that I will not disclose, but can probably be inferred by anyone who uses public transport. I seemed to be in Pervy Old Man's line of sight, and once I noticed this, I attempted to secure eye contact to let him know that I knew that he was a Pervy Old Man. Unfortunately this did not seem to deter him in any way, so I decided to be a bit of a Pervy Old Man myself and intently stare at him to make him as uncomfortable as I had been. What does Pervy Old Man do?

He looked away and started picking his nose, doing more excavating that most labourers do. Disgusting, but also hilarious, invoking a fit of laughter from me. But, since all of the other passengers were facing forwards, nobody knew what I was laughing at, except possibly the poor, deplored looking girl sitting next to the Pervy Old Man. Of course, they all like at me like I'M the weird one, whilst Pervy Old Man is having the time of his life digging for treasure.

Since giggling, especially whilst on one's own, is an attention drawing behaviour, Pervy Old Man looked at me again. And kept picking his nose. Which made me laugh even more. He soon realised what I was laughing at, and ceased his digital indiscretions.

But the story doesn't consummate there. A few minutes later, he pressed the stop button, indicating that he wanted his amazing adventure on the bus to come to an end- whether this stemmed from the embarrassment he suffered or because he actually needed to get off the bus, remains a mystery to this day.

After he disembarked and was safely on the outside of the bus, obviously unbeknownst to him, I could still see him through the windows. And of course, he was... picking his nose. Peals of laughter and more funny looks from my fellow passengers ensued.

The moral of the story? Pick your nose on buses at your own discretion, at the risk that I may laugh at you.