Let's shove a tube down your throat!

   Let's not, ok? It isn't fun. Also: Doctors are sadistic.

   Unfortunately, that doesn't even begin to cover it. I was tired and gah a lot last year, which I'm going to put down to stress/growing/not properly understanding the concept of sleep. But my dear mother decided to diagnose me with coeliac disease. (Gluten intolerance.) My doctor was like, yeah, try a gluten free diet. Yeah. Don't. Unless you absolutely have to. You will never be able to eat (anything worthwhile) again. No pasta. No bread. No baking. No sauces. No beer. (Not that I'm big on beer anyway, but that's not the point.) Everything you eat tastes like cardboard. Life is no longer worth living. Sure, there are gluten free alternatives. But they'll never be as good as the real thing. And don't even think you'll ever be able to eat out again. Or go on holiday. Or enjoy life.

   My doctor scheduled an endoscopy, and for six weeks beforehand, I had to eat a whole lot of gluten foods so that if I did have coeliac disease, it would show up in the tests. I've never been so happy in my life. I'd missed regular, gluten-filled sausages. For six weeks, I stuffed myself to death with gluten foods, fearing that this may be the last time I'd ever be able to.

   The day of the endoscopy was one of the most traumatising experiences of my life.

• Step 1:  The back of your throat is numbed with an anaesthetic spray. This is to make it easier to swallow the probe. The nurse told me it tasted like bananas. I guess it did, sort of. Rotten, fermenting bananas.

This is how banana spray traumatised me. I can no longer eat the potassim rich fruits.

• Step two:  You swallow the probe thing. Despute the banana spray, this still hurts. The probe is a tube-like device with a camera on one end. It has to be swallowed, so they can take lots of lovely pictures of your duodenum. Consult a dictionary there if you need to.

What sort of pockets have you got, Oxford?

• Step three:  in order to take even lovelier pictures of your dudune duodenum, they have to pump air into your stomach so they can get a better view. This is like attempting the more advanced sections of the Karma Sutra without proper preparation- your body is not supposed to do that, therefor it will end badly. And hurt.

It is not a flat tyre, so it doesn't need inflating.

• Step four:  did I mention that thanks to the camera, my entire stomach and duodenum was being shown on a television screen- and everyone could see it but me. Because they got me facing the wall where the screen wasn't. So I still am not familiar with my duodenum. (As you may have gathered from this post, I love the word duodenum, and am trying to use it as much as possible.)

• Step five:   What goes in must come out. And, I must say, after all that air was pumped into me, I did the most spectacular burp. I belched like a man. A manly man. A manly man who liked to belch. I've never felt so masculine in my life.

Except for the time I gave myself eyeliner-stubble when I was bored once. That was very manly.

   I got the results a week later. No coeliac disease. Gluten was my friend again. And I love it dearly.

Why I feel awkward with my shameless self promotion

   Shameless self promotion is hard, because in order to do so, you have to be, well, shameless. Just because I do stupid things in public on a regular basis (unintentionally, I might add) does not mean I'm not embarrassed by them. In fact, I get embarrassed a lot. And blush. I consider it a side effect of being ginger.

For the love of god, why??

   However, if I am to succeed in my ultimate goal of being famous on the internet while leaving my clothes firmly on, it is, of course, the only way forward.

   Tell your friends. Tell your family. Aid me in my shameless self promotion. (So I feel less awkward about it, of course.)

   I'd love you for it.

THIS COULD BE YOU!

  Thankyou already to Vinesh, Jasmine, Eamon and Genevieve for following, you shall be rewarded with hugs. Virtual ones.

:hugs:

Additions to the awesome list

Jasmine, Vinesh, Genevieve, thankyou. You are officially awesome too.

Cool people follow my blog. Other people just ignore it. :)

Maths

Soup-er Serious

   So I started writing about school and my "future" etc, but I thought, man. That sounds like a super-serious post. Well. Not exactly super-serious, but sadly lacking in the entertainment department at least. And then I realised that would be coming right after my post about adoption, which actually was super-serious. And I don't want two of those in a row. That's no fun to read.

   Time for a super un-serious post!

   So... I have an update on that evil bastard soup. I thought it had mercifully disappeared from my life. Well. I was wrong. I opened the fridge today, and the bloody leftovers were in there, staring at me all like, "You won't get rid of me that easily! Not without eating me! Muahahaha!" Freaking evil.

Avoid at all costs.

   I didn't eat it, of course. Soup won't get me that easily. Man, that's not even light hearted or entertaining. That's freaking scary, because a bowl of soup is trying to kill me.

It even looks like its been doing some bad drugs. That explains everything.

 Well that was soup-er unserious. Ok, I'll stop it with the soup puns now, I promise.

   In other news, Eamon has asked me to stop trying to hug-rape him over the internet, and I've agreed, only because we all know it's not rape if you secretly want it- or if you yell surprise, apparently.

Pictured: consensual huggles.

   Yes. That is exactly how it goes.

Adoption

   I’ve been putting off writing this post for a while, for several reasons. The first is that it’s so personal, because I am adopted. And because my adoption has not only affected me, but my families as well. In some ways, I feel guilty for writing this, because perhaps it shows a lack of respect for them. But that is not the case. I do respect them. All of them. I might not get along with all of them, true. I have a cousin who ends up arguing with me every time I see her. Last time we hung out, she told me she wished that I had been a closed adoption- that is, no one would have known about it, least of all me- because maybe my brothers, William especially, would be better off not knowing. I will deal with that issue later. But as much as we anger each other, she is still my cousin, by blood. And nothing can ever change who you are biologically related to. Different families can bring you up and you can love them just as much. But blood is always thicker than water. As much as my cousin and I don’t get along, I love her. Because she is family- and although sometimes I don’t think she believes she is- she always will be.
   Family can be messed up, sure. All families fight. No relatives are perfect. The nuclear family is so rare nowadays. I don’t see that as a problem at all. Society is merely changing- just as it always does. But what doesn’t change is that you still love your families. Sure, they have their faults- but whether you realise it or not, you still love them, regardless. I think that applies to all families- whether you all grew up together with your white picket fence, or whether it’s more complicated, like mine.

   For that reason, I also think it’s time I stop hating birthmother for that decision she made all those years ago. But again, I will get to that later, because there’s a lot I want to say about that, and I’m trying to cut the rambling here.

   This will probably be a huge post, for the second reason I have delayed covering this topic. There is so much I want to say. Even trying to restrict what I am saying, I can promise you that this will be epically long. There are so many related issues surrounding adoption. And I know I can’t begin to cover them in this. But I will still try.

   Also, perhaps I ought not to talk about my birthfamily so honestly. Maybe they will be offended. Maybe they won’t like what I know about them. That’s ok, because I understand. I am not perfect. Neither are they. No one is. They’ve had their flaws, and sometimes they haven’t made the best decisions, but things like that cannot be changed. I still love them. Because I can’t have another birthfamily. I mean, I kind of do. There’s my birthdad’s side of the family, who I see separately to my birthmum’s side of the family, because that’s just the way the situation is. I don’t want my birthparents to live happily ever after, to be honest. I don’t really want them to even meet again. It would be a fairytale if they did- and by that, I mean it wouldn’t be realistic. To my knowledge, they weren’t even in a relationship, and I think they were both mature in choosing not to be together for my sake. I don’t think they’ve spoken since before I was born. And I don’t mind. They weren’t supposed to be together or anything like that. And this way, I get to be involved with both sides of my birthfamily. Perhaps if I wasn’t adopted, it would have been harder for me to contact my birthfather, because my birthmother… I don’t know. Knew him once. My adoptive parents never knew him. There weren’t the same emotional consequences for them helping me find him. But the point I was trying to make before about not having another birthfamily is that these are the people I am biologically related to. No one else can replace that link for me. So I better learn to love them, because they are the best I’m going to get.

   I think, perhaps, I ought to try to explain why I was adopted. Except I don’t know for sure. Different relatives- from both my birthfamily and my adoptive family- have offered various explanations- often the one that puts them in the best light. I haven’t a clue. Last year, after a traumatic incident I do not wish to discuss at this point, I realised I needed to ask my birthmother. I had never asked her before. I mean, I used to visit her once a year, and I don’t think we had much to say to each other. I mean, we did, we just didn’t have the guts to bring the sensitive topic up. I mean, how would you even begin to ask about that? “Oh hey, just wondering, um, why did you get rid of me instead of bringing me up yourself?” So I called her last year. And even after she explained to me, I still didn’t really know. The gist of it was, after William’s father (we share the same mum, but a different father) didn’t have anything to do with him, she realised that she wanted a father figure for me, but didn’t think my birthfather would want to fulfil that role. (His version is a little different, I’ll get to that later.) Plus she was suffering from what the doctors thought was depression (after my adoption and several children later, she later discovered it was a thyroid condition) and I don’t know. Maybe she was overwhelmed. I saw her once a year, but the more I think about it, I don’t even know my birthmother. Not at all.

   My dad’s version of events is different. He’s adopted himself, and so was never keen on the adoption idea. I don’t even think he knew I existed until I found him when I was twelve. I don’t know what the truth is- although I suspect that my birthmother may not have been entirely truthful. That does not matter for now though, because I exist. No matter how I came to be, I exist now.

   I’m glad I know my birthfamily, because a lot of adopted kids don’t. A lot of adopted kids don’t even know they’re adopted. But on their 18th birthday, someone has to tell them. Can you imagine that? Everything you thought you’ve known for the past eighteen years had been nothing but a lie. Those people that you thought were your family? Lie. You spend your days searching for people that resemble you. Just in case you may be related. I’m glad I haven’t had to go through that. If no one had ever told me- or the others- just like my cousin hopes, it would not have worked out for the best. The moment I found out, I’d be knocking on their door, demanding an explanation for everything. I’d make a point of trying to ruin their lives in the same way I’d feel that they ruined mine. But that was not the case. I know them. And I am grateful.

   I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive my birthmother for the choice she made. To this day, I still think she got it wrong. But it’s too late for that now. I will probably always be hurt by that. And I don’t want to admit that, because I don’t want to be weak about it. I’m not supposed to be. It’s been a part of my life forever, and nothing will change it. If I can’t be strong about it, and pretend I don’t care, then maybe I’m pathetic. But I’m just coming to terms with the fact that this is what happened, and I have to make the most of it now. I can’t change the past. I can’t change what happened before I was born. I can just live. But I want to live in a way that I don’t have to hate any of my family for the choices made. I won’t hate my birthmother for adopting me out. I won’t hate my cousin for wishing the family had never known me. Maybe they were wrong about me, but I still can’t change the fact that, whether we like it or not- I was born. And we are related. And anything more I have to say about adoption is irrelevant until I accept that.

   Some things still hurt. Aforementioned cousin told me that all the grandchildren were given Peter Rabbit money boxes. Or I forget what. But some sentimental token, at any rate. That I didn’t get. It upset me when she told me, and to this day, she still doesn’t understand why. But I didn’t get the token. But I, so desperately at the time, wished I had. Because then I could feel like I was part of their family too. I still don’t feel like I’m part of any family. I’m not part of my birthfamily, because I didn’t grow up with them. I didn’t even meet them all until recently. I’m not part of my adoptive family because, genetically, at least, we have nothing in common. I feel like an outsider in both of my families, and yes. It hurts. And maybe that makes me pathetic. Fine. I. Am. Pathetic. But I still wish they could understand. And this is just my birthmother’s side of the family here. My birthfather’s side is a whole other thing altogether, and I don’t think I could write about them yet.
   Heck. I don’t think I’ve said half the things I wanted to say, but I never thought I would in this post, simply due to the nature of it. But I guess I feel a bit better, having written it, and perhaps you shall be enlightened by it.

I have a follower!

   Eamon, thank you. I now officially have my first follower, and I didn't even have to hold a gun to his head. I am eternally grateful.

To the terrifying point of hug rape. Poor Eamon.

   I am now going to declare that Eamon is "awesome". If you want to be awesome too, then feel free to follow this blog. I promise I won't hug rape you. But I will call you awesome. And everyone wins, because that way we both get a self esteem boost.

Terina, or more accurately, a memory involving her and French class

   Terina, here is your post. It may be full of irrelevant pretty pictures, but that's only because I haven't seen you in ages, and it kind of makes it hard to write a decent post about you, but I'm trying. Even if this doesn't end up being about you, I dedicate this post to Terina Stockwell. So at least it is for you, Terina.

   I met Terina when I came to Invercargill. I don't remember a lot, because this is years back, but I think we were in a class together? I know we were in French together in year 10. Madame Beer was our teacher, and I didn't like her very much, mostly because I'd had Madame Tang in year 9, and she was an amazing teacher. Madame Beer, sadly, could never compare, although the advantage to being in her class was that at the end of each term, we would have a french lunch, with baguette and french cheeses and eclairs and other lovely food. I tried to make eclaires at home once. Apparently they looked like little deformed yellow penises. Gay Caleb thought this was hilarious.
"Ohmygod! Suck them til the white stuff comes out!" he declared. Classy.

   This post has suddenly stopped being about Terina, hasn't it. Sorry.

Is that better?

   French was pretty awesome. We had songs to help us learn how to correctly conjugate our verbs. We had actions. We performed these in assembly once. Yeah. Not so great. Kind of more like horribly embarrassing.

Pictured: Horrible embarrassment

   Thankyou, Madame Beer, for traumatising us.

I'm sorry, soup

   Today has not gone so well. The soup is just the last straw. I woke up at 6:39am with the intention of going to my mock French exam, which I presumed was this morning. I got up. I danced around my bedroom for all of five minutes in an attempt to wake up. I then slumped onto the bed in exhaustion. Woke up ten minutes later. Had a bit of a panic. I only said that because I don't know how to spell "panicked." Is that a word? There's a spell checker on this thing, but I'm not keen to use it because it tried to Americanise all my spelling, and I'm not American, I live in New Zealand. Also I haven't learnt how to change the spell checker to NZ English.

   I had three coffees this morning, in my eagerness to be awake during the exam. Three coffees. And I still wasn't awake. I just needed to pee a lot. Gah.

   I went on my dad's bus this morning, and it was freezing, and that bloody kid that's on it was yelling constantly just like every other morning while I desperately went through my French notes and tried to understand how to use the subjunctive mood in case I need to use it during the writing part of the exam. He yelled some more. I contemplated how bad I would look if I murdered a child. Realised that jail probably wouldn't be much fun, and that murdering goes against my non violence stance. Turned up ipod and tried to go back to the subjunctive mood. Cried on the inside as I failed to comprehend a single word of my notes and I had written them myself.

   Got to school. Shivered. Swore at my subjunctive mood notes. Shivered some more. Contemplated taking up another language other than French. Realised that would be confusing as then I'd have the voices in my head speaking in three languages instead of two and I've been learning French since I was five years old and those thirteen years would be wasted if I didn't persevere, and perhaps I could survive without the subjunctive mood after all. I could just pretend it never existed. Ever. It never needed to. Bam. Done. I shivered again and contemplated murdering the obnoxious little girls that were hogging the heater and talking about things that were obviously more vitally important than the subjunctive mood, such as lipgloss. (Lipgloss is amazing. But it won't help you with your French. Believe me, I've tried.)

   Found out that I didn't even freaking have my French exam today. Cried, loudly, in front of a majority of the school. I'm lying. I was that close to becoming a blubbering mess or violently murdering everyone, until my logical side (ha!) kicked in and I realised that neither of these options would benefit me in any way whatsoever. Ran to try to get a ride back home with my dad before it was too late. It was too late. He'd already left. I nearly cried again. Shivered. Contemplated hitchhiking. Realised that even at 9:00am there was still potential for me to be raped and murdered. Began walking instead. Up a hill. In the cold. Shivered some more. Thought about what a terrible blog post it would be if I wrote it. Realised I still wanted to write a blog post about it anyway and try to make it entertaining. Please enjoy this lovely picture of a rainbow, because no one can possibly be sad while looking at a rainbow.

 I just realised there is no closing bracket either. My day could not get worse.

   I sure hope that was entertaining, because my whinge about my day is not over yet. Sorry.

   I staggered up the hill to my house. Nearly died. Thought I might just die happy though, surrounded by the beauty of nature. (I took a shortcut through the bush.) It was now sunny and I'd stopped freezing to death and I was merely dying of exhaustion. But with the sun up, I was surrounded by lovely pretty trees, and I stopped dying for long enough to appreciate the beauty of it. I then nearly collapsed with exhaustion. Joy.

   I made it home, eventually, explained the situation to my dad in between internal sobs, and went to the kitchen to remedy the situation as I knew best. Cooking.

   Let me clarify something. I can only sort-of cook. I can cook some things. I make the best non-packet risotto ever. I have an amazing ability to turn pathetic amounts of vegetables into something delicious. Which is probably impressive. I make good kumara soup. Usually. But today the root vegetables conspired against me.

Interruption from Vinesh: "Bloody roots and their hidden agendas." I accidentally read that as bloody roots are hidden agendas. Maybe I just have a filthy mind on terrible days. I'm now terrified of being sexually assaulted by a root vegetable, which makes even less sense than being terrified of windows.

   So, today I made my kumara soup as per usual. I don't think I edited the recipe at all. That is also a lie, because I don't even have a recipe, aside from an old Alison Holst recipe book because my mum worships her. It tastes ok. But with every spoonful of soup, I feel like I want to vomit. Something has gone wrong with my soup, and it's the last straw on a very very bad day.

   I think I may need to lie down and take a long look at a picture of a rainbow, please.

   Soup. I love you. You have supported me in many a difficult time in my life. You have warmed me through many winters. You have provided nourishment. You have helped me get my 5+ a day, because vegetables are so much better in soup. You have practically taught me how to cook. I'm sorry for eating you. Please stop hurting me, and I promise to stop eating you.

Love from your darling Bell-ez.

Mandatory Sex Party

   This is for you, Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half.

   So basically, she wants to popularise the phrase mandatory sex party, and until it is found on a number of sources on the internet, it is not officially a new phrase, and she will not be able to make a Wikipedia page about it. Support the cause!

   For further information, click here for Allie's post on it at her blog, Hyperbole and a Half, in which she explains what a mandatory sex party is and why we should popularise the phrase.

"Okay, so I think a mandatory sex party is a party where once you walk in the door, you are obligated to have sex. I would think that these parties often disguise themselves as costume parties or birthday parties or baby showers but THEN as soon as they entice people in the door, they are all "guess what this actually is? It's a mandatory sex party, bitch!"



And then the raping would commence.



It's just a rough definition... "

Bro

   Having written posts about two of my brothers, David and William, before, I figured I ought to write a post about my other "bro". Pip. Pip's not a guy. I know this for sure. No, I haven't checked for myself, but she's fairly pregnant right now, and unless she's got some sort of tumor that's giving her a big belly, I'm pretty sure that's proof enough that she's female. I mean, there was that man who had a baby, but didn't he used to be a woman and still had a uterus? I'm not entirely sure on the details. But Pip is probably pregnant, which means she probably has a uterus. From this, I can deduce that she is most likely a female. Also, boobs. Not that I stare at people's breasts, what with being straight and all, but having had epic conversations with Pip about bra shopping and breasts, I'm aware that she, too, has them.

   Why has this post so far been about men with uteruses (is this a word? I've just got Eamon to check, and he's found that uteruses is indeed a word) and my friend's breasts? Anyway. Pip is my "bro" regardless of gender. Although due to breasts and uteri (which, as he informed me, is the other plural form of uterus) we can assume that she is a female who just happens to be my bro. Because we have a "broship."

   I met Pip when I first came to Invercargill, and we bonded over both being redheads. And our personal oddities. Like failing at Science. Somehow, she told me, she'd once managed to set flour on fire. I don't even know how that's possible. On the same school sports day when Genevieve and I allegedly got married, Pip called me cheap and plastic. Because I was wearing a cheap plastic yellow tiara. Because, you know. House colours. We were both in Trail. As was Hannah. Fairly appropriate. We trailed behind. Our house chant was based (vaguely) on Sexyback. I don't even remember the exact words, but I do remember Pip and I making up our own version which poked fun at a bunch of girls we didn't like.

We're breaking [insert name here]'s back... yip

You silly girls just won't know how to act... yip

We'll cut you up and put you in a yellow hat... yip

   (At this point I must interrupt and inform you that the original line here was "No need for makeup, wear your yellow hat" which is why this somehow makes sense, k? Right. Back to the chant.)

So [insert names here] you better watch your back... yip

   Very mature.

   I didn't see a lot of Pip in year 10. She was running away a lot and getting into a bit of trouble, of which I need not mention here. We were still in the same Science class though, and the teacher used to always interrogate me on her whereabouts. I hadn't a clue, of course, I never knew when she was off on the run unless her mum called and asked our family to keep an eye out for her, and she never told me in great detail about where she went. But everyone assumed because she was my best mate, I must have somehow been involved. Pip knows what I'm like, though. I'd never have the guts to wag school. One of her friends tried to convince me once, but I was too scared of being caught. Sometimes it's ok to be pathetic, I think. It's (mostly) kept me out of trouble. Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, Bell-ez.

   After that year, I moved back to Queenstown, but I went back to Invercargill now and then during weekends and holidays to see all my friends down there, including Pip. A couple of years ago I had to go to Invercargill to get my wisdom teeth removed by a man called Mr Christmas. As it turned out, he wasn't Santa, and the procedure wasn't much like Christmas, because I can generally remember Christmas, but due to being all drugged up and groggy I don't remember much of it. I remember being awake in the car afterwards outside of the Countdown supermarket, and remembering the times Genevieve and I used to sing The Final Countdown every time we went past it. I don't remember how I got to the motel, I don't even remember going into the motel. I remember waking up on a motel bed and freaking out because I had no idea whereabouts in Invercargill I was, and I was disorientated and that freaked me out. I desperately wanted to go outside to figure out where I was, but my mouth was still bleeding and sore, and my mum wouldn't let me. I also couldn't chew anything for nearly two weeks afterwards. Pip was the one who sat there with me and ate as many Calci Yums as I did, just to make me feel better about the lack of solid food. She was the one who convinced Liz to let me go outside for a walk so I could stop freaking out, and promised to get me back asap if my mouth started bleeding to death. She also lent me one of her favourite hats, which is, of course, a great honour.

She called it the baseball groupie hat, and it was a token of our friendship.

   We also went to The $2 Shop that time. We rearranged all the coloured candles so the colours were all mixed up. The girls we didn't like (from the chant above) came into the shop too, and we contemplated stabbing them with the earrings. Unfortunately, it never eventuated. The shop lady looked at us like she wanted to kick us out, but fortunately she didn't.

    Last time I saw Pip was in February. I had to go to Spotlight in Invercargill to get some fabric for my dress for the school formal, and Pip was coming because I wanted a second opinion. No, I didn't, really. I just wanted an excuse to be allowed to hang out with her because it'd been ages. Besides, she'd recently told me about her pregnancy.

Just starting to get a bump. The baby's due in a couple of weeks, so I'm guessing it's much bigger now. Also, BABIES HAVE FINGERNAILS. Juno told me so.

   We probably ought to have been kicked out of Spotlight in the exact same way we weren't kicked out of The $2 Shop. We didn't really end up looking at much dress fabric. Instead Pip found the baby aisle, and started dissing everything in it, saying that her kid wasn't getting any of that rubbish. Then we found the wedding aisle (wedding aisle! Geddit!.... Sorry. I won't do that again....) and Pip opened at least three packets of confetti and showered them on me. We then dashed into the next aisle before we got caught. We vowed to blame it on her pregnancy hormones if we were.

   The next aisle appeared to be the "colourful things" aisle, and Pip immediately began wrapping me in feather boas. For some reason, I thought it was a smart idea to get photographic evidence.

For your viewing pleasure.

   Somehow we managed to not get kicked out, although I had confetti all through my shoes, and I spent the car journey back to Queenstown finding individual pieces of confetti on me and chucking them out the car window. My mum took one look at me and sighed. She didn't ask how I managed to get confetti on me. She probably didn't want to know.

   So as I mentioned above, Pip's baby is due in a couple of weeks. It's going to be a girl. She had a feeling it was going to be a boy, but after buying clothes saying "Mummy's little All Black" she decided perhaps she ought to find out the sex after all. Turns out it's a girl. Pip doesn't mind. She'll just dress her in boy's clothes and not care if the kid turns out to be a lesbian. Heck, I was dressed in boys clothes up to the age of ten, and I turned out straight.

   We spent nights on the internet, going through various baby name websites and pulling faces at all the icky ones. We came across some strange names, including Lankston. Apparantly it means "from the tall man's town." I immediately thought of a man I know, known as Lanky, and briefly wondered if his real name was Lankston, and whether Lanky was short for it. I then realised that there is nothing at all short about Lanky, and that his real name was Mike ( I didn't find that one out for a while, so if anyone ever mentions a Mike, I have no idea who they're talking about) and that he is only called Lanky because he is tall. I then felt rather stupid, and decided to leave this whole name choosing business to Pip. I gave her warning though.
"Whatever you do, don't call her Annabel. No one will ever be able to spell her name correctly, and they'll find a way to pick on her. They used to call me Anna-smell. Because "smell" rhymes with "bel"- aren't they clever? Anyway, don't give her a stupid name."

   Pip kept my advice in mind and settled for Kenzie. Like McKenzie, but without the Mc. I really like that name, actually.

   I remember last year, Pip came to Queenstown to stay for the weekend, along with my boyfriend at the time. (Now ex, that's a story I'm not too keen to get into right now. I could tell you an interesting story or two, but right now I don't know if that's really such a good idea. He did force me to watch Twilight though. I fell asleep halfway through. It didn't matter anyway, I just missed him telling Pip everything he knew about Robert Pattinson, which was far more than a straight man should know.) We somehow ended up watching both Juno and Knocked Up on the same night. Both really good movies, especially Juno, but wow. Pregnancy overload. Nothing will make you treasure condoms or abstinence quite like watching both of these on the same night. I know, because Pip and I discussed this afterwards. I reckon Pip will be fine though. She's not scared of anything. Not even childbirth.

Someone who isn't scared of childbirth. Which is why she's the one having a baby in two weeks, and I'm not.

Hannah Dearlove, aka Cave It

   I promised Cavey I'd do a post for her, but as with Genevieve, I don't really know where to start.
Potential interruption from Hannah: From the beginning, you nutter Bellez.

   Ok. The beginning. Aided by photographs stolen from Facebook and my old Bebo, which I can't even log into anymore because I forgot my password. Who uses Bebo now anyway, honestly... Sorry. Off track.

Later

   Actually fail right there, I had a look at my old Bebo and there aren't really any pictures of Hannah on there. Fail Fail Fail. That's ok. I'll just steal pictures from hers? This is actually saying nothing about Hannah, but anyway.

   I don't remember ever meeting Hannah. She was just there. At my school. The one I went to in Invercargill. Everyone knew Hannah Dearlove. She was the one that people confused with a boy, which made no sense whatsoever because we were at a girl's school. Also her hair was kind of long-ish when I first knew her. Not actually long. But not manly looking either. Sometimes I wonder if this is all a backlash against her childhood. She's shown me photos and she's fairly unrecognisable. Long blonde hair in pigtails. Little pink dresses. Glasses too, if I remember correctly. She was a cute little kid. She now detests the colour pink. Funny that.

She hates pink, and loves Naruto and Jesus. All you need to know really.

  I wish I had the photo here, but I remember one time, as my going away present, she let me paint her nails pink. And I had photographic proof.

   Hannah's always been somewhat violent towards me. She's threatened to push me down stairs and throw me out of windows. When Pip and I were singing "We are Living in a Musical" and then insisting on singing everything we were saying (perhaps this shall one day be further explained in another post) Hannah bopped us both on the head. Serves us right, really.

   Anyway. Cavey. One day, in English class, which I was in with her, she found a bottle lid and insisted on using it as some sort of weapon by shooting it at everyone. Perhaps that wasn't what she was doing at all, but this is Hannah we are talking about, and I ofen remember her in a violent way. Anyway. She declared that she was a caveman who had invented the wheel. Cause, ya know. It was wheel shaped. I then pointed out that she wasn't a caveman at all, what with not being a man and all. She didn't think she was much of a cavewoman either, as she wouldn't be at home all day cooking for a man and raising the children. So we settled on Cave It and the name, lucky for her, stuck.

   That's nothing. I nicknamed her friend, Victoria, Toastie. Because she was sitting there eating her lunch, and her sandwich was made of toast rather than bread. She blamed a younger sibling who had used the last of the bread to make toast that morning, and she had stolen the toast to make her sandwich. Nicknames like this should not stick. But it did, of course.

Mmmm. Toast. 

   Hannah is also a Naruto nut. Genevieve introduced me to Naruto, but Hannah was well into it. Naruto is amazing. 'Nuff said.

   Anyway, that is Hannah/Cave It and this is a photo of her that I stole from her facebook. Heck yeah. And she is in a dress. Which is a bit of a shock, right? Only for the ball though!

   Wow. Oh, also, she has a blog. So feel free to read it.

Stranger Danger

   Being a child of the nineties, I grew up with Barney the Dinosaur on television. That cheerful purple creature attempted to teach us morals and values such as kindness and caring. And he was so enthusiastic about it that the show would generally end with a song and dance number. Metaphorically speaking, he was something of a god to me when I was little.

   One day, Barney tried to teach us nineties kids about Stranger Danger. This was when I was probably around three or four, at any rate probably before I'd started school. From what I remember (though this is going way back, of course) Barney told us that if a stranger (which, as he explained was just someone we didn't know) in a car offered us lollies, we should say no and go tell a parent or trusted adult. He also told us that it is dangerous to talk to strangers because we don't know them. So, in a nutshell, basic Stranger Danger for kids. Simple, right? How could a kid watch that and get the wrong message?

   I was a weird kid.

   At this same age, my mum kept introducing me to a lot of people- distant relatives, family friends, well known people in the community (local police, people from church, school teachers etc.) All adults. I don't think I really made an effort at such a young age to remember who these people were- they were adults and adults were boring because they didn't play with me, they just talked to my mum so I would get bored and start being obnoxious. Anyway, whenever we saw these people again my mum would say, "You remember the nice policeman we talked to the other day/ my cousin we went to visit when we were on holiday/ the girl that I told you I went to school with?" And I would just blankly stare at them, completely unable to remember (out of sheer disinterest), realise I was being rude and nod politely instead. As a result of this, I was somewhat confused as to what a stranger actually was, because although Barney had said that a stranger was someone you don't know, I was confused about who I did and didn't know because all these adults that my mum insisted I did know and I had met. I couldn't remember ever meeting them or knowing them. How on earth could a small girl tell which people were the strangers and which were the people that I was supposed to know?

   At the time, we lived on a small suburban street. Not really a street either. It didn't really lead to anywhere. As these were "simpler times" my parents were happy to let my friends and I play on the area of the footpath that was just outside my house- not many people came past anyway so were reasonably safe.We had a letterbox that at the time was covered in ivy and I thought it looked magical. My friends and I would sometimes play pretend that it was a stable for our My Little Ponies.

Back in the day.

   One day, when I was still very little, a friend and I were playing out on the path outside my house when a man walked past. I wasn't sure if I know him from somewhere or not- he might have be a stranger! Having been educated by a friendly purple dinosaur, I figured it was best to find out, just to be on the safe side.

   "Excuse me, but are you a stranger? 'Cause Barney the dinosaur says not to talk to strangers."

   I don't even remember how the man reacted to such interrogation from a small child. That man probably wasn't a pedophile. And he wasn't in a car, so he couldn't have lured me there with confectionery. But I bet he never watched Barney in the mornings.

   Barney would've been proud of me that day.

Cheese, I love you: a (non) scientific investigation

   As you may have gathered from some previous posts, I am in love with cheese.

   Cheese is amazing. Cheese makes you happy. Unfortunately, apparently it also makes you fat, and due to the nature of difficulty in digestion, can also (allegedly) give you nightmares if consumed just before bedtime. Psssh! I hear you say. No piece of cheese is going to give me nightmares! Well, in the interests of science, let us find out. (That is a lie, as this is not exactly a scientifically valid investigation, and I'm only using it as an excuse to eat more cheese. However, just you try to stop me!)

   It is currently 9:28 pm, Monday 16th August. Tonight I shall consume a large amount of cheese, and if it causes any nightmares tonight, I shall write them down as soon as I wake up. That is, if I remember to. I shall then update this post with the results, and then, of course, we shall know the truth.

   Just to make you hungry, here's a recipe I found on the internet for Mac n Cheese. I cannot promise you it is any good as I'm too lazy to try it out right now, and I bet it's not as nice as my recipe (though that recipe is a family secret that shall not be published on the internet) or as convenient to make, or indeed as healthy, but my effort into researching recipes tonight goes as far as googling "recipe, macaroni cheese" and clicking on the first link.

  Good ol' Food in a Minute was the first one to come up. Here is a link to their recipe, which may or may not have blatant product placement (hey, gotta make money somehow, I guess, and their recipes are generally good, so I don't blame them.)

   While we're on the topic of cheese, while on google, I discovered there is actually an entire website devoted to cheese.  They've got cheese facts, cheese recipes and even an alphabetical list of cheeses. I shall check that out sometime when I can, I think it's the new This is Why You're Fat. Very exciting.

  Anyway, I hate to disappoint you, but reading that alphabetical list of cheeses reminds me of how un-exotic the cheese we have in the fridge is, it's just plain old edam, but I know I'll enjoy eating a large quantity tonight. I shall let you know how this "experiment" goes!

Update:

   No exciting nightmares to speak of. Damn. I wanted to be able to tell you that I had a terrifying dream about being chased by a violent orange, but alas. Sorry to disappoint you!

I googled violent orange, and all it could come up with was the annoying orange. 

My other brother (or one of them anyway)

   Today is my older brother William's birthday. He is 23 today, which I find odd, because the last time I saw him was January last year, though I doubt a lot has changed. Anyway, I thought I ought to write a post about him today.

   I don't know if I mentioned this in my post about David, but when my birthmother was pregnant with me, and William found out I was going to be adopted, apparently he asked her, "When are we going to have a baby we can keep?" I always remind myself of that when I don't hear from him for long periods of time. Sometimes I'd like to remind him of that, too, but I'm not that mean.

   I remember when I met my brother for the first time. My birthmum came to Queenstown and took him with her. I remember my adoptive mother made pizza, and it had onions on it. Then when William and Gillian, my birthmother (I've never really called anyone mum, out of sheer confusion) arrived, she informed us that actually William will not eat onions. So we had to make up a special onion-free pizza for him. To this day, I believe, he still won't eat onions. David told me a few weeks ago that apparently William does share my love of cheese though. I hope he has learned not to eat it before going to bed.

   I don't think he actually knows what a bed is. For years now he's been working multiple jobs and pretending he doesn't need sleep, which of course catches up to him eventually. Nearly every time he talked to me (back when he wasn't too tired to talk to anyone) he would always talk about sleep. Some things probably never change...

   It's weird writing about someone you haven't seen in well over a year, because without anything recent, I hardly know what to write about him, other than "he still doesn't talk to us". But in case you get the wrong idea from this, I don't hate him at all. He's still a pretty awesome (though distant) brother.

This is me and my brother the last time I saw him. Which was in January. Last year. Grrr.

Sick

   I'm feeling pretty blegh at the moment. Yes, blegh is a word.

   My back is sore. If anyone knows a good (free) masseuse, please let me know. As I'm too impoverished for an actual masseuse. Or anything really. There is a large supply of bananas though. I might try one, to see if it makes me feel any better. Which makes me realise that I haven't eaten a banana in so long, I barely remember what they taste like.Ok. Let's try a banana.

   Wow. That was rather tasty, but I'm not feeling much better.

   It's not just my back. It's my tummy too.

   Several days later

   Ok. Man. I can't believe I was so sick I forgot to hit the "publish post" button. I'll work on improving that. I think I seriously started writing this on Tuesday? Maybe? It's Saturday today. Sorry.

Genevieve Frances Strange Swale, Ily.

This is Genevieve, and I adore her.

  Genevieve is pretty awesome. I could call it the end of the post right there, because that in itself says enough. But no. I am not done.

Her brother Ainsley, me and Genevieve

   I met Gen when I moved to Invercargill four years ago. I don't remember how we met, other than it was at a school sports day, and apparently we got married. Stop laughing! We were 13! We went to youth group and school together, and her mum used to drive me around everywhere when I was at boarding school, and I used to spend my weekends at her house. She drank ginger beer and thought she was drunk from it (because it had the word "beer" in it, of course) and was madly in love with Dan Carter (still probably is) and wore excessive eyeliner, and could quote Harry Potter (Fred and George were our favourite characters) and wanted to stalk Gerard Way.

   We sang to The Veronicas and drank coke and ate corn chips. She cooked me stir fry and I told her what a great stir fry maker she was. We laughed at her brother and he laughed at us. She introduced me to Naruto and Charlie the Unicorn and James Blunt, and I introduced her to utter insanity. I'm lying there. She was not sane when I met her.

   As you may have gathered from my verbal diorrhea above, we have shared many memories together. In the interests of clarity, I shall attempt to write about them.

• My Fourteenth Birthday Party- Absolute insanity. We had a whole lot of balloons sitting around the living room and she decided we'd draw on them. Or I decided. Or something. Anyway. Jason couldn't be there (sadly, as I thought he was the bee's knees at the time. Not that he's not the bee's knees now, I just don't see him so often now we've both left Invercargill.) And- where was I? Majorly sidetracked. Anyway, we drew his face on a balloon, my cousin punched a lightbulb, and Genevieve was drinking ginger beer and thought that it was real beer and that she was drunk. Pretty much a recipe for disaster there. Anyway, most houses in Invercargill haven't got stairs, but ours did. This excited her somewhat, and next thing I knew, everyone was sliding down the stairs on a cardboard box, or a sleeping bag, or something. Awesome.

• Our Ridiculous Roadtrip to Dunedin- She was staying with me over the holidays. My mum decided to take us to Dunedin. Insanity ensued. We decided we were going to find my older brother, and wandered around Dunedin while I tried to remember where his flat was. We got there eventually but no one was there, and he wasn't responding to any of our texts. We were going to leave him a message on the door, but all we had on us to write with was lipstick. I had this image in my mind of poor William trying to scrub it off with a toothbrush, and realised I couldn't do that to him. We gave up. On the way back we went the long way down the coast, where there was no cellphone reception, which frustrated her immensely. She coped with this by whacking me with her cellphone. We stopped at a beach to watch the waves. My mum told us that apparantly every seventh wave is the biggest. We tried to prove this, but then realised we weren't capable of counting to seven. All in all, an awesome trip.

• Assorted Sleepovers- Crazy stuff. That is all I have to say.

• Her 16th Birthday- I'd moved from Invercargill by that point, but she had her party in Queenstown so I could join in. We went on the Earnslaw and I got the whole boat to sing Happy Birthday to her. She was utterly humiliated. Later, we all went back to her place in Invercargill and watched Naruto until we were all asleep. Good times.

• My 16th Birthday- We went to Auckland to see Panic at the Disco and stayed with my grandad, who's absolutely lovely but can't cook. At all. Uncle Andrew offered to feed us, and Gen still thinks he's amazing. The concert was awesome, not that we could see much. Panic at the Disco is one of those bands you just can't hate after seeing them live. Not that I hated them in the first place. They're pretty awesome.

• The Veronicas- Went with our friend Siobhan. It was also in Dunedin :) Great concert, great night, and Jason from before met up with us too. Awesome.

Siobhan, Gen, me and Gen's mum at The Veronicas

   Gen, you're amazing.

Websites I love

   I'm actually going to do this post now, having finally learned to read my own writing. And trying not be distracted, but Stevie is talking to me on Facebook, and talking to Stevie is addictive. Grr, concentrate, Bell-ez. Ok. So. Websites I love.

• Pictures for Sad Children - is an amazing webcomic. I sat there reading it, laughing like crazy, and my dear mother came along wanting to know what was so funny. She read them. She did not get them. This increased my love for this website incredibly.

• Hyperbole and a Half - Allie Brosh, I love you. Not in a "I'll-stalk-you-over-the-internet-and-rape-you" kind of way. Just a "oh-my-god-I'm-addicted-to-your-blog" kind of way.

• This is Why You're Fat - Bacon belongs with everything. Especially chocolate. I think I gained weight just by looking at this website. It makes me want cheese. And bacon. And chocolate. Together. With Doritos. Damn, I'm hungry now.

• Facebook- No, I am not addicted. Even though at the time of writing, I'm constantly distracted by the fact that every few minutes, I get another message from Stevie, and I interrupt my writing this to talk to him.

• Stumbleupon - again, addictive. I could spend hours on it. Seriously. I know that, because I have.

• Youtube - Please tell me I'm not the only person who uses it sometimes just to listen to music while multitasking on other websites. Where would we be without that?

   I'm sure there's more, but that's just what I've got scribbled on my piece of paper right now. Will link to more when I find other sites that make me happy.

A proper actual post

Ok. I've sat myself down at the computer to force myself to do this properly. I've eaten. Got myself some water. Went to the toilet. So that's the distractions from blogging out of the way. So. Here I go.

   I considered all sorts of things to post about. Here are the ideas I had:

• Websites I love. But then this changes nearly every day. Perhaps I shall.

• Adoption. After watching Juno the other night, it's been on my mind a lot, but I really don't know where to begin about writing about something like that.

• A million and one things I love about cheese. Which will result in me, halfway through my post, wandering over the fridge to get some cheese, then wanting to cook something, then getting completely distracted and never bothering to finish it, but I still try, right? Gah.

• Something about the comics I write, but then again, I'm saving that for when I can get some pictures of them onto the computer as it would make no sense otherwise. Seriously, have you been to the Wikipedia page attempting to explain Pictures for Sad Children? If you haven't read the comics, you'll look at the description of the characters and your head will be full of wtf. Hence I'm wasting my time attempting to explain such things without the actual comics.

• A filler post full of bullshit, with the unfulfilled promise of leading to something great. I'm not actually that mean. Even though thats what most of my posts have been, that's entirely unintentional. I have the best of intentions when I sit down to write them, but then I get a total mindblank and I end up staring at the screen for hours wondering about life and trying to remember what it is that I wanted to say here.

• About my life at the moment, but as nothing much is hapening in it (I'm breathing, and is that possibly my heart beating? Awesome!) then there will actually be nothing worth writing about, or at least nothing interesting to read.

   So instead I've ended up writing a post about writing posts, which was neither entertaining nor informative. Damn.

   But no. I'm going to keep trying.

   Ok. So. Websites I love. Right.

   I started scribbling down a list on a piece of paper sitting on the computer desk. I'm not sure if I can even read all my writing on it. But I will attempt to decipher it, then post about the websites. Awesome!

Pregnancy Overload

   Didn't end up posting after dinner last night. It took me longer to make then I thought it would, and then I started talking to David, and then Juno came on, and then I started talking to one of my friends about her baby (due in a month) and then I was like, whoa, pregnancy overload. I am now terrified of babies as well as windows.

   Will probably try and write a decent post sometime today, but right now I'm feeling pretty gah and tired. So later perhaps. Time for some soup now. Yay.

How did Friday sneak up on me so suddenly?

The answer being that it was Thursday yesterday, and that Fridays come after Thursdays. I should know that by now, it's been happening for years. I guess the reason it's such a surprise that its Friday already is because it just doesn't feel like a Friday. You know how during the school holidays, they seem to stretch forever, and you lose track of what day of the week it is because you're not at school? Yeah. Kind of like that.

   I took like three days of school this week because I've been suck with what the doctor called a "viral infection"- worse than a cold, not quite as bad as the flu, and going around Queenstown at the moment. Feeling better now, thank goodness. I'm relieved it's Friday, though. That means a whole weekend of rest and relaxation, or more realistically, internet until 4:00 am. Probably facebooking my family. Awesome. I love my life.

   I haven't put too much more thought yet into what I'm going to do for my 18th. I'm not going clubbing, I know that much. I don't even know what I want to do this year. I didn't do anything last year. Just sat at home and had a couple of drinks. By myself. Yeah, it wasn't the best. And 18 is supposed to be your last big birthday before your 21st, right? A whole lot of the people in my year at school have been having huge parties for their 18th birthdays, but financially, that's out of the question. Which is probably just as well. I don't really like high school parties anymore. I don't know why. Perhaps I'm just becoming old and bored. Bored, at least.

   Anyway, I'm feeling like making me some Mac n Cheese right now. Proper stuff, from scratch, none of this packet nonsense. Will post again later when I'm done.

My Brother (or one of them, anyway)

   He was the very first person to read my blog. With the help of some shameless self-promotion on Facebook, I might add. I didn't even have to threaten to push him in front of a bus to get him to read it, either. At any rate, that'd be killing the goose that lays the golden egg, or murdering the brother who reads my blog, at least.

   "I got a mention!" he excitedly told me on Facebook chat. "And so did the windows!" (He was the one who first tried to help me understand my fear of windows after I had a total freak out about them while on the phone to him.)

   Inspired by his enthusiasm (that's ridiculous, he's the most unenthusiastic person I know) at this, I decided to dedicate an entire post to David. Besides, it's another excuse to get him to read it, isn't it?

   Right. So. Let's get started, shall we?

   As I have mentioned, I have four half brothers- three on my mum's side, one on my dad's side. David is one of my younger brothers on my mum's side. So that's how he fits into all this.

   Being adopted, I used to go to visit my birthmother once a year, on what I later referred to as my "annual visits". I remember a few details about these visits. One is that my adoptive mum and my birthmum seemed to get along considerably better than I did with either- I mean, they were both adults, and both had similar interests. I was just a weird little kid with an overactive imagination and no clue as to why I was even adopted in the first place. So I didn't talk to her much. She has a husband, I don't ever remember a time when he wasn't in the picture. He is David's father. I don't think I really talked to him much, either, but this was years ago, so I barely remember what it was like with him back then. I haven't seen him in years either. Ditto my birthmum. The annual visits ceased a couple of years ago.

   I have an older brother, William. Sometimes he would talk to me. More than the others, anyway. So I guess on most of my annual visits, he was the one I hung out with most. He's 22 now, and has multiple jobs and a sleeping problem, so I don't hear from him all that often now. I'm taking a guess at the multiple jobs thing. He did have a few last time I heard from him. But I wouldn't really know now, aside from what David tells me.

   Anyway, I had two younger brothers there as well, David and Rory. On the annual visits, I never learned which was which- it was never really necessary to know, because neither really had all that much to do with me either. They usually just (as I remember) squealed and ran away. David now insists that it was only Rory who squealed, and that he at least stayed to say hello. That is a possibility.

   Anyway, around April-ish this year, my birthmum added me on Facebook. That was a bit of a shock. It was a relief to discover that she's never on anyway. Then he added me. Started talking to me. First thing I remember him saying was, "Um, awkward question, but are you like, my sister or something?" Had no one bothered to explain it to him, about who this weird girl who turned up every year? Well, yes and no. He knew only that I was a sister who didn't live with him. He didn't really know anything else, though to be fair, it was probably because he didn't ask.

  I feel guilty sometimes trying to explain these things to him, because I shouldn't be the one doing so. I mean shouldn't his our mum have told him this? I feel like she wouldn't be happy if she knew I was telling him what I know of it. But I guess someone has to tell him, and why the heck shouldn't I? Oh, I don't know.

   Since April he's racked up a pretty big phone bill trying to stay in touch, and he's still paying it off. But it's nice to have that connection to at least one of them. I mean, Will's busy, Rory's still pretty much at the squeal-and-run-away stage of it all, and it's awkward trying to talk to my birthmum about anything. (I tried to ask her last year about why I was adopted, and I think she tried to explain, but I still have no freaking clue why.)

   I guess this post hasn't been so much about David as it has about a whole lot of my birthfamily, but dammit. I tried. Perhaps I'll write him a better post another time.

First post- sorry but you'll be disappointed

   You weren't hoping this was going to be thrilling at all, were you?

   Of course not. As I don't have any followers yet. I won't get any followers until I start posting, pretty much, but I don't really know what to post until I get some followers? Ok, that made way more sense in my head.

   So I guess I should start by telling you about myself?

   Ok. Um. Yeah.

   My name is Annabel. Some people call me Bellez. Which is pronounced "bells" not "bell-ez"- I am pointing this out only because someone at my school came up to me the other day and called me Bell-ez. And I didn't actually know what he was talking about. I believe this was a direct result of people living their life on the internet nowadays.

   Awesome!

   Speaking of awesome, I live in New Zealand. No, we do not run around in grass skirts, no, we are not part of Scandinavia (as some clueless tourists have presumed, bless them) and yes, we have an abundance of sheep.

   I'm 17 years old, soon to be 18 (in a month! wow!) which means I better get used to maturity, adulthood, and other things I do not fully understand the concept of. Haven't a clue what I'm going to be doing for my 18th birthday. Everyone I know is all like, "go clubbing Bell-ez!" but I don't know. I don't think I really want to. I can't even be bothered going out anywhere at the moment. I just seem to go to school, and on the weekends, stay at home on the internet. Again, awesome, but I start to miss the outside world sometimes.

   I'm adopted. Yeah, I know my birthfamily, it was an open adoption, so I've always known them. I've got four half brothers, only one of which speaks to me on a regular basis. He probably idolises me. This is somewhat of a concern, but he's pretty awesome, too. I've grown up as an only child, however, and I credit this for my, ahem, "oddities".

   I am afraid of windows. Why? Well, it may seem irrational, but it could (kind of) make sense, I guess. You see, my bed is right against the window, and I used to always be terrified that someone was going to come through my window in the middle of the night and kill me in my sleep. Obviously, this never happened (what with me still being alive, etc) but I'm still wary of that window, and always always always sleep with my back to it, as it makes me feel safer. I mean, if we're going to think logically here (what does that even mean?) then I'm no safer just because my back's to the window, but out of sight, out of mind, perhaps.

   I enjoy eating cheese. I do not understand how anyone cannot enjoy eating cheese (unless you have an allergy, or other such thing that prevents you from eating cheese) because cheese = true love. It is like bacon, or chocolate raisins. Words cannot express the love I have for these foods. Apparantly eating cheese is supposed to be a really bad thing to do before going to bed, because it is hard to digest and so gives you nightmares, but I always get hungry just before I go to bed, so I open the fridge, and there is that damn cheese, just staring me, saying "eat me." So no wonder I'm terrified of windows, after eating all that cheese.

   I was going to say something exciting to end this post, but honestly, it's nearly dinner time, and my mind is only on food at the moment, so again, you'll have to be disappointed.

CHEESE!