2010

As today is the last day of 2010, its time to write an absurdly nostalgic overview of the past year...


• Homeless Friends = Best Friends

Me and Homeless Lee at the Bear Hands Wall- "We built this wall with our bare hands- our bear hands!"

In January, I befriended two freedom campers (I use the term "freedom campers" extremely loosely here, as they were basically backpackers who ran out of money after they spent it all on booze) from England (well, where else could it be but England!) named Matt and Lee. By the end of February, when they left, I was broke. Coincidence? I think not.

• All Scottish Men Are Named Euan

 Because I met three Euans-from-Scotland in the space of around two days, bringing me to the conclusion that in Scotland, it must be illegal to name your son anything but Euan. They did have lovely accents though.

• Making Love(ly Music)



Life is always cheerful when you're Rainbow Boots...

 Yes, I invented Rainbow Boots last year, but this year she got her very own cartoon, Making Love(ly Music), of which the first few cartoons are up here. I must put some more up in the new year.

• Sick Cookies Make Cool Brothers



My brother is awesome, basically.


My little brother David just started talking to me this year, which automatically makes him cool, if you haven't yet figured that out. He even got his own character in Making Love(ly Music) called The Sick Cookie. Because he is disgusting.

• I Managed To Remain Single For Nearly All of 2010

This is less of an achievement and more of a fact. I remained single nearly all year, until on Christmas Eve I got a boyfriend for an early Christmas present, basically. He is lovely. That is all I need to say.

• I Started A Blog

Mostly after being inspired by Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half, who I am pretty much madly in love with. Her blog is a lot better than mine though.

• I (Legally, At Least) Became An Adult

I turned 18 this year, which is quite exciting, although it (as yet) hasn't impacted my life all that much because I don't really like going out all that often, and I haven't voted yet, and all that seems to have happened is that everything costs more now and I have to pay bank fees which is a bitch. Still. I feel old. I've almost learnt how to drink responsibly now too.

In other news...

• Nobody really likes BP anymore after a massive oil spill that made greenies of us all. Conveniently, we were learning about environmentalism in French class, and so learnt all sorts of exciting rude things to call BP.

• We discovered that a majority of New Zealanders are actually racists, sexists, and just generally not very tolerant people after Paul Henry got in trouble for making racist comments about the Governor General and his apparent lack of New Zealand-ness, as well as making fun of Sheila Dikshit's name (oh, GROW UP. Yes, I know it sounds like dick shit. Lets now move on please) and had already got a bit of a telling off for commenting on the facial hair of a woman he interviewed. Many New Zealanders rushed to Henry's defence, claiming that he was "just saying what we're all thinking" which just goes to show how terrible we are as a nation. Good job New Zealand!

• Haiti's really not the place to be at the moment.

• The All Whites didn't fail spectacularly at the World Cup, and we had something to be proud of, telling everyone that our football team was "unbeaten." We didn't lose a single game. Or win one either. We just drew. Pretty good effort though, for a country that is apparently obsessed with rugby. Is in unpatriotic if I say I really could not care less about the All Blacks?

• There was an earthquake in Christchurch on the same day as my 18th birthday, which was terrible, because it means my mother didn't realise I was an adult until about midday. No one was directly killed by the earthquake, and the Cantabrians coped with the situation remarkably well. I doubt the same could be said if it had occurred in Auckland.

• For those who have been living under a rock in the past few months, (pun not intended) some Chilean miners were rescued after being trapped underground. We hoped for a similar happy ending for the 29 men trapped in the Pike River Mine, but unfortunately it was not to be.

• Some royals (ok, William and Kate) got engaged, and the world went crazy discussing Kate's "breeding" like she was a pedigree bulldog.

New Years Resolutions

1. Don't fail at school. Yeah, you're only going back part time to get some extra credits. Don't you dare use that as an excuse to procrastinate though, you lazy... you lazy thing that is lazy.

2. Get a real boyfriend. One that doesn't actually have an interest in someone else, or only talking to you because you have a vagina. Oh, and he can't hate me either. That bit is very important.

One I've actually achieved. Yay.

3. Lose weight. Just kidding. There's nothing wrong with your thighs, Bell-ez. But that tummy, well. You've looked seven months pregnant for a whole year now? Oh dear...

4. Learn to bake, damnit.

5. Post in Probably Not Sane more frequently.

6. Stop wasting all your money on cheese. Again, just kidding. It's not a waste if you're spending it all on cheese. As far as waste goes, with cheese, it's my waist that it goes straight to. (See item three.)

7. Start a band. For real this year.

8. Get along with my cousin better. Look, I tried really hard this year...

9. More cartoons posted to Making Lovely Music. Yes, I know they're tedious to do on MS Paint but really, I have them all written, so at least that bit is out of the way.

10. Stay drug free. Not too hard when you're terrified of the bedroom window, and you know it will be a million and one times scarier on drugs.

Assorted facts and observations

These are all completely true.



Traumatising.




"Mr Snorkel" is not pronounced "colon j"



It's the thought that counts, I guess.



... and this is why I'm fat.



Except one is about getting trashed, and the other is about how sexy the girls are. Otherwise the same song.



You will starve to death.




Not from experience. Really. I swear. Yeah, maybe.



I'm serious. Google that shit. It will blow your mind.

Adoption Part II

I've been wanting to write another post on adoption ever since I wrote my first one, mostly because the whole thing is huge and there's so much more that I want to say. So, sorry. This will be a serious post.

   I guess my thoughts were triggered the other day when I was talking to an old friend of mine who recently, at the age of seventeen, became a father. He told me they'd planned an open adoption, even going so far as to have chosen a family, but then she suddenly changed her mind. I'm unsure as to what exactly happened next, but from what I gather, she consumed a large amount of alcohol with the intention of harming the baby, opted out of the adoption, wouldn't have anything to do with the father of her child, then had the little baby boy herself, kept him, and named him after someone she had cheated with. Charming. Of course, I've only heard the biased version of events. But it got me wondering. And talking to my friend about it.

   As much as I'm opposed to the idea of adoption on principle, an open adoption really might have been the best option. I don't know if he would be able to be much of a father at this stage and, judging by her meltdown, I wonder how she will cope as a mother. At least with an open adoption, contact is maintained. Like making the most of a difficult situation. I cannot stress enough how important it is to have contact with my birthfamily. Whether you like it or not, where you come from will always make up a part of your identity- even if you aren't aware of it. Even if I never met my birthfamily, I would still have aspects of myself that are similar to them. Not just physical ones, either. My point being that, in knowing my birthfamily, I am able to know myself.

   As it is, this child is unlikely to know his father as of yet. He as chosen to stay out of the kid's life for now, drawing on his own childhood, and telling me it's better for the kid to have an absent father than a childhood dominated by conflict between his parents.
"When he's older, if he wants to meet me, I'd absolutely let him get to know me," he said, which reassured me somewhat, because I could relate it to my own experiences.

   I met my birthfather when I was almost twelve years old. Heck, I didn't even know of his existence until I was eight. Which may sound pretty crazy, but I'd never had a birthfather before, so I'd never questioned why I didn't have one. I just never thought of it at that age, and had always assumed John, my birthmother's husband, must be my father. I took it all for granted until one night when my adoptive parents told me I had a father. Named Shane.

   My world changed.

   I was curious, desperate to know who he was. When you are young, and you don't know these things, your head fills with fantasies. That he's a rockstar, or famous for something, or, at the very least, rich and successful. That he's someone everyone will be jealous of when I tell them, "Oh, he's my dad."

  Shane is none of those, but I don't care.

   He's not a rockstar. He's not famous or rich or "successful"- whatever that word means anyway. He hasn't had a job in a while, and he's shy, and he lives in a small place in Corstophine with his son Kaleb, another of my half brothers. But when anyone hears me talk about them, I am proud.

   I think Kaleb must be nine or ten now, and he's a bright kid, even though sometimes he's got more energy than he can handle, and he can be a bit weird. Kind of how I was at his age, though. He loves to draw, and to read, so every time I come to visit, he draws me a picture and proudly shows me the latest book he's reading. He got through Charlie and the Chocolate Factory fairly quickly.

   Sorry, this has quickly turned from a serious discussion about adoption to me showing off about my little brother in an almost mum-blog way. Back on task, Bell-ez!

   Meeting my dad when I was twelve, and not growing up with him has given me a different perspective on him, and when we hang out, he's more like a friend than anything else. And I know parents aren't supposed to be your mates (cringe) but he never really got the opportunity to be my parent, either.

   I wonder if this will be the experience of my friend's kid in years to come, should he decide to meet his father. And I sure hope he does, purely for the reason that knowing family = knowing self.

    Blood is thicker than water, but you need both to survive.

Today was just awesome. As is my family.

   Today has, thus far, been the highlight of my holidays. I mean, yesterday was also amazing. I saw a friend, we hung out, and, well. Cam is just awesome. But today I got to see my family.

   I'd been looking forward to it for ages. I haven't seen David or my dad in ages, after all. My mum threatened to not let me see them, and I worried that maybe I wouldn't be able to. Nevertheless, I bought some cookies and prepared to see them.

How to make David feel special.

   So I saw my dad. Which was awesome. He is just... awesome. I didn't meet him until I was eleven or twelve, so when I see him, he acts more like a friend than a dad. Adoption tends to lead to these situations. I got to spend all of an hour with him, then I went to see my brother.

   I may have said this before, but David, also, is awesome. Like, really awesome. Like, I brought him cookies, awesome. So we walked up a hill and ate cookies, or rather he ate cookies and I got somewhat sick of them. We did some exploring. We found a bush track that wasn't, and a house with a gay pride flag that David has since gone to great efforts to avoid. I'm guessing I do not have a gay brother then.

   I only got to see David for an hour, and after then it was a four hour drive back home. But even after my short time with my family, it got me thinking about adoption and such things. Family. And identity. Perhaps another deep blog post is in order. But for now, I need some sleep.

Thankyou Kiran!

Kiran is my friend's son, and quite possibly one of the coolest kids you'll ever come across. Why is that? Well, he follows Probably Not Sane, of course. :) He's also insanely good at frisbee golf.

Kiran, there's a picture coming up for you. Thankyou.

Here's your picture.

Frisbee golf

A new follower, yay.

 Hey Nick. Welcome to the cool crowd. We have cheese.

*Hug rape*

Your picture is coming soon, I promise.

You're awesome.

xo

Edit: Here's the picture for Nick:

I love MS Paint

Here are some lovely pictures.

Aw, look at the pretty unicorn!

And all the pretty bright colours!

And this is me.

And this is what I love.

Jesus Blogs, Mum Blogs etc, and why I love the internet

   Sometimes when I can't think what to write about, I click on the "next blog" button to see what other bloggers are writing about. This has lead to some observations on the other types of blogs out there. There are three categories that keep popping up again and again, no matter how much I click the "next blog" button, because there appears to be a limitless supply of them. These three blog "genres" if you will, are as follows:

1. Fashion blogs
2. Jesus blogs
3. Mum blogs

   Fashion blogs, I don't mind. Fashion is a guilty pleasure for me. Yes, I sit in my pyjamas with a duvet wrapped around me when I read them, but fashion is fantastic. I like to see what other people are wearing, where the trends are going, and what ridiculous (sorry, "edgy") outfit the designers are sending down the runway next. Fashion blogs, I don't mind so much. Particularly the really snarky ones that talk about ugly trends, because at least they're enjoyable to read.

   Jesus blogs, however, are much more common. They don't make snarky comments about ugly trends. Instead they quote scripture and tell us to love thy neighbour as thyself. If you've hit a good one, that is. Unfortunately, I seem to be coming across more of them which urge us to take action against stopping gay marriages and banning condoms. I guess because sometimes it would easier to protest against those than love thy neighbour, especially when thy neighbour decides to play loud music until two in the morning (unless of course, they invite me over to join in next time, in which case it's perfectly acceptable and I will stop complaining about it.) Look, I've got nothing against Christians, or Jesus, or any of that. I believe in God. It's just that I imagine if Jesus were here today, he probably wouldn't be trying to ban condoms or same-sex marriages. He'd be with the people. My point being, I'd quite like it if any Christian bloggers out there could start a blog that isn't so hateful, because if I came across more Jesus Blogs that don't have "homosexuality is a sin!" all over them,  straight as I am, I don't really want to read hateful-ness, ok? Ok. Yay. Coming across more good Jesus blogs would really make my day. :)

   Anyway, end of that rant, on to Mum Blogs. Mum Blogs are cute. Mum Blogs are sweet. Not quite to the point where they make me want to have kids of my own because childbirth scares me, and also I'm only eighteen. And yes, Pip's having a baby at my age, but Pip's mature and responsible enough to be able to handle that. I'd find it much more difficult than she's finding it. Anyway, Mum Blogs are the blogs that are all about their children, and aren't they growing up so fast, and awwwww. It's cute. They fill a purpose, too. It's a way of sharing their kids and their lives with friends and family all over the world. Which I think is sweetbix.

   Even if blogs are filled with fashion items I'd never look good in, or hateful messages about homosexuals, or lots and lots of pictures captioned, "these are my kids. Aren't they pretty? They're prettier than yours, anyway," the best thing about the internet is that we can all choose to express our opinions in this way. We can share our lives with the world. We can say what we want. And that, too, is pretty sweetbix.

Oh the memories!

   Still having problems getting those pics up.

  Anyway, I just wanted to link to something amazing, because it truly made my (sick) day.

  The Very Hungry Caterpillar in food form.

   Feel free to thank me.

At Home

So I'm at home today, but school wasn't actually cancelled. I woke up this morning, and my throat was all like, "You know what Bell-ez? I'm going to be a bitch to you today and be horrible and scratchy and sore!" so I think I've caught the same cold my dad's had, and have decided to stay home.

But anyway, it's snowing! In the middle of September! I've taken lots of pretty pictures of it, which I'll add to this post when my camera/computer is in a better mood and will let me. It's not settling or anything, because the ground's too wet from all the rain and sleet we've already had, but the trees on the hills behind the house are covered in snow. It's pretty.

I haven't done any housework yet, though my bedroom is begging to be tidied. LATER. It's too cold for me to want to do anything at the moment other than sit at my computer with a duvet wrapped around me craving soup or hot chocolate or OMG I WANT RISOTTO (tomato and basil) so this can't be that great to read.

To be updated with pretty snow pics!

Ok, here's the pretty snow pics!

Lovely Weather, Isn't It?

   I started writing a post about my ridiculous weekend, but I found it awkward to write about. I mean, I guess I could mention what a disaster it was waking up in Invercargill (the last place anyone would want to wake up in) but the rest of it is just... hmmmm. Weird.

Invercargill, yeah.

     So instead I'm going to write about the weather. Yes. That's right. The weather.

Lovely weather today isn't it?

   Only because there's a huge storm at the moment, and I'm hoping that there's no school tomorrow. Because then I can lie in my nice cosy bed all morning, listening to rain on the roof. I'd probably get up around midday, due to a cheese craving, wander to the fridge and polish off half a block without thinking about it. (This is why I'm fat) and realise that I am doing nothing with my day.

    Quite often, that leads me to attempt to undertake some epic task, such as posting another cartoon (which, by the way, take ages to make because I do them on MS Paint and I am, surprisingly, from the shocking state of them, a perfectionist) or write multiple blog posts, or even tidy the kitchen and living room which is hugely epic when you remember that I live with a messy dog that likes to sneak into the compost bin then vomit the contents on the living room floor. And I also live with two elderly parents. As far as I'm concerned, elderly = hoarder. So there's old magazines and Otago Daily Times from years back all through the room, and heaven forbid I should ever throw them out.

Pictured: The least of my problems

   So yes. That's my plan for tomorrow. Stay at home and sing "Circle of Life" at the top of my lungs while vacuuming. Unless school happens. In which case I won't be a happy chappy.

Oh hell yeah! 

Assorted Excuses

   I'm sorry I haven't written in ages. A few things have happened...

   First of all, I got myself a phone for my birthday. This is actually a big deal because I'd been without one for two months, having lost two phones in a year because I am not a smart cookie. It's fantastic.

Us three could have a polygamous relationship.

   Also, I actually turned 18. Fantastic. I did not go clubbing. Ellie and I went to Amisfield Winery for dinner and she got me tequila.

It's not kidding.

   Also, I've been a nerd and started actually studying for end of year exams, because as glamorous and romantic as it sounds to fail school, never get into uni, and become a popular and successful full time blogger, it is also unrealistic. So, call me a nerd, but I actually want to pass all of my exams this year.

Why are glasses always associated with being a nerd? Dumb people can have glasses too, you know.

   I've also been suffering from blogger burnout. You see, not that long ago, I thought wouldn't it be great if I wrote a whole heap of awesome posts just for your entertainment? Well. What I failed to take into consideration is that eventually I'd temporarily run out of topics and get sick blogging for a while, until the guilt becomes too much. Hopefully I'm now over my whole "I'm sick of blogging" phase now.

To the point where I may get a t-shirt for it.

   Also, during the weekend, I got rather distracted from blogging by a somewhat disturbing incident that I may (or may not, depending on the effects of blogger burnout) write about later.


   I'm sorry. I tried.

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.