How to Misjudge Life (In Two Easy Modules)

Now, as a very sociable person of many varied friendships, over the some might say small amount of years that I have spent on this fair planet I have accumulated a fair amount of off-the-wall relationships, with friends of all sorts of ages from all sorts of places, the majority of whom have never met, never talked, and probably never will, and if you asked me why this is the case, I could easily reply in two ways.

Firstly, I could reply with the answer that my pretentious, out-of-body ego would revel in, informing you that I've got such an exotic fruit-bowl of friends due to the fact that I'm an eccentric socialite who connects with people on a different level to most people, or that I choose my friends to spiritually enhance my lifestyle and meta-harmoniously expand my social horizons, or some such post-graduate bull$h!7.

Or, I could reply honestly, with the simple fact that I know so many different people because I'm a lucky sod who's been to a few too many social gatherings.

But the fact is, this blog has attracted people from all areas of my life to my writings, people who I never expected are reading every post and enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing them, and it's such a disproportionate matrimony of cross-Atlantic acquaintances, people whom I've bonded with in once of a lifetime trips or performances or simply people who I talk to everyday, that I thought I should dedicate this post to... a small and restricted scope of my audience.

I'm doing my GCSE's at the moment, an educational toil that my star-spangled readers may or may not be familiar with, and to be quite frank, should probably be quite thankful for that. Although this isn't for them, I know that quite a few of my readers are approaching their exams at the moment, and are all (Or at least a few) are working their absolute socks off in lieu of the ever-increasing threat of unemployment, poverty and eventual death by previous points.

Fact is, I am not wise. I am young, stupid, not a mystic, genius, or particularly talented or clever in any useful region, so before you accuse me of over-speaking myself that is, but this is my blog, so I'm going to say what I'm thinking. These exams aren't the be all and end all. A million and one people have done averagely on their GCSE's and not done horribly out of them, and from my experience, if you can get a decent job at our age (Believe me, me and quite a few others have) then you can surely survive with C's?

Don't fail your exams, that might suck emotionally, but for the same reasons, don't over-stress yourself. Wouldn't you rather chill and get a B than over revise and cram yourself and go mental when you only get a B+? Is it really worth it for a piece of paper that will swiftly become irrelevant when fate comes to put you in the most obscure job possible?

If you have a 25% chance of being homeless, and 25% of being a millionaire, wouldn't you much rather be in with the happy 50%? I don't know, it kind of depends on your outlook.

Just don't die, you're not even 18.

- Lewis

People Should Smile More

It’s back!

After much deliberation, writers block and hangovers, Stuff What I Wrote has returned. And as for my disappearance in the first place, it’s not that I didn’t love you (As I did and still do, very much), just that I didn’t want to spout utter rubbish on here. I do love the accomplishment of publishing a very meaningful and well written piece of writing, and wouldn’t have liked my little corner of the internets to be spoilt by un-thoughtful trash.

And so, I return.

Now today, I’m… elsewhere. For the past half week (It’s Wednesday, and I’m here till Friday) I’ve taken a week’s holiday in the rather pleasant Devon countryside, to visit my Uncle Matt’s farm (Well, I say it’s his but it’s still owned by his wife’s parents, but I digress). It’s all very lovely and he has pigs (Which taste lush by the way) and chickens, cows, sheep, a dog, and a family of very intrusive ducks, who seem to think they’re human.

But much as I’d like to sing his praises, I come to you with a bit of a message, as the past day or two seems to have had a bit of a theme, from my perspective anyway.

First of all, an article in a skateboarding magazine which I read yesterday seemed to focus on a matter which I know annoys quite a lot of kids of my age, and that is of course, being stereotyped. Now due to the beyond necessary efforts of the Guardian newspapers, closet racists and bespectacled corner-shop owners, the youth of our country seem to have been blanketed in negative media, forcing the population to generally be quite scared, or even sometimes quite aggressive towards people of our age. I know I’m hardly the most friendly figure to see on the street, at six foot something and dressed in a hoodie, but I find it rather frustrating when I look up to smile customarily at someone who is crossing my path and they are crossing the road to get away from me. It kind of makes me want to wear a big neon sign saying ‘I’M NOT GOING TO MURDER, RAPE OR ROB YOU’.

Now another thing that occurred today seems to relate to the overall topic of this article. As I woke up this morning and went into the front room for breakfast, I noticed someone blabbering, as they do, on the morning news. The topic was happiness, and the subject seemed to be represented by a certain ‘Student of Happiness’. Now, being the person that I am in the mornings (Incredibly groggy) I wasn’t quite sure whether they were actually holding a degree in the subject of eating chocolate, or whether they were a member of some bizarre new cult, but the idea to me seemed rather silly – have people forgotten how to be happy?

So what do I have to say about it? Well I could write lists, pages of advice on how to make the world a better place and generally improve the image of our generation but instead, I will leave you with a song, one that has a clear message, clear instruction, and one that pops up on my shuffle a lot. It’s by a man called Newton Faulkner, and shares the title of this article. Listen to it.

Thank me later Mr. Faulkner.

- Lewis

Second Hand Victims

So as I sat down to watch the evening news tonight, (This time without moustachioed conservative father, who was out, doing something, presumably) I paused over my pasta (Assonance, for all you English nerds) to wonder what on Earth had been happening in the big wide world outside my little bubble.

Murders! I thought. Kidnaps, rapes, robbery, madness and mischief! And then, the calming voice of an journalist narrating a rather innocent vegetable patch at a local school interrupted my to do list.

But among the homely local articles on projects and charities that very usually inhabited the local news there was also the ghostly presence of another similar item. I know I've mentioned it in a previous article (See 'What's New about the news?')  but the way that the local news holds us the prisoner of local issues is something I dislike, to say the very least. But today's post follows a different line of thought.

Take this hypothetical scenario for example. John Smith, happily married to a beautiful women with two kids and not a care in the world disregarding the junk mail that comes through his letterbox. John Smith then decides to get involved with the local organised crime community, and commits several murders for them. The wife, who later finds out hands in her husband to the police. And so, with the information that the news would have reported, I ask you a 'simple' moral question. Who was the victim?

Was it the people killed? Perhaps they took an involvement with the group and took the consequences? Maybe Mr. Smith who suffered in prison for the rest of his days? This is when I cleverly pull out the 'Trick Question' card.

Because what this non-existent news report did not actually report, was what happened to his beautiful wife and two children. They were taken away on the witness protection programme. They were taken from their home for their own good, placed in a different city far away, a different name, leaving all their friends behind to 'make new ones'. They are the second hand victims of the scenario.

Chin up Jozie-San.

-Lewis

One Sprog Every Minute

The other day, I was wandering along, minding my own business, when I heard the high-pitched voice of one teen-socialite uttering words that flicked my mind from the thoughts of what I was going to have for dinner to something that deeply disturbed me. This girl was about fourteen or fifteen, elbow pinning Hollister back to her side and free hand waving about whenever she spoke, so I guess I wasn’t too surprised (Mostly confused) when she uttered the words:
“I really want a baby.”

 Now I can slightly see why someone might want a sprog. Sure they’re cute, there are thousands of videos on You-Tube to prove that much, and sure, there’s the whole ‘Gift of Life’ thing, but overall, the disadvantages weigh out the benefits.

If you thought having one stomach to fill throughout your life wasn’t enough of a challenge, sure, you might want to advise in one of these screaming little upgrades, that instead of a stomach ache, will give you tantrums, screaming, possible property damage and deep moral scarring if you don’t feed it enough of what it demands! Or if you thought you had much too much money to spend on yourself (Which judging by the Hollister bag you might just) you can have one of these cute little things, to demand toys, food, clothes, and as they grow older the more powerful sedatives known as games consoles.

And last but certainly not least, I have one more point. Vaginas. Yeah, I’m not an expert, but that birth thing looks PAINFUL.

So before you go around stating how much you’d like a screaming, pooping, eating, drain on resources and energy and money, take a thought for your dear sweet mother, who deformed herself for you, stayed up for hours for you, spent all the money she could’ve spent on herself on designer sedatives, only to get pubescent remarks about how much you’d like to go through the same punishment, maybe just think the comment through.

- Lewis