Music For The Soul(less)

So I've been pretty/very busy at uni and I'm trying to keep up with this blog, the one they're making me write for one of my modules that I have no idea what it's actually for, assessments that have to be submitted in two weeks, the crushing weight of adulthood that's recently come crashing down on me, and the very real threat of malnutrition and scurvy I face in my day-to-day life.

So I've just decided to make a lil suggestion list of my favourite albums that have so far helped me get through these six weeks of organised hell. Which is a stupid decision really, because finding the album covers and formatting them to the correct size and editing them to fit into blogger is gonna take so much longer than if I just spat out some bullshit about how I'm not coping living on my own. But, you know, procrastination innit.

So yeah, in no particular order:

The 1975

I Like It When You Sleep For You Are So Beautiful Yet So Unaware Of It

Track Pick:

If I Believe You

Arctic Monkeys

Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not

Track Pick:

A Certain Romance

Jamie T

Trick

Track Pick:

Tinfoil Boy

Twenty One Pilots

Vessel

Track Pick:

Holding Onto You

The Vaccines

What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?

Track Pick:

Wetsuit

Pink Floyd

The Wall

Track Pick:

Mother

George Ezra

Wanted On Voyage (Deluxe)

Track Pick:

Song 6

My Chemical Romance

The Black Parade

Track Pick:

Cancer

Foster The People

Torches

Track Pick:

Don't Stop (Colour On The Walls)

Bombay Bicycle Club

So Long, See You Tomorrow 

Track Pick:

Eyes Off You

The Beatles

Yellow Submarine

Track Pick:

Only A Northern Song

Alt-J

This Is All Yours

Track Pick:

Blodflood Pt II

That didn't take me an hour and a half at all, nope.

R.

Nostalgia and Tangents

I've always been brought up with literature, so every night, either my mum or dad would perch on the edge of my bed, crushing my leg as they did so, and read me a story. It's funny how I can still remember the names of each book like; 'Pass the Jam, Jim', 'Charlie's Bucketful of Dinosaurs' and 'Guess How Much I Love You'. And recently, whilst in the process of moving out of my family home and rummaging through our murky loft in search for suitcases, I came across a box. This box was full to the brim with old nursery rhyme collections and mouldy bedtime stories. So instead of packing, I reclined into a habitual state of procrastination and instead began skimming through the faded pages of my childhood.

As I read, the response might be as expected - an overwhelming sadness and not-yet-decided-on resignation to the fact that I'm now an adult, an adult who's moving away from her parents who used to crush her leg and read her bedtime stories. The act of me re-reading these books seemed to change the atmosphere in the room, and not by the asbestos particles that were probably seeping into my lungs every time I turned a page, but by pure nostalgia that was bleeding through every line, every obvious rhyme, every cracked spine. (I didn't intend for that to rhyme itself but hey, I'm a natural, what can I say? #sarcasm)

Obviously, by osmosis, when my mum saw me weeping over the books she began to weep over me weeping over the books and then the dog saw us and started to cry too and it was just a horrible, horrible mess of 'please ring me's and 'please don't forget to eat properly's and 'please don't forget about me's. Like, you're my mother, you gave birth to me, I still panic if I lose you in ASDA, I'm not going to wake up one morning and be like 'who's this strange woman who I've got thirty-three missed calls and twenty-seven un-opened texts from?'

Well, this went off on a weird tangent. One paragraph of me actually talking about what I should've been talking about and the rest of it utter rubbish. This will soon turn into a pattern of becoming everything I write about.At least I can add this to my list of three goals I've been asked to write about by my tutor at uni, which brings it up to grand total of two out of three.

#goals
1.) To get used to the change in essay structure and freedom within my writing, and also within my course and university as a whole.
2.) Don't ramble and go off on weird tangents within my writing - it doesn't help with the already-weird vibes you give off.
3.) IOU a third goal.

The Bags Under my Eyes are Counterfit

So Last Saturday I moved out. It's been six days. I hate it already. I mean, the parties are good when I go to them, the people are really nice (most of them) and the room isn't falling apart around me, so I guess I'm alright. Not a fan of the lack of sleep or the actual effort it takes to feed myself now, but it's all about that uni experience right? *cries through Nutella-covered fingers* And freshers doesn't even officially start until next week, we're technically in 'pre-freshers' right now, so it's practically freshers just a lot less organised and a lot more shitty music blaring from the flats above me. Listen, right, I'm fine with the music, but why is it SO shit? Where is the Smash Mouth??

I don't officially start my course until the 28th, so that's twelve more days until I have an excuse to show my true colours and de-evolve back into my sociopathic introvert cocoon. There are so many things stressing me out at the moment, and these two weeks are supposed be the most chill time of my life but I don't see that happening. So here's a list of twelve shitty things that're happening in my
newly-found independent life right now.

1.) I'm tired as fuck

2.) My maintenance loan doesn't come through for another week or so
3.) Yesterday I spent £84 on a bus pass
4.) Yesterday I spent two and a half hours on a bus, needing to pee the whole way there
5.) I just had to spend over £200 on books that only equate to half of this years' studies
6.) I don't have enough personal inspiration to actually get up before midday
7.) I don't have enough personal inspiration to actually make myself something to eat that doesn't come out of a packet
8.) I've gained at least 3lbps in the last six days
9.) I'm running out of toilet roll
10.) My Spotify account cancelled itself today because there's not enough money in the bank
11.) I brought 40 DVDs to uni to play on my laptop, and my laptop doesn't have a DVD player in it
12.) Sometimes I really need to pee first thing in the morning but I'm always too lazy to get up, so by the time I'm 65 I'm probably gonna be pissing myself on the daily

Short and bitter but I legitimately nearly fell asleep while typing this.

R.

Don't Look Back in Anger

I just spent a good hour scrolling back through all my old blog post and internally screaming as I scan over all the horrible puns and awkward writing. I mean, I still use horrible puns and write awkwardly, but slightly less so now. And all of these cringe-worthy posts were only written a year ago, so I guess I just have to thank A-Level English for digging me out of the cesspit that was 17-year-old Rebecca's writing style.

But I'm not deleting any of these old posts, because they are all something I remember putting a considerable amount of effort into at the time. Although you wouldn't think it, looking at all the horrendously obvious grammar and spelling mistakes that I completely overlooked and/or couldn't be bothered changing. So I'm not deleting them, because I always think you should embrace the shitty and embarrassing moments and, mostly for me, phases of your life because that's what made you who you are today. (Exhibits a, b, c, d and e:)

Honestly look at me, wasn't I precious? I now find beaches, bowling alleys, Oompa Loompas (if you couldn't tell, that's what I was meant to be), bow ties and Quavers mentally harrowing. I mean, the fashion choices. If anyone, I should thank my parents for being so supportive of me and letting their child actually leave the house looking like that. Look at those highlights, I look like a fucking Werthers Original. And yeah, ok, I actually suited the ginger hair because I am seriously lacking some melanin, but somebody should've sat me down, and taught me how to master the messy bun. Because whatever the look was what I was trying to go for, that definitely wasn't it.

I didn't mean for this to turn into a roast yourself challenge - I don't know whether I feel better or worse for it. Anyway, the moral is, I've forgotten what the moral is. Embrace your shit? No, don't actually embrace your shit, that could lead to some considerable health problems. See, back at it again with the bad puns. I honestly can't stop, I'm making myself cringe. Ok, I'll just crawl back into my metaphorical hole.

I'm probably going to live to regret putting these pictures on the internet. Now would be the right time to say 'yolo' but I don't hate myself that much.

R.

Stressed, Depressed and Never Gets Dressed

So I'm starting university in approximately 14 days, 23 hours and 2 mintues. 14 days. That's like 2 weeks. It is 2 weeks. What am I going to do? What am I going to pack? Is my dog going to miss me? I honestly can't comprehend moving out of a house I've lived in for 18 years, 7 months and 12 days, because I'm such a weird person when it comes to change. It unnerves me and I find it uncomfortably upsetting because I like to be in control, I like to know where I'm headed and have a clear grasp on things as they pan out. But change doesn't allow that, it's different and scary and feels somewhat unnatural to me. But it's necessary, even though I wish it wasn't.

And if it's not enough that the act of actually moving out and going to university isn't stressful enough, I have money to worry about as well. Student bank accounts, TV licenses, insurance, shopping (oh god I need to learn how to cook. Well, I can already cook, I just need to learn how to cook better) and all the people I seem to speak to all seem quite calm and collected about the whole thing, with their response most of the time being, 'I'll just get my mum and dad to help.' But my parents can't, and even when they can, I don't want them to. I kind-of want to be a confident, independent adult, capable of doing confident, independent adulty things, but I'm not ready to adult yet. Take me back to year 7 where the biggest thing I had to worry about was forgetting my P.E. kit, and the teachers making me wear a t-shirt that smelled like it'd been soaked in a tramp's arse sweat. 

And everybody's getting so excited to be moving into halls and going to uni, but I'm not. Well, I am slightly, but nowhere near the extent of the other people I've spoken to. I've not even started and I already want freshers to be over. I know that makes me sound incredibly weird and dull, but I'm an extrovert trapped inside an introvert's body - so unless I find people who are bearable to talk to (aka friends), and fast, freshers is literally going to be the week straight from hell.

Thing is, I'm a very organised person, so I love making lists. Like, fuck yoga and whale noises and waves crashing onto a sandy beach - lists are the shit. I make lists for literally everything, and most of the time, it calms me. It means I have everything I need to know/do/buy right in front of me. (mainly because my long-term memory is absolutely shocking) But sometimes they only serve as a reminder of all the stuff I have yet to accomplish, and it's just sitting there on my wall like 'you're such a failure'. So then I have a mental breakdown, tear down the list, panic - because now I've forgotten what I needed to do, re-write the list and the cycle starts all over again. At least the stress of A-Levels is now out the way, because my room then was literally list central. But they must'v worked, because I got some bangin' results (A*, A, B, boiiiii). Ok so, I'll try never to say 'bangin'' or 'boiiiii' ever again, but I can't promise anything.

But hopefully I'll find something to do with my time other than making lists, coursework and going out, because clubs for me are the equivalent of what happens when you throw a cat into a lake. I mean, I haven't tested this theory, because I'm not a sadist, but I'm guessing it's a pretty similar reaction. I'm going to force myself up at an ungodly hour to go to the freshers fair and try to find some sort of sport society or whatever to keep me active 'n' that. You've no idea how much I had to force myself to type the word 'sport' without involuntarily running away and hiding in a dark hole somewhere. But yeah, uni resolution is to be more active!

Ha.

R.

(I still don't think 3 awkward stock images are enough for one post)

There we go. Perfect.

Stranger Things: Netflix Series Review (SPOILERS)

So, Stranger Things happened. And it's unexplainably refreshing to watch something that's not a sequel, or a copy, or a re-boot of something that they thought we'd all forgotten about from years-gone-by. No, Stranger Things does the exact opposite in which, at first glance, it looks like your run-of-the-mill sci-fi 'is-it-aliens-or-is-it-deep-and-meaningful-monster-manifestations-of-the-human-race?' show, but after you get past the first half an hour of the first episode, you realise that's not the case. Of course I'm aware that the show's impressive 80's aesthetic (my favourite word because I'm indie trash) is an over-talked about selling point, but Stranger Things' understated grandeur goes much further than that.

                                 

     

With its impressive bill of actors, including the likes of Winona Ryder, David Harbour and less well-known (I tried thinking of a more sophisticated-sounding synonym but I guess we're stuck with that) faces like Natalie Dyer and Charlie Heaton (Yorkshire massive represent. That was the worst thing I've ever said.) Partnered with incredible set and costume design it means that, even to somebody who's not that into film or TV, this show is undeniably spectacular. 

One of my favourite things about the series is that no actor is overshadowed by another. You'd think, with a name like Ryder on the bill, she would be front and center, but even the younger actors are able to 'match up' to her in terms of compelling the audience with performances way beyond their years. Millie Bobby Brown, the young actor who plays Eleven in the series, being one of the most impressive performances I've seen in a TV show for a while, not only from a young actor, but as an actor in general. In short, the whole cast is absolutely stellar in every episode. I'm not pretending to be and expert in anything, but using words like 'stellar' always makes you sound expert-y. But then I use words like 'expert-y' and cancel out any professional impressions anybody had of me. 

I'm never one for scary stuff. I was the girl at the Halloween party who sat under her sleeping bag listening to Panic! At the Disco on full blast, while everyone else watched Silent Hill and laughed at me. But this was different, this show isn't just scary for the sake of being scary, it says something when a lil weed like me is prepared to sit through a few jump scares to watch a show. And besides, however unoredictable the plot was, timing jump scares is always predictable. Oh, she's alone by a poolside and the camera shot's left just enough room and created enough focus to accommodate a figure looming behind her? Time to mute that shit.

So yeah, I heard that they've already commissioned a second season due to the amazing reception this one's received - but they're not calling it a 'second season', they're calling it a 'sequel'. Ooh, unique, mystical, intriguing. Triple emphasis.  Anyway, I actually can't wait for the second seas- shit, I mean, sequel. What with the mystic hints at the end after the kids finish their D&D game; 'what about the lost knight, and the proud princess and the weird flowers in the cave?' E.g. The police officer guy that was taken away by the secret service or whatever, Eleven, and those cracked-open egg-things that they found in the Upside Down, meaning here's more of those Men in Black Kylothian-faced looking alien, sub-human shits wandering about somewhere. And don't get me started on Nancy choosing Steve. Bitch, really? He bought him a camera? Big fucking whoop, Jonathan saved your ass, man. What you playing at?

I'm not bitter.

(I also couldn't look at the floaty snowy-looking atmosphere in Upside Down, and not think of Winona Ryder in Edward Scissorhands like, 'it never used to snow before he left, and now it does', and they gonna find Ed at the end of that gooey-ass tunnel like;

R.

If

If I could go back, I'd tell her not to worry about homework. I'd tell her that getting below a B isn't the end of the world. I'd tell her that revision is important, but it's not worth her letting go of herself for. Because no amount of praise or good-looking exam results can excuse the shoddy excuse for a social life and dicintegration of her mental health. 

If I could go back, I'd tell her not to cry over them. I'd tell her to let it play out, that things will settle into their right places in time, that they will turn into passing faces and people you used to know. 

I'd tell her to speak out, to talk to people about what's worrying her and to get help. I'd tell her to talk to anyone, everyone, (well, maybe not everyone) start conversations, make friends. I'd tell her it was healthy to break off friendships that don't seem healthy for her, that people who force you into things, and laugh when you don't take part in those things, aren't friends. They're acquaintances, like I said - passing faces.

I'd tell her to push herself, to do things she could never imagine doing, to persevere, do something extraordinary. I'd tell her to take photos, find hobbies, collect stuff, to take her mind off of whatever scares her into not doing those things.

Please, God, don't sit there and do nothing. Get out there, organise things, don't wait for people to come to you. Tell your mum you love her, because you're going to lose someone. Ignore yourself when you're angry, but listen to other people when they are - you'll find out a lot either way through anger. Visit your Nan more often and tell her she looks nice today, treasure your Grandad's stories and laugh at his jokes, however unfunny. 

I'd tell her not to panic, even though that seems impossible. I'd tell her to be patient, to smile more often and to hold doors open for old people. But I'd really just tell her to do whatever the fuck she wants, because who really cares about the past. Just don't do anything stupid. 

i.e. don't play Pokemon Go near lakes, building sites or dual carriageways. 

R.

On Bo Burnham's Make Happy

On Friday, Bo Burnham released his most recent show, 'Make Happy' on Netflix, and, as someone who has only been a 'fan' of his for a couple of years now, I can honestly say that, if he hadn't already secured a place in my top 3, Make Happy ensured that place was final. (I know, what an honour.) I was going to say 'top 3 comedians', but I think Bo might just be in my 'top 3 humans' - after my Nan and Dwight Schrute. Put it this way, if he toured in the UK, I would consider spending my week's maintenance loan on tickets and sacrificing food. I'm not sure whether that's encouragement for him to come here, or encouragement for him not to. 

Make Happy balanced sincerity and humour so incredibly and delicately, it's impossible for anybody who watches it to not give the guy his due and recognise his natural aptitude for language. I sound like a fucking teacher, Jesus. Anyway, I think the highest accolade I could give anything as amazing as Make Happy is, that it made me happy. I know, it's a comedy show, wtf, shock. But if you watch the show, Bo says something along the lines of, that he's struggling to decide whether the best thing to do is just to perform, to crack a few jokes, sing a few songs and make people happy, or to actually talk about things that are important to him - the things that people paying to see a comedy show, might not necessarily want to hear. Damn, that was a long-ass sentence. But I think he does the impossible, because he manages to do both. He manages to uplift but also soberly remind his audience to be self-aware and active, with the final monologue-almost-soliloquy rendering me speechless. 

Because you expect it to turn into a joke. You expect it to turn on its head and make you laugh, have that one last punchline that people walk out the doors and tweet about. But it doesn't, and he owns it. I've never seen a comedian like him before. I've never seen anyone in the whole arts industry like Burnham before. And it doesn't matter how many shows I watch, how many other comedians I laugh at, how many time my phone corrects his fucking surname to 'burnt ham' in this blog post, there will never be anyone else who emulates or even touches what he does. I'm not saying that he's 'The Greatest Comedian to have Ever Lived', because comedy is much more subjective than that, more diverse, with different genres just like music and film. But right now, he's there.

Because you can't compare people like Bo Burnham to, say, Peter Kay or Russell Howard, because all three are amazing in their own right. Burnham couldn't pull of a Kay set, and Kay couldn't pull off a Howard set (etc. etc.). Because when somebody's good, they're good. I know that kind-of retracts the 'comedy is subjective' thing I talked about, but it also doesn't. It made sense in my head, fuck it. 

Looking back over this now, I realise that the whole thing's been pretty shambolic. I don't profess to be an expert, just somebody who enjoys comedy and amazing writing. But hopefully it made sense to at least two people, and if it reaches two people, at least that's an improvement on the last post. But anyway, in answer to your question, Bo, on a scale of 0-2, I'm at about a 0.85. And thank you. 

R.

- the amount of times I looked up 'synonym for show' on Google for this was embarrassing. 

Labels

So I identify as quite a few things. I give myself these labels, and I accept quite a few of them too. For example, I accepted the label of having anxiety and depersonalisation disorder when the doctors gave them to me. I accepted the label of my sexuality, I accepted the label of 'weird' when people used to call me it in school (to be honest, I still get called weird, but I bring that on myself, not going to lie.) But they are a part of us, I identify as a woman, I proudly identify as English and Scottish and French and whoever the fuck else my ancestors decided to fuck around with. (I also identify as being indie trash) And I love labels, I love being organised, therefore organizing myself and the world around me. And yes, sometimes labels can be used negatively, can be used as a form of oppression or a means of having or forcing power over someone. And, yes, we are all 'one people', all made of flesh and bone and all that shit, but for some people, labels give them something to hang on to.

Labels give identity, and identity brings empowerment. Yes, labels start wars, but we're never going to eradicate them so, in the meantime, they give people something to fight for. I know that there is so much pressure for people to identify as one thing or the other, and that making these 'decisions' to identify as such and such a thing (I said 'decisions' in inverted commas because I'm in no way suggesting that people just decide to be gay, coming from personal experience, I know that to be a phrase that's incredibly undermining and insulting.) can be extremely physically and mentally strenuous. But, personally, I like building myself up brick-by-brick, labelling each part of me, looking back on each of them and feeling somewhat satisfied with the choices I've made. Not the choices to be whatever label, but the choices to identify as them.

I think it's the way we interpret the labels that makes all the difference. They don't have to be restrictive, they don't have to come coupled with rules and guidelines. Me being bisexual doesn't mean that I have an equal 50/50 percentage of attraction to each sex. Somebody identify as Christian, doesn't mean that they follow every single line of the bible, that that's all they live and breathe. For example, in my village, we have a lesbian vicar and, if anything, she is raw proof that a single label doesn't have to dominate who you are.

You don't have to define yourself to society or other people, there shouldn't be pressure to express yourself as one thing or another. For some people, like me, having these labels means identifying yourself to yourself. I mean, why the fuck should it be anybody else's business? Why should I put down every piece of my personality in my Twitter bio just to let a thousand people who I've never met, and probably never will, where I stand on the political, sexual or religious spectrum? And, hey, that's great if you do want to do that, you go Glen Coco, whatever floats your goat. But it's the people who pressure everyone to publicly identify as whatever, that give labels the bad rep.

So I think the message here that I was trying to get across was, do whatever the fuck you want. Don't get involved in people's lives who's lives will never effect your own. The only people who should be pressuring you for information about yourself are government operatives, and they should only be doing that if you're a convicted criminal or a perceived threat to the country - which I doubt any of you are.

Oh yeah, and I was inspired by this video: (which completely contradicts everything I just said, but I agree with parts of it. Lolololol, love having unpopular opinions. But give it a watch, anyway.)

I Am NOT Black, You Are NOT White - Prince Ea: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0qD2K2RWkc

Anyway, ta.

R.

#deep

Haha (I'm Dying Inside)

At the moment I'm not in the mood for writing. It's nothing against the two of you that actually read this stuff, but college has just reached a certain point now where I'm literally considering the practicality of running away and joining the circus that's touring where I live. I mean, I've got no practical or athletic skill that would assist them in any way, but I have brain smarts and that's all that matters, right?

So yeah, stress on top of stress on top of food and sleep and essential idiotic Facebook prank video viewing time, equals a depressed, stressed and not-even-that-well-dressed student, who doesn't even know what she's doing with her life in the next few months, never mind for the foreseeable future. And, yes, that was a hellishly long sentence with no sign of any correct punctuation in sight, but that is what A-Levels have done to me. Actually getting an English qualification has evidently worsened my English skills, as well as depleting my number of friends, and eradicating any form of social life I
once had.

But I have been revising, which surprised me, let alone the majority of my teachers. (I say 'majority', I literally have three.) Yes, I've been revising, I've also cut-down on the amount of weekly existential crises I've been allowing myself a week (I'm calling it the Crises Crunch), which is a step forward, yeah? Yeah? Yeah, it is.

So on top of the list of things I'm currently teetering on the edge of an oh-so-welcoming abyss because of is probably the imminent catastrophe of the summer exams and the five month countdown to when I'm moving into my uni halls. to make matters even more lovely, my university decided it would be a fantastic idea to send me a lovely little leaflet through my door and into my life that had a giant number five on it and, in capital letters, read; 5 MONTH COUNTDOWN TILL UNIVERSITY (EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE HARROWING 3-YEAR LIFE SENTENCE YOU'VE JUST DROPPED YOURSELF INTO)

Ok, so it maybe didn't say the last bit, but still, my knees almost gave way when my mum gave it to me an said 'Ooh, not long now!' Like, yes Mother, I know you've had enough of me, but don't have children, mate, if the only light you can see at the end of an other wise oppressing tunnel is your only child moving away out of your life.

I just thank the Lord that I'm not re-sitting anything this year. If I was, I wouldn't be writing this now, because I would've sailed to some far corner of Eastern Europe, to some remote town with more consonants than vowels in the name, with no internet connection or running water. On second thoughts, maybe not - probably wouldn't survive. And I think we all know that it wouldn't be the possibility of daily salmonella or lack of clean water that would do it for me - where would I get my daily dose of BuzzFeed top tens?

So what am I doing? God knows. Where am I going? God knows. I'd ask him, but I don't think he listens to atheists.

(I found an archive of Inbetweeners memes.)
R.

The Rant

So I was in the shower the other day, as one sometimes is, and I started to think about some stuff. Stuff that makes me angry, which isn't a hard title to be given by me, stuff that doesn't make sense, stuff that shouldn't exist and stuff that should. And my brain drifted into this abyss of dangerous ground to publicly walk on online. You know, my usually atheistic ramble about religion and its 100 hydra heads of loopholes that allow death and fascism and shit that just doesn't make sense to me. So I started getting hella angry all on my little loan some and so I obviously thought, 'the world needs to hear this' and this shitty blog is my only output. This and Twitter, but that'd like walking over a land mine in snow shoes.

Anyway, point number one, what's with all the racism? I mean, people look at a man or woman in religious headdress and immediately think to themselves 'terrorist'. It's like it's programmed into even the most open-minded of us, a circuit in our minds that's been hot-wired by hungry journalists and racist old white men you hear in passing when you're in ASDA. 'They need kicking out', 'they're spreading a bad message to the kids.' THEY'RE spreading bad messages? I'll tell you who's spreading bad messages - you are. You're poisoning your kids with your own horrid, objective, racist, sexist, homophobic or whatever opinions, teaching them to be cruel viscous parents, friends, husbands, wives. And then they'll go on to create more of your kind, that's the real problem. And what about our faithful ol' white religions? What about all the fucked up messes they've got us into? But we've been trained to forget them. How come you look at a man in a turban and think 'ISIS', but you don't look at a man wearing a cross around his neck and think 'KKK'? What about the countless wars and massacres and geonocides committed at the hands of those following the Bible, never mind the Qur'an. 

Point number two (leading on from the first one somewhat) - Donald fucking Trump. Now I know I 'shouldn't be giving him the attention' so I'm just going to say one thing and leave it. I'm was just going to say; I'm terrified. He could be in control of the most powerful country in the world. Think about it, that racist greasy lunatic with all the power in the world grasped in his sweaty pervert chubby probably has a secret swastika tattoo, hands. And to think, we were worried about Nigel Farage.

I don't know why I numbered the points, there's only like two. I think I've just lost the will to do anything about any of it any more, because what can I do? If Trump gets into power, and he starts pulling some Putin shit on is, I'll probably have to take this down. Imagine, 'sir we've detected a threat.' 'Where is it coming from?' 'An 18-year-old student in some place called West Yorkshire. We're detecting the signal to be coming from a two-bedroom bungalow in a geriatric ward village. It looks pretty serious.' 'OK, kill her plez.'

For some reason, I don't think it's going to get that bad, but you never know. I've always said my generation is going to witness World War 3, so you never know, he might be the straw to break the canel's back.

What an upbeat note to end on.

R.