Shh.

I made a discovery this week and it is this: I don’t like people knowing I have a blog. It’s been a year. I should be used to having one and people reading it and telling me they like it but I still have a panic attack every time a new person raises their eyebrows at whatever screen is in front of them as they vocalise “Oh? You have a blog?” I almost want it to be a secret. I don’t want anyone to know.

My lecturer didn’t show up for one of my classes this week so I was just making small talk with a newfound friend. We got onto the subject of Instagram and I found out he can draw, like amazingly well. He was nearly shuddering with shyness, he was so embarrassed about me gushing over his talent and I didn’t really understand why it was such a big deal until he landed on my page and I forgot I had put my freaking website in my biography. With the largest amount of surprise in his voice, he was like “What’s this? Is it a blog?” then he went silent then he went “wow” then didn’t say anything about it again and all this while, I was rigid. Rigid with, what I now admit to being fear. The fear of being found out. I almost felt like a fraud.

I have these moments of utter identity breakdown a lot. Like, a lot, you know me. Almost every little thing makes me want to re-evaluate my life to the point where I feel like I’ve never amounted to anything spectacular in the first place, it freaks me out. This blog makes me feel that way a lot. I like writing it and when people respond to it, I do feel elation, extremely, even. But simultaneously, when people discover it and I know who they are, I feel like something changes in that moment, like they view me in a different light. And I don’t like this light. There’s a change for the smallest fraction of time. It’s almost like they’re disappointed. Maybe I’m reading it wrong or maybe I just know some crappy people.

I always say it but I don’t look like I blog. Based on stereotypical assumptions gathered solely from first glances, if I were to squash myself into a specific criteria through a Venn diagram (visualise it with me), blogging or any form of smacking letters into a Word document in my free time wouldn’t be anywhere near my circle. It’s just not what pops into your head when you see me or maybe even know me a little. Even I look at myself in the mirror sometimes and think “You? Blog? Nah.”

I’m a conglomeration of all these supposed skills and hobbies and experiences and interests and cool oddness and I express it in a way I like but I just don’t want people I know to know because I think it changes perceptions drastically. Strangers are my kind of people. They don’t know me enough to be able to weigh up my two different “personalities”, I guess. I wouldn’t know if my actual physical presence differs much from my online presence.

Why does any of this even matter to me? “I don’t know,” she wails, as she throws her hands to the sky in frustrated frustration. Frustration squared. I think – I do a lot of thinking here in case you hadn’t noticed – I’m just trying to rationalise my feelings. I’m trying to do that now. Instead of feeling things and wallowing in these feelings for God knows how long, I try to ascertain why I should allow myself to dwell in such an emotional state if it’s not going to be beneficial in the long run or if I can’t see that far ahead in situ, for that moment. It’s a new life thing I’m trying out, as you do.

Literal eureka moment, I have it: I’m battling with the notion of uniqueness. I want to be unique and this blog, believe it or not, is what I think gives me my edge. But this perception of me being unique is what I don’t like. I don’t agree with people thinking this thing I do makes me unique at all because in the end, it doesn’t. A lot of people blog… but no one does it like I do. See? It’s such a mess but it’s a fathomable mess. But then again, the only thing that really gives me any form of comfort in the midst of all of this is something my really cool friend once told me: “everyone is unique so no one is.”

I should have my shit together by next week, hopefully.

Until then,

Georgina ❤ ❤ (two hearts because I forgot to give you one last time)

Songs of The Week (listen to them or else)

And We’re Live Again

Hello, hello, hello.

I write this while running on approximately 4 hours of sleep, being slightly deaf in one ear with a raspy voice and equally as bad cough. Welcome to year two of university. It feels tremendously good to be back!

I’ve really missed my blog. That feeling of utter dread as I click ‘Publish’ once a week, or thereabouts, was something I started to crave. I have been writing though, on fvdedcollective.com and I will continue to so keep an eye out for me there.

I live on Indomie noodles, it’s all I need. I watch Eastenders in the quaintness of my room because I’m too chicken to go down to the common room. I just finished reading The Martian and now I’m really obsessed with the idea of being stranded on Mars. I went clubbing on a school night and managed to sit through 3 hours of organic chemistry lectures the next morning without feeling the need to gouge my eyes out. It’s all extremely satisfying, this feeling of independence. If I’m not making dinner for myself, no one is. If I don’t wake up on time, I’m missing precious lecture/lab time. If I don’t go grocery shopping, food will not magically appear in the fridge if I open and close it a couple of times. It’s really quiet and it can be unnerving sometimes but I actually love it. I am content.

I’m feeling optimistic about this year. The workload is daunting already but I’m ready for the challenge. My modules even sound so science-y now, I feel like a grown up just saying them (“Where you off to?” “Oh, just going to my Pharmacology and Pharmaceutics lecture.” “Sorry, I can’t hear you, my Organic and Medicinal Chemistry workshop awaits me.”) A lot of the people I couldn’t stand have either left, transferred or become so traumatised by the ordeal of the first year, they are nothing but a mere shadow of themselves which is great for me. I’ll find something else to complain about eventually, that is a given. I feel like this is the one true year where the true grit of university will hit me like a ton of bricks. That gentle massage of first year has been drastically replaced by the harsh and fast reality of second year.

I haven’t really got much to say, which is strange. I always have something to say. But I did say I’d be back in September and a promise is a promise. Um, wow, I’m all out of updates so next week it is.

Yours truly,

Georgina

#ThisIsMyArt (…ish?)

Disclaimer: about halfway through this, it seems as if I’m talking to myself. I was working it out as I was typing it out, literally. I didn’t want to change it, workings of the mind and all that jazz. I was also hopped up on ice cream when I wrote this and you know how crazy I get when I have ice cream. And, no, I didn’t just realise the coolness of hashtags, there’s an entirely substantial reason for the title.

Existential crises seem to be my latest thing. If I don’t have one at least once a month, it’s an off month but I need them, keeps me on my toes.

I’m volunteering at my local library this summer to get the little baby geniuses of my community to put down the iPads, pick up a book and stare at it for a couple of hours. I do it because I like to think I’m enabling these kids to see the beauty of words, understand and appreciate the magical worlds in the lines they read. In the few moments it takes for me to quiz them on the books, the sincerity and eagerness to impress me with their knowledge burns through the most and I find it mesmerising. Children are mystical, honestly.

The children, however, didn’t bring about this crippling need for me to re-evaluate my life; it was the guy who was my volunteering partner for the day. He was a 17 year old white male with a Justin Bieber circa 2011 haircut. It was 9:30 on a Monday morning and I was ready to sit in stone cold silence for 3 hours just to avoid any means of communicating with him. We were asked to do some book cataloguing and as we were trying to decipher the library’s incredibly ancient shelving system, the ice broke and we started talking about all kinds of things. We talked about TV shows, comics, university, career prospects and all that stuff. He told me he had sussed out what his niche was: TV or voice acting, kitchen design or drama teaching. Despite how odd the selection of goals seemed to both him and me, these things made him happy and the prospect of being either one of the three was more than enough to keep him motivated. I couldn’t help but envy him. At 16, he had such a level head on his shoulders and his path would be way easier than mine but that’s another rant for another day.

On cue, I had a teeny weeny internal meltdown. He had found his art and he was running with it. I like too many things to say I have an art and it worries me. If someone asks me what I’m good at, I won’t have an answer. Does “oh yes, well, you see, I write stuff and organic chemistry gets me going” qualify as a decent answer? I’m always asking people what my backup plan should be if being this kick-ass scientist I have totally envisioned myself being backfires on me. Writing is a comfort, it is escapism and blogging helps me share my weirdness, helps sprinkle my fairy dust all over the place. But I am also incredibly inconsistent with it and even though I’ve been doing this for 10 months (wow, 10 whole months?), I still get terrified every time I press publish. I still fret that I’m talking to a void of white noise and broadband cables. I worry that everyone who tells me I’m good is entirely bullshitting me. But then again, I feel like I am pretty good at what I do, even though I’m not entirely sure what that is. I write about what’s on my mind, I write about how I feel, I write about what’s happening to me, what is around me. Writing is a release; it is the unbuckling of the metaphorical belt on the jeans of life. Is it cheating if I really love to write about whatever it is I write about and still love knowing I can create worlds inside a beaker that can make or break a person’s insides? Am I allowed to have two arts, so to speak?

Damn it, I can. I can love writing and I can love blowing things up in a lab. Art is expression, art is creativity, it is skill, it is work and it is love. It is what you love and it is what I love and I think I’ve found it. This is what I love to do; I could shed a tear.

Now, I have some good news and some bad news. Bad news first: this blog will be more or less dormant until September. I know, I know: how can I write a whole post screaming about how much I love to write only to drop this bombshell on you? This is where the good news comes in: someone likes my writing so much, they’ve asked me to be an in-house writer on their website. Mama, I’ve made it! Obviously, I’m not trying to get fired so I want to channel my all in to the website, meaning I don’t want to post things on here that are lacking juice, you know? I say September because I’ll be back in university, I’ll have things to complain about, people to throw literal shade at, opinions to air.

I’ll be writing on a weekly basis on this website so if you really love me, you’ll find me on fvdedcollective.com which is re-launching on the 29th of July, mark yo’ calendars. I’m beyond ecstatic and I’m super nervous but I think I can do it, I hope I can. So, guys, please, be nice and visit the website when it’s open. Come and read what I and a bunch of other mind-blowingly talented people have to say. We are the youth writing for the youth and about the youth. Don’t miss me too much, I’m not far.

Songs of the Week because yeah

Until September… don’t cry, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,

Georgina ❤

 

And The Award Goes To… Not Your Child

Last week, I played the role of supportive big sister and went to my brother’s secondary school for this end of year show and it was so intriguing to witness exactly how parents behave. Every single school thing I’ve ever attended, I’ve been on the other side. I’ve been the one waiting to be called up with everyone else’s eyes on me.

To sum up what I observed, there’s nothing like a public acknowledgement or lack thereof of the achievements of the fruit of your loins to bring out the absolute worst in you. Body language is the biggest snitch. Sure, some parents will never outwardly express their absolute disappointment in their child during such events but you can sense it. You can feel the subliminal God, did I give birth to this foolish child thoughts just swirling above your head as they sit and watch every other child but their own get an award. I found it so funny as the parents waited with bated breath to hear their child’s name being announced only to exhale with silent bitterness at the child that did win. It was a like a war of worlds between the miniature fist bumps and the heavy but stealth eye rolls of contempt.

Being surrounded by it all got me thinking how Nigerian kids have to deal with all that plus a hell of a lot more by the time they get home. It all starts in the car. Your parents will give you the silent treatment but the second everyone is in the car and seat buckled in and the key is in the ignition, someone will start: “Why can’t you just make me proud? Why can’t you just focus on your work and win an award or did all the other children that win have two heads? No, we cannot go to McDonald’s, there’s rice at home.” If you’re lucky and you go to a fee-paying school, there is no way you won’t hear “after all the school fees I’m paying, simple award you cannot get.”

If you haven’t lived through it, you wouldn’t know. I can’t tell you much it sucks to try and do the best that you can, academically or otherwise, to then have your parents tell you “but why couldn’t you get higher than this?” or “what did everyone else get?” I’m guessing it’s a Nigerian thing. Competition is embedded in our DNA and a lot of parents are of the mind-set that their child must have a title attributed to their name in terms of a profession to be able to say, “yes, my child is not a bastard.” I honestly believe as a Nigerian child, you will hear the words doctor, lawyer and engineer thrown at you at least 700 times before you reach the age of 16. I know they mean well because job security and financial wellbeing are attributed with such jobs but they are not the only jobs in this world, for goodness sake. And how many times have you said “I want to be a singer/writer/artist” to only have those dreams shut down faster than you could even imagine?

I’m actually extremely lucky. My parents have never been soul crushing, dream stomping monsters but they’ve never been the ones to ignite a flame that couldn’t be sustained, you get me? They’ve allowed me to find my own feet and find what suits me as they fully understood that whatever I chose to do was what I would be saddled with for the rest of my life, not theirs. For instance, when I was really young, I was convinced that I was Beyoncé’s protégé. I was destined to be her next in line. I used to watch the Crazy In Love video on repeat, I nailed the walk and the sudden drop to her knees and everything. I could lip-sync like there was no tomorrow, I actually could sing…ish and I had confidence in the bucketloads. One day, I just said “Mummy, I’m going to be a singer when I grow up.” My mum looked at me, utterly bewildered yet astonished, I can never forget how she looked that day, and she said, “Maybe you should have a backup plan, just to be on the safe side.”

When I think about it, I always wonder what my own response would have been if my own child said something like that to me. I want to say I’ll be the best mum ever and say “sure, baby, you can be whatever you want to be” even if my child sounds like a cat being dunked into a bathtub. I mean, I want to be as encouraging as I can possibly be and I want my children to know they can get to the top of any ladder this world offers them to climb. I want my kids to know that they can be whoever they want to be and they’ll know that I will be the one forever in their corner, no matter how epically they fuck up because they will and that’s okay. I want to be that mum who screams her head off with joy even when my child comes last in school races or brings home C minuses on their report card because that’s what every child wants. Everyone needs that little push just to know they’re on the right track. But as always, I worry. I worry I say all this and create this foolproof ideology of how to parent in my head until I am faced with hardcore motherhood to only have my Yoruba genes shroud my sense of open-mindedness and for my inner we-have-rice-at-home mum mode to kick in.

I guess I’ll know when the time gets here and there’s no use fretting over something that hasn’t even happened yet. All I do know is, awards don’t mean anything… most of the time. I mean, look at Kanye West: wasn’t he voted least likely to succeed? In primary school, I didn’t win a single award until I was leaving the damn place. Every year I was boycotted, if that’s even possible, until finally, finally, I won the science cup in year 6 and well, look at me now, bitches. Secondary school? I used to get awards and certificates like they were plates of jollof rice on a Sunday afternoon.

But that’s besides the point. Don’t live by someone else’s idea of you. You are you and as long as you’re being the best you there could ever be, everyone else can nose dive off a very tall building. That is all.

Song of the Week

Remember, my news? Should tell you by next week 🙂

Georgina ❤

#WhatWeLearn: Wireless Edition

I’m so sorry for my flakiness, I don’t know how long I can keep apologising for my own faults. I’m so grateful that you put up with my crap and come back to read whatever it is I have to say. I only blog when I have a story to tell and I have been action-less of late but nonetheless, I’m here. I love you, honestly. Real love.

I have to talk to you about my Wireless experience. It was my first ever musical festival and honestly, I was frightened about it. I didn’t know what could possibly happen, it seemed so daunting. It’s one thing to go to a concert as that’s more controlled and everyone there is there for the same reason as you but with festivals, everyone comes for someone different. I found myself encroached in social tensions, different levels of eyebrow fleekiness, the usual anxieties that entail major gatherings of human bodies. But as they say, see a lesson in everything you do so, here are 5.

1. Second-hand highs are real, I honestly felt slightly buzzed. The air was thick with smoke, saturated with it. I witnessed a transaction too: there was this short black guy, the kind of guy that bulks up and seems super touchy about his height and these three white girls, all kitted out in short shorts and blonde hair and all I could hear was the weed man screaming “so how much do you want then?” and it was right in the open, hundreds of people were just walking past this scene like it was nothing and it perplexed me. I guess the best way to do something dodgy is right in the open to remain inconspicuous, no?

2. I can rap pretty well. I don’t know what came over me but when Childish Gambino opened with Crawl, I found myself matching him word for word, my squeaky voice pitches above him and everyone else. I didn’t even realise what I was doing until this really pretty girl with a shroud of blonde curls tinged with green spray turned around and gave me a thumbs up during Sweatpants like ‘mama, I hail thee, you try.’

3. Boys don’t like it when you can rap better than them. Kendrick Lamar opened with Money Trees and everyone lost their shit, collectively. It was ethereal but as his set proceeded, I noticed this really tall dude who was in front of me kept turning back to give me the evils whenever his own mouth stopped moving but mine was still working. Who begged him not to binge read rapgenius.com beforehand? Not that I did but still.

4. A lot of white people are indeed insane. This group called Gorgon City performed and these bastard meth heads formed a mosh pit right behind us. I felt so sorry for the little Asian girl in front of me, she smacked her head against the metal railing so many times. Do you know what a mosh pit is? It is a conglomeration of bodies being slammed against each other for no reason whatsoever besides a beat drop. You would think they were trying to stomp their way down to the depths of hell. On top of their demonic displays of madness, this tattoo-ridden, sunburnt, alcohol infused, weed infested lumberjack of a fiend used the cramped conditions we were in to use my ass as his personal rubbing post. I could have died. He was against me, skin to skin. I turned around to look at my tormentor but he looked away. He knew what he was doing. I must have dazed him; my ass was probably the realest ass he had ever felt.

5. The power of music is parallel to juju. What else can make you stand on your feet in the blazing sun for over 7 hours, endure all kinds of bodies and bacteria crawl all over you, have water thrown at you in the name of keeping cool, be on the edge of actual exhaustion to only have someone come on stage and for a familiar beat to play and all your troubles just fly away? We were all transfixed and we were all united and as we told to jump, you could basically sense our minds going “how high?” It’s a force. It baffles me how one person and their music, their poetry, their art can have so much control over so many minds.

Just look at this video and you’ll see what I mean. It’s like all hell broke loose 20 seconds in. I apologise for my noises in advance, I’m sorry.

Either way, it was really amazing; I would do it all over again, minus the unsolicited ass rubs and choking weed smoke.

Also, I should have some news for you sooner rather than later. Be calm, all is well. Keep your eyes open.

Song of The Week

This song is so pretty.

Georgina ❤

It Is Never Too Much

I wrote this last week and I wasn’t sure whether I should post it or not. I wrote it when I was in a discordant mood. But, here it is. This blog is just a diary in a glass box anyway.

This past week, I’ve been feeling as if life has been very loud. Visualise trying to have a conversation with someone, a friendly and empty conversation. You’re halfway through this little chat but there’s a lot of noise around you; it is so overwhelming, you have to stop and just listen, listen to how the world is hurting. This isn’t white noise, I’m talking about the sounds of what human beings can do to each other and to themselves: the screams, the gun shots, the police sirens, the abject daftness that flies out of people’s mouths on a regular, the sadness, confusion.

I don’t know where I saw what I’m going to describe but for some reason, I always thought sociopaths were diagnosed this way: you’re strapped to a chair, electrodes are attached to your scalp, it is just you and a television screen, nothing else to distract you, everything is standardized and controlled. A sequence of images pop up on the screen: a daisy, a puppy, a plate of food, a decapitated body, a cloud, a bright pink newborn baby, a palm tree, a severed limb, a shoe, your own passport image, a clip of an execution by firing squad, a rainbow, a bloodied head with it’s contents splattered on a wall, a meadow. As the sequence continues, an EEG records your brain activity and if its peaks and troughs correlate with the images of gore and images of normality, you’re not a sociopath, that is, you became troubled by the nasty bits and settled by the nicer things. But if the EEG shows a seemingly steady line, that is, you didn’t even flinch at the sight of brain mush smeared on a white wall, you are indeed a sociopath. I’m sure this test is a thing; I just can’t remember where I saw it.

I was watching a show we all know and love and there was a rape scene. I watched all the way through but when it was over, I found myself thinking this is too much and I immediately felt stupid. I felt hypocritical. I can’t fully understand how rape victims feel but I can imagine. Scenes from a TV show are someone else’s reality, it could be mine. What I couldn’t watch without feeling like a total wimp is what someone is going through, has gone through and will unfortunately go through and it annoys me that I felt it was too much to see.

Seeing images of war, of hate crimes, of human despair, poverty, the aftermath of natural disasters make you feel some type of way, right? Unless you’re a psychopath, you feel some sort of empathy towards what you’re seeing but you look at it for as long as you feel is polite or necessary then you turn the page or click the next link and it’s gone. We feel sorry for the people in those scenes for a couple of minutes, maybe the whole day but then that’s it, it’s gone and we move on. That is the sad part of human nature. We don’t tend to linger, we don’t tend to fight for things that aren’t directly inconveniencing us at that present moment. Oh, the earthquake in Nepal? Boohoo. Revoked citizenship for Haitian children in Dominican Republic? Poor them. 276 girls kidnapped by Boko Haram are still missing and could be used as suicide bombers? Terrible. A shooting in a church in South Carolina? Damn, not again. A man kicks in a pregnant woman’s womb until the baby dies? What the hell? But hey, somebody else will sort it out, it’s not my problem, I’m still alive, I’m still here. I should donate a pound here and there to make myself feel better. I am anti a lot of things: anti-racism, anti-misogyny, anti-poverty, anti-everything that is utterly wrong with this planet. But I always feel like no one, especially myself, is doing anything besides thinking about these things not being a thing.

I am a human, yes? And as humans, despite the circumstances we find ourselves in, there are a gazillion and one things that could happen to any of us, all of us, at any given time. With that, it could easily be me going through what I find so disheartening to view, but the fact that it’s not me smudges out my hurt. I empathise for a while but then I don’t worry about it at all until I’m faced with another sight of something awful again. It’s such a cycle of hypocritical bullshit. And what annoys me even more is that I can’t change the world. I can’t stop every rape, I can’t stop every shooting, I can’t produce world peace, I can’t end starvation, poverty, racism and pure stupidity but I want to but that’s all it is. I want to but I can’t. What’s even worse is the fact that I can’t is okay. It’s okay for me to not be able to do anything because it is what it is. It’s okay for everyone. But I’m still angry and confused at the end of the day. My concept on humanity is very… ungraspable.

I just wish, I just hope. I do what I can in the circle around me, I absorb what I can and try to advocate in my own small way but it is never enough. It is never too much.

Georgina ❤

Not Built To Confront You

I really don’t like confrontation or tension. I know some people live for it, they live for the drama, they live for the buzz, they relish in the discomfort of others. I am a big ball of nerves; everything and anything will unsettle me. I was knitting my way to nostalgia one evening and I just remembered all the times I could have royally turned all the way up but the little chicken that I was just wouldn’t rise to it. Here are two of those times.

It was Valentine’s Day season and I was around 14/15. That year, we had this secret admirer post box where everyone could write little love notes to someone they liked and on Valentine’s Day, the messages would be distributed accordingly. I wrote a note and thought nothing of it. However, the day before the letters were going to be handed out, there was a lot of murmuring whenever I was in a vicinity until finally, someone several school years below me came to tell me this girl in my class had gone into the box, found my letter and read it out to everyone who would lend an ear to hear. I remember feeling wonderment initially. I found it completely bizzare and somehow endearing but then humiliation took hold, I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have felt ashamed, he was going to find out eventually but maybe it was because the crucial element of secrecy had been totally violated and stomped on.

Well, I confronted the girl in question and she vehemently denied all the allegations, expectedly. She was the only one who could have done it because she was the only one who was around at the time of the crime who knew my handwriting, see? I left the situation but it still haunted me, I couldn’t be in the same room as her at the same time, I avoided eye contact with her, it was so hard for me to just ignore all the tension. It was thick and sticky, just hanging over our heads like a pail of honey. The boy in question didn’t even see the whole mess as a big deal, he just found it cute. It got to a point where I had a dream about it and it was such a messed up yet visually stunning dream and I remember it vividly: my tormentor and I were in this fenced-off patch of land surrounded by oak trees, the sky was clear and beautiful, it was dark, the leaves rustled, the stars were bright and there was a breeze in the air, it was just us. We started shouting at each other, incoherently at first then Jacob from Twilight style, we literally morphed into white horses. I’m not even shitting you, we literally transformed into stallions and we were neighing our asses off, hot air streaming, tails flaying, everything. She was about to charge at me and I galloped away into the distance. I woke up at that point and I just stared at the wall in my bedroom, telling myself that enough was enough. The next day, I walked up to her, looked her right in the eye and said, “look, it’s all trivial, can we just get over this and move on?” and we hugged it out.

My heart isn’t built to hold a grudge. Even if I haven’t done something wrong, the issue will still weigh down on me until I solve it. I’m becoming more resilient with age but back then, I couldn’t hack it as you will definitely be able to tell by this next occurrence.

Assembly time in boarding school was a mess. It was prayer chant after prayer chant, national anthems and pledges, some guy with the most awful moustache screaming at over 500 of us, all lined up just accepting our fate. This particular balls-less moment of mine happened days after my 12th birthday and menstruation was mother nature’s gift to me. I hadn’t worked out the kinks yet but I was in pain and there was no way I was going to stand all the way through the useless morning rituals whilst my uterus conspired against me. There was a policy, you see: if you were ill, you could sit down during assembly and the health prefect would come round to interrogate you. If your reason seemed legit, you could sit and be the envy of all the other poor souls who hopped from one foot to the other in agony. The health prefect that year was evil incarnate. She was like 6’3”; she carried around a bust that would have been so magical to lay my head on. She permanently scowled. She frightened me to no end. She made people cry; she spoke pidgin when she was lecturing the hell out of us juniors; she demanded to be called Senior *her name* and if you dared to omit the prefix, you were doomed. God, I have suffered in this life.

Anyway, my ass was firmly planted and I waited. She got to me, towering over me, peering down at me over her goliath chest and growled “what’s wrong with you?” I remember shrinking underneath her glare; I don’t think I could ever forget just how small I felt in that moment. I managed to say “I have period pains.” She leaned in even closer, turned her ear towards me and said “Eh?” and I repeated myself, a decibel louder. She gave me a cold look, eyed me up and down and asked how old I was. My brain to mouth pathway was well and truly frozen because before my body clock had time to reboot itself and consult my memory, I blurted out “11.” Without a second’s hesitation, she snapped her fingers, casually told me to “get up” and walked to the next victim. I was dumbfounded. I was utterly stupefied. I couldn’t believe I had just said that, I couldn’t believe I had forgotten my own age. With retrospect, I realise it wasn’t just I who had massively cocked up that whole moment, it was the godforsaken prefect too. How is she deciding girls who are below a certain age cannot have periods? What if I was genuinely 11, genuinely having a battle of worlds inside me? Every time I’ve replayed that moment in my head, I’ve always had myself tell the prefect to do one. I’ve always told her to get her facts straight and her life sorted out as she clearly doesn’t know shit. I’ve always had myself remain seated and dared her to move me. But alas, in that moment, 7 years ago, I just stared at the back of her mammoth-like body until she turned back to face me, screaming “are you deaf? I said get up.” And I walked to the back of the line, on the verge of tears, shame overwhelming me.

I’m really not here to be anyone’s enemy; I’m not here to make anyone’s life miserable. If I could make everyone happy, I would. I just want to sprinkle my fairy dust of love and life on us all. But let a bitch try me. I joke, please don’t try me.

Song of the Week

I can rap this whole thing, honestly. #Throwbackkk

 

Georgina ❤