Vuvuzela (or something)

On the night if July 25. 2010, I went to bed at six in the morning. I then awoke at half past twelve and left the house at half past one in the afternoon. Destination? CARDIGAN! Nothing much happened on the car journey, I sat and listened to Hollywood Undead, The Smiths and Alkaline Trio, then when I got out of the car, I fell and smacked myself in the throat with the book that I am currently reading, 'Hannibal' by Thomas Harris. (I must add that I looked good today - size six turquoise vest, my darling flares, a white and navy starry neckerchief. Oof.) Then I was weighed and measured, which was different as they had a weighing chair, then I gave Pa my iPod and he started watching 'Fantastic Mr. Fox' on it, as instructed. (He finished watching it later and thoroughly enjoyed.)

Anyway, we saw Dr. Fountain-Polley and after a brief conversation, he said that we might never get to the bottom of the back pain and that he'd be putting me on new pain medication (the name of which sounds like VUVUZELA!) because he thinks that when I'm uncomfortable, my brain screams "PAIN!", so I don't do anything and therefore don't build up the muscles or core stability required for me to do things properly. For example, I've been given some exercises by my physiotherapist, but because they're so uncomfortable, I thought I was in pain, so I didn't do them, which meant that I was back at square one. This medication, that I have to take regularly (three a day with four paracetamols a day for six weeks to tackle the pain from 'two completely different angles'), will enable me to do my exercises. Then my brain will sort of be 're-wired' and I will be able to carry on doing them without any medication. If this doesn't work, he said he'd have to have a serious conversation with the both of us. Now, I remember before when he said that all the people at the pain clinic do is stick people on anti-depressants, which leads me to believe that maybe this 'serious conversation' will be about putting me on those.

I hope something turns up on my MRI, if that's what that idiot Dr. Richards meant when he said 'special scan'. Let's hope it's special in that it actually shows something that's wrong with me. Yeah?

Words.

So I'm thinking about writing to the newspaper again. A few weeks back, Mother, Pa and I were in the car talking about public transport, and there was an opportunity to write something, but I never did because it isn't really something I care much for. Sometime buses don't turn up, well that's a shame but if you go to catch the bus with other people then it's not like you're stranded, and if you're only catching the bus to a few miles down the road, start walking until the next one comes up. I don't even have to ask for an under sixteen all day ticket any more either as they've now introduced a teen ticket, which is only £1 more expensive than the under sixteen but £2 cheaper than the adult. Needless to say, that didn't captivate me in the way that the whole 'emo suicide cult fronted by My Chemical Romance and other such music' did. I always wanted to write to the newspaper again, but I was worried that they'll sigh and think 'Not her again...' and that they'll think I'm some attention seeking whore. But lately I've stopped caring about that because I've found something new that I care about, and whilst I've always cared about it, I never realised to what extent until I had some real experience on the topic. You might have already guessed the topic that I'm referring to: charity shops.

The first time I wrote to the newspaper, I read an article and got really angry. I then whipped out a piece of paper, tackled the article point by point and wrote bullet points of what really got my goat. Then I just had a pure, raw rant. There was no technique like there is when I'm writing, this was pure argumentative emotion, and it got me into the Daily Mail with a huge picture of myself. (One of my favourite memories has to be when the Daily Mail photographer came over unexpected whilst Carys and I were watching Russell Brand on the laptop, and then once he'd left, Carys, Tess and I sprinted down the garden and screamed.)

This time though, I'll be writing to inform, and not in a defensive way. There are so many things about the charity shop that I had no idea about, and if awareness was raised, then charity shops' business could increase and their outgoing costs could decrease. I mean, is it really right that charity shops have to give out reimbursements to their volunteers for things such as bus money? You have to be sixteen to be an all-round useful volunteer (because only at sixteen are you legally allowed to use the till), and the legal bus ticket for a teenager is £3.75 - as we know though, many of the volunteers are over eighteen, meaning their bus tickets cost £5.75, which adds up to £34.50 a week at least, based on the assumption that at least one return ticket is bought by an over eighteen every open day of the week. That's taking from charity in order to help charity. We've been listening to Radio Two on both days that I've been volunteering there, and on Monday they were discussing whether or not it was right for elderly pensioners to have free bus passes, in particular rich pensioners. I thought what many though - they've paid their taxes, and the richer people have paid more. The opposing party argued that the economy couldn't really fund or handle this though, which is when I had an idea - reduced bus ticket prices for the elderly, like the same price as an under sixteen. Elderly pensioners' tickets are always the same price as childrens, so why not have the same system on the bus? Then that's when it came to me, reduced prices for volunteers. If they have a pass, they can also get a reduced price. This is obviously mainly for the majority of volunteers who are over eighteen.

And that is only one of the issues that gets my goat, the main one is this: people have no idea that they're costing the charity shop by their ignorance and lazy disrespect. A lady walked in with a full bin bag of donations and said the words that tear a smile off all understanding volunteers' faces. "They're really good, they just need a wash." I can't speak for all charity shops, but the Red Cross doesn't have any washing facilities other than a steamer. If something is dirty, it gets ragged, meaning it is put in the rag bag and sent away to India or Russia. If it's clean, it gets hung, tagged and steamed, checked over, priced and put out. Sometimes the steamer uncovers deep dirt, and then the item of clothing gets ragged. This 'rag bag' costs the Red Cross a whopping £20 for a roll, and the more dirty clothes the charity shop gets, the less time they'll last. Seriously though, why would you give dirty clothing to the charity shop? I've always been brought up to wash everything before donating it, but that was purely through respect and convenience for the charity shop. You see, the charity shop actually has a high standard. It sort of frustrates me that more young people don't go in. There were some really nice skinnies in there, and a bright turquoise MTV tee that I snapped up after I'd finished working. A girl from my school was dragged in by her mom, and she was so mortified that she'd been caught by somebody in her school in a charity shop that she covered her face with embarrassment the whole time. I simply don't understand.

In other news, my back's been killing me ever since yesterday (after my five hour shift). I went to bed in extreme pain, it took me two hours to not only find a comfortable position that hurt my back as little as possible, but to also stop my mind from racing. I sent two texts before putting my phone on the 'Sound Of Silence' profile, meaning that it was not only silent, but didn't vibrate either. I woke up in extreme pain but a text cheered me up a tad, then I somehow managed to come downstairs. Mother handed me a letter and basically, here's what's happened: A year ago, I wrote a, what was in my opinion, crappy poem entitled 'No Stranger To Death' and Mother threatened to enter it into a competition. It turns out that she did and I had no idea. Anyway, I've been chosen to feature in one of the books in the Poetry Rivals collection. Mine's been chosen for 'A Sugar-Coated World'. If it's picked by the editors to be in the top fifty for under eighteens, I'll have to perform it and I'll get £20, then the over-all winner gets a top-of-the-range laptop. No matter what happens though, as long as we send the consent form away by August 13, 2010, it will definitely feature in the book, which is released on Halloween.

I've posted the poem up on my Creative Juices Blog (yes, that's a link). If you haven't noticed, I have a new link list on the left hand side of this blog. Life on Jupiter is my old blog, Tofu Brown is this blog and Creative Juices is a new blog on Tumblr, designed simply for things such as scene settings, monologues and poetry.

My New Glasses

So I now have my special glasses. They're for glare to help the migraine that has worn off slowly thanks to homoeopathic tablets, I would be on proper tablets, but they weren't vegetarian and I nearly chocked because when you're sobbing whilst drinking water in order to swallow some tablets, you practically choke. The scene was so dramatic that it took me half an hour to convince myself that it was okay just this once because it would help the agonising pain that I'd been living with for over a month. Sometimes it strikes out and I feel as if someone has stabbed me in the head, but it's nowhere near as bad as before, and I'm not linking it to cancer now. Although when I hear people talking about their feelings leading up to their discovery, I can completely relate and then I freak myself out. Oh, and on Embarrassing Bodies, I convinced myself I had Autism, but upon taking the test I only scored 20, the average is around 16 and to have Autism, you usually score more around 32. I know what I'm like, but just because you're ahypochondriac doesn't mean you're healthy! Anyway, back to the glasses. I got them after my Biology exam, which is the worst exam I've ever sat somehow, and I wore them over Lady Hammett's house - she was nice about them, said they were fine and not noticeable (they have the least amount of tint that's possible, but everytime I look in the mirror all I can see is the stupid tint). Mother and Pa picked me up and Pa said, "Yeah, they're nice glasses, just not on you." This really upset me, it's not as if I wasn't self-conscious enough. Now I don't want to wear them at all. Ever. Like I said in my vlog, I liked the big Morrissey ones, but Mother said,"We don't want her looking like Roy Orbison." This made me laugh and I knew the glasses were inappropriate for my cause. When I can manage to get a decent picture of these glasses on me, I shall show you. And just to add, I've never felt so British as I do now when I say this: the weather's broken!

Jeffree Star, my Doctor and my family.

Tuesday April Sixth, Twenty-Ten.

I went to see Jeffree Star in Sin City, Swansea. I spent £18 on merch (an uber-hot tee and his new CD entitled 'Beauty Killer') and then had my CD signed by the God himself. If you don't know who Jeffree Star is, then: [http://www.myspace.com/jeffreestar] Not only is he beautiful, but my sister and I have been in love with him since his first EP, 'Plastic Surgery Slumber Party'. I insisted Tess went, she simply had to. She brought Hannah of course, and I went with Cerian, Amy and Crumple. Synthetic Season were the opening band, and I loved them. Then Jeffree Star, who is quite frankly a real-life Queen Supreme. Then BrokeNcyde, who I like, but not enough to watch. Whilst they were on, Jeffree Star appeared at the merch table and over half of the audience left to see him. Okay, so I walked into the table when I walked up to him, but I was literally in a dream world! He signed my CD, we had a photo taken, and then I walked off with Tess and Hannah riding on cloud nine.

Wednesday April Seventh, Twenty-Ten.

I went to see the doctor. I've had a major headache since March Ninth (those with a good memory might remember me complaining after the first half of my Art exam) and now we're getting concerned. My Great-Aunt complained of headaches her whole life and eventually had an aneurysm and died of a brain haemorrhage. The blunt doctor said that I have a nervous disposition and am suffering from a stress migraine, so I need to do things that are more relaxing. I can't really do exercise due to the hyper mobility syndrome, and I can't swim (which is one of the few exercises that are good for me). Reading and writing isn't relaxing since it required concentration, so he ended up saying that the only thing for the headaches were video games. He also stressed that he's seen a lot of able people having the same problem, and that they have nervous breakdowns in university and go on to do nothing. He seems really concerned that I'm going to make myself psychologically ill. So I've basically been prescribed video games.

Monday April Twelfth, Twenty-Ten.

Mother, Papi and I found out that Nanna-Brown and Grandad-Brown were finally moving to Australia. They had it all planned out and are leaving in July. Whilst Papi acted over the moon at the start, he was upset since they didn't tell us until ten days had passed and everyone else knew. My parents wanted to buy our old computer back for me to do work on during my A levels, but they've already sold it and he won't give it back. The atmosphere all day was so horrible, I apologized to Ashmlee Willie Winkie later on and he said that it wasn't my fault and that I shouldn't apologize.

Tuesday April Thirteenth, Twenty-Ten.

It was Ashmlee Willie Winkie's and my eight weekiversary today, according to him. I went to see Tess and Hannah up in Carmarthen. We didn't really do anything, just sat around the table mainly. Charlie was there, urgh... Jam (who I haven't seen in around two years), Rachel and Danni (who I'd never met before) were the first of the visitors, nothing much happened apart from Tess and Hannah putting on fake tan. We were all nearly wetting ourselves with laughter. Tess looked proper black, especially her hands. Hannah wasn't much better, but Tess' peroxide hair didn't really help. Jam, Rachel and Danni left, and the next batch of visitors were this guy who had a voice that made everything he said sound like a complaint called David, a really quiet guy called Martyn, this lovely gay guy called Jake and Hannah's really pretty sister Becky. They stayed for a while and still, nothing much happened. I had my first ever cream soda and made myself some toast. They left and the three of us retired to the living room. I watched the first ten minutes of Saw V and then was picked up at 20.10-ish.

Wednesday April Fourteenth, Twenty-Ten.

My headaches are still awful so I went up to the doctor again - we think I've built up a resistance to Ibuprofen and Paracetamol just like I did when I was on Mephanamic Acid for my Endometriosis, so now I've been given Co-codamol, which you can get addicted to. Last time I took Co-codamol was the night that I swaer to God I had a mini-overdose, so I'm a tad bit weary now...

Another Short One, Sorry.

Quick update on the Meh situation. In Welsh, I can't breath or talk, then I cry afterwards and at home. In RE, I spoke back and had a laugh with him, childish stuff, but stuff nevertheless! I kept on staring at him when he wasn't looking, he's so lovely. I was sort of upset since I'd be missing Welsh the next day and although I hate it when I'm there, I sort of love being near him. So... I guess it's all just a tad bit bitter-sweet. I was missing it because I had a hospital appointment to have my final check-up on my jaw situation. It's all cocaine baby. There should be no future problems with that little bugger. I then fell asleep in the car for around two hours whilst the rents shopped. It turns out that it's cheaper to 'top-up' rather than to do big fortnightly shops. I've been waking up with massive dizziness and headaches lately, and this week I'm going to concentrate on finishing my Key Skills and Welsh Baccalaureate. According to the school, I only have to do the ICT part, which I deleted off the computer so I'm a tad bit screwed. I haven't done bits and pieces all over the place, but they've decided to ignore that. Thank God! I don't plan on all of my blog posts being this short in future, but if it doesn't feel necessary to write loads then I wont. There's no point forcing something if it's just not right after all, oh and well done if you can spot the stolen lyrics! Just to add, anybody else a little bit addicted to Pineapple Dance Studio?

The Day Of Being Not Impressed

The Start Of The Day:~ Today is a Monday, meaning two things: I have to wake up for school and Glee's on tonight. The first didn't apply today though, as I had one of my special appointments with the child's joint specialist, Dr S. Fountain-Polley. I forgot to turn my alarm off for school, so it started going off at 07.29, then 07.43, then 07.57, then 08.01 and finally at 08.15. Yes, this is what is necessary to get me up on a school morning. Needless to say, I was not impressed. Then I had to do my make-up in the car, which is fine apart from the fact that I'd forgotten to pack my compact so I had to use the reflection off my iPod. The car stopped. The mascara went in my eye. The eye was not impressed.

The Appointment:~ Mother told Pa and I that she thinks Dr S. Fountain-Polley hates her and that he hints. To be fair, she does boast about me a lot (and compared to some people I know, there's nothing to boast about) and she doesn't give me a chance to talk when I'm in there. Hence the reason I smiled on the inside when she spoke to my new GP on my behalf and he replied with, "Has she lost her voice then?" I've grown one centimetre, lost point one of a kilogram. I'll have to weigh myself naked again to see if this is true! I'm not being referred to a pain clinic any more, I was warned that they just give you anti-depressants (which I didn't think would be too bad for me) and that they make you tired, which would mean I'd probably sleep for a majority of the day. Anyway, I didn't know how to get up on the bed thing in the room, and Mother explained that I was at that age when everything is embarrassing. Dr S. Fountain-Polley replied with, "Yeah, especially Mothers..." to which she was not impressed.

The X-Ray:~ He then said that since we were already there, I might as well have the x-ray then and there, so he wrote up a slip and we went off to have a lower back x-ray to see if I could have spondylosis or spondylitis. When we got there, I realised with horror that I'd have to take my clothes off apart from my panties and shoes. To add to my humiliation, I had to wear an open back hospital gown, which I clenched closed on the side. Not impressed! I went in to the room and this is what happened: "Are you pregnant?" "No..." "When was the start of your last period?" "Um... a month and a half ago. *silence* I'm on the pill and I skipped the last one because I had an exam." The lady leaves the room and when she comes back in, "You're not pregnant are you?" "No..." "Did you double up the pack?" "Yeah..." She left, came back, made me sign something and asked what pill I was on. "So there's no chance that you're pregnant?" "Absolutely none." "Okay sorry, we have to ask anyone over the age of twelve." I felt like screaming I'M ON THE PILL FOR MEDICAL REASONS AND AM A VIRGIN, SO NO, I'M NOT PREGNANT! Instead, I just said, "Okay" but I was peeved and definitely not impressed. Anyway, I could've been pregnant at the age of ten if I wanted to... There was a moth poster on the wall which made me burst into tears twice. She didn't ask why I was crying. I was not impressed one bit.

Getting Food:~ First we went to Leekes in Cross Hands for food, but there was actually no vegetarian food apart from a tiny bit of soup, and considering I was starving, that wouldn't do. We were forced to have paninis in Llanelli's Tesco Extra. We, especially Mother, were not impressed by any of this.

Blood Test:~ We drove to another hospital and Mother and I zoomed up to the pathology department. As I'm a vegetarian who sleeps more than normal people, these are quite regular as the doctors are waiting for me to go anaemic. I felt like I was going to throw up, and when I saw that there was nobody else in the waiting room I made the noise of a wounded animal. This didn't go down well with Mother, she was embarrassed and not impressed. It was on number thirty-five, and the ticket said thirty-five, so I forced Mother to get another one. This one said thirty-seven, so I relaxed. There were some 'youths' behind us and one did a stupid, mental voice. I'm scared of mentals, so I spun around to find them staring at me and Mother. Half a second later, number thirty-seven came up. I was not impressed, especially not when she stuck the plaster on me at the end (as I'm allergic to them) or when some fat woman walked into it on the way out.

Extra Extra, Get Your Extra:~ On our way driving around, Skank phoned me to 'confess' to not liking Jeffree Star (which means that I have to find at least one more person to go with or I can't go) and a bit of the car fell off. I was not impressed at my situation in the first, and my parents weren't in the latter. Oh well, Glee's on tonight!

Getting Rid of Christmas

Today, the Brown family embarked on getting rid of Christmas. According to Mother, 'everybody laughs if you still have them up after January 6th' although if they do, then I find them quite shallow and a tad bit weird. People must be rushed to hospital due to too much laughing with the amount of Christmas lights left out until around March just down the road and around the corner...

Now I need a Tens Machine (which sends electrical impulses through my back) and last night, I fell asleep on my side in the fetal position as per usual. That might sound irrelevant, but when I wake up after sleeping like that, it hurts, a lot. Then I did some Art which meant I was sat on the couch bent over my A3 Art book for quite a while. That hurt it more. So I put the sticky pads, that look like what you stick on people who've had heart attacks, by my shoulder blades and the bottom part of my back (behind my waist). Wires connect the sticky pads to the machine, which I keep in my pocket so I can adjust the settings to my preference. I was talking to Dad, and he saw my machine. (May I just add that being Australian seems to make people amazingly childish and prone to doing stupid things on a whim. Dad is from Perth, Australia.) He turned one of the dials (which adjusts the strength of the electricity) all the way up. I screamed in pain as the bottom of my back received the hugest electric shock I have ever encountered. Dad laughed and I looked at him with a face that could only mean utmost despair, before running off to Mother to cry. I did the same to him, but he didn't feel the same pain as I felt and only described it as 'a strange and unusual sensation'. He did go on to say that he now understands more about my minuscule pain threshold though.

Just to add, for food my parents had Beef Wellington and I had these cream cheese stuffed peppers in breadcrumbs. Mother had bought them under the assumption that they were the kind of peppers that you can get in your Subway, and when I complained that the left a spicy taste in my mouth and couldn't really eat them, Dad ranted at me being difficult to feed and that it was my choice to be a vegetarian, not theirs. Then once I'd left the room to write this, they ate one and laughing, Dad exclaimed "These are jalapeno peppers!" He hasn't apologized for the vegetarian rant though... No surprise there really! xD