• My 10 Favorite Albums

    1 mars 2011, 1h32m par HansBP

    When I'm thinking about how I completely adore albums like.. well, some of those listed below, I realize that such love probably won't last forever. My album collection is ever growing and new favorites may (somewhat) replace old favorites. Theoretically, even if I would just stop listening to new albums as a whole, my tastes would change. It is therefore that I decided to take a time out and make up my mind about what my favorite albums are at this moment in time. To make a list to look back on later in life was the main goal, but I also figured that this would be a nice way to recommend music to others. And as a lot of people who know me can tell you, I like to spend a lot of time shoving my favorite things down other people's throats =p

    I guess I took this whole plan too seriously, because I went through all my albums and did a crazy lot of listening and thinking before I felt my list was right. Now, there are many more albums that I think are really great, but these 10 are the ones I love the most. Ranking them from 1 to 10 was an impossible task for me, so they are in absolutely no particular order. And while at first I planned to write something “interesting” about every album (I always like to emphasize the importance of A Weekend in the City as the first album I fell in love with), in the end I really didn't feel like doing that. I found an excuse in the saying “let the music do the talking.” Listen, and you will find that all of these albums are friggin masterpieces (well, maybe not all of them).


    Bloc Party
    A Weekend in the City

    Bloc Party
    Silent Alarm


    The Cure

    Turn on the Bright Lights

    Arcade Fire


    Sum 41

    The Smashing Pumpkins
    Siamese Dream

  • Inspiration: FIFA World Cup 2010 and the grumpiest scan-man I have ever met

    17 oct. 2010, 5h04m par aznsupragrl182


    I'm in the midst of state exams at the moment, but I couldn't resist the temptation to post. I have received a number of requests to publish something in my journal, even though no one bothers to comment - hence why I assume no one is reading, which is why I don't post. It's all very cyclical, you see :P

    Two questions were looming on my mind as I wrote this in May 2010.

    1. Having just encountered the most misanthropic individual who served me at the local supermarket, I started to wonder what the life of a scan-man involved.

    2. What do people think about before they die? People's lives don't flash-before-their-eyes". It makes a good film sequence, but I bet it's rubbish!

    This also became my creative writing piece for the Crime Writing topic we did at school, hence the extremely stitled middle section for genre subversive effect (I can't write anything abiding by the rules of the genre without it sounding like a Junior Nancy Drew paperback).

    In fact, my first draft for Crime Writing was a story about online cannibalism (inspiration: Armin Mewes, google him, what a freak! xD). I had written 300 words and submitted it to my teacher who looked at me as if she wanted to call the police, so I started from scratch and ended up with this!

    Anyway, I hope you enjoy this - even if it's just for the soccer ;D



    Felipe let out an exasperated sigh as he glowered menacingly at the endless queue that stretched before him. Thursday nights were the bane of his existence. Once again, he found no escape from the excessively generic muzak that dominated the airspace which deafened the pneumatic hiss of his cash register. Slumped over his work station, his head throbbed in a seizing pain as he clutched at his temples in an attempt to regain composure, but to no avail – his brief serenity interrupted by the screams of a toddler throwing a tantrum amongst the confectionery in aisle three.

    It was happening again. Hands shaking as perspiration began to collect at the nape of his neck, Felipe fumbled with the “Register Closed” sign. He sensed thirty pairs of eyes channel their collective irritation and rage at his general direction as he gingerly slinked away from the register, yelling, “I’m taking a break!” at his manager, who was nowhere to be seen.

    Felipe’s feeble saunter turned into a bolt as his airways began to constrict. Nausea and confusion and panic and vertigo rose within his ribcage as he battled desperately to suppress the meaningless stream of barcodes which began to surface from the depths of his memory. Imprints of binary and parallel lines of varying width tainted his mind black and white and infrared as Felipe ran down the aisles crammed with stacked shelves full of products and price he new by heart, grimacing as his mind strained to forget in a fraught endeavor to assume control.

    Weak with fatigue, Felipe slowed to a halt, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his shallow breathing. Heart rate abating, the plod of heavy, shuffling footsteps became audible, suddenly ceasing behind him. Squinting at the strobing lights that adorned the ceiling, Felipe caught sight of the man.

    He was a short, potbellied man with a face like a kicked-in peach; his prominent jowls sagging southwards. Sparse, greasy strands of hair were gelled in a comb-over that exposed his sunburnt and cratered scalp. He stood unnaturally upright which served only to exaggerate his minute stature as he grinned maniacally at Felipe, revealing jagged, missing teeth. Felipe felt his skin crawl in a mixture of disdain and condescension.

    “Could ya tell me where the pantyhose are, mate?”

    The man’s blood-drained lips quivered as he spoke in a hurried fashion. Felipe raised his eyebrows quizzically, bemused at the very thought of the man donning fishnets. Meanwhile, the man shifted his weight from one leg to another, his pupils darting about the aisle, failing to maintain eye contact.

    “Sure,” murmured Felipe as he waved his hand, motioning the man to follow him.

    “They’re for my girlfriend, you know,” the man gasped, trotting alongside Felipe, unable to match the speed of his gait.

    “Ah, she must be a very…lucky woman,” replied Felipe, lying through his teeth.
    They stopped in front of the neat rows of women's pantyhose.

    “Well, thanks,” the man muttered.

    Before turning on his heel and strolling in the opposite direction, Felipe gave the man a cursory glance as he began to peruse the aisle.


    “Oh my god! He’s got a gun!”

    Chaos ensued as shrieks pierced the muzak dominion of the supermarket, shoppers ducking behind sales signs as they clutched their children, others fleeing in a frenzied stampede. Felipe bolted to the scene, surveying the cowering customers, about fifty in all, wide-eyed and whimpering.

    “Get on the goddamn floor, NOW!”

    Felipe stared, bewildered.
    It was crater-face, his asymmetrical head in an opaque stocking, wielding a miniature revolver. Felipe collapsed into uncontrollable peals of laughter.

    “Oh bravo – makeshift balaclava, Aisle 6. Women’s underwear.”

    “One more word from your mouth, and I’ll blow your fuckin' head off!”

    “With what? Humour me, a plastic Colt? Aisle 18. Children’s toys,” spat Felipe, as he advanced upon the gun-toting assailant.

    And with that, the stocking-clad man raised his pistol and fired.
    The bullet pierced through layers of skin and tissue before exiting between the discs of Felipe’s spine with a spurt of cerebrospinal fluid, propelling fragments of his shattered sternum into the atrium of his heart. It is worth mentioning what Felipe couldn’t remember in that split second between life and death, given that there was nothing that was previously known to him in time, space, touch, symbols, taste, signatures or billboard signs that he would have forgotten.

    Felipe did not remember the significance of today, November the 21st, being the second anniversary of his stale and predictable relationship with Danielle – a woman he dreaded. He did not remember her horse-like features that he once found alluring, nor did he remember what he considered attractive in a woman; charisma and an irresistible grin, of which time had robbed Danielle of both. Felipe did not remember the dilapidated flat they shared; its substandard workmanship and creaking doors, its mean little rooms crammed with books filled with now useless knowledge. He did not remember being enthralled by knowledge in his youth, scouring books in the quest for enlightenment. Felipe did not remember any of the languages he spoke fluently (three), any of the Beatles hits he had ever sung in succession (fourteen) or any of the university degrees he had ever signed up for or dropped out of (eight, and still counting). None of these things did he remember, not one. He did not remember an instance in which a customer was ever right – even though one such circumstance had occurred seconds ago, he did not remember that either.

    But what he did remember was the sensation of the knobbly cobblestones underfoot as he marveled at the afternoon sun lengthening the shadows that slid down the street – a memory of 20 summers ago almost lost upon the chain of exploding neurotransmitters that extinguished the synaptic tinkering encased within inanimate grey matter.

    Transported in a fragment of suspended time, Felipe is sitting on the flood wall, tracing sea chill with his fingertips, the crusty salt-laden air engulfing his senses. The eager yelps of the neighbourhood boys milling on the esplanade in tense anticipation fill the air. The main attraction, a frayed and regurgitated mess of a scruffy soccer ball. He feels his body gravitate toward the action, a small jerk in his stomach willing him to partake in the game. Now amongst the crowd, the other boys rearrange themselves to accommodate his presence. He introduces himself and smiles with gratitude; they acknowledge him with a curt nod.

    They advance upon the deserted beach as the game unfolds, feet pattering against the sand as the faux leather of the ball skims the surface – he’s enthralled, transfixed, memerised; sold on the sport’s exquisite simplicity, spellbound by its physical rhythm, its raw energy. As Felipe’s brain faces its prolonged, horrific end, this memory freezes as his concept of time is lost upon nostalgia and poised consciousness. But for now, Felipe makes time. Time for memories tangled in slivers of music, sand and euphoria; his youth, the sea breeze and an endless summer.

  • Letter IV: To The Sibling

    30 sept. 2010, 3h18m par aznsupragrl182

    Dearest you,
    You have a gargantuan propensity for procrastination and you are the Crown Prince of Stupefyingly Lazy. Ironically, you spend longer in the bathroom than I do and yet your hygiene practices still remain questionable - your room a health hazard; the world's cesspool of sudden death and olfactory rape. I avoid lending you money like THE PLAGUE because you have no intention of paying me back. Nine times out of ten, you buy pointless crap. You refuse to spend money on anyone else but yourself.

    Example: Your first date with your horrible ex-girlfriend was situated in your crappy Purple Ford Fiesta parked in a full car park, devouring $6 doner kebabs.

    You are passive-aggressive, a creature of impossible impulse, an elected ignorant and twenty-three going on twelve and I let you know it. I'm an intellectual elitist, a histrionic pre-menstrual psychopath, chronic organisational freak and seventeen turning fifty. I know this because you never let me forget it - it's not as if I don't try, but your words stick. Worst of all, I actually care about what you think. Even worse, I cry hard over the things that you say and do, but it's the things that you don't say and don't do that make me cry the hardest.

    But even when I distance myself from you in social situations or pretend I'm superior because I'm smarter (you always say so!), I adore you more than anyone or anything.I love your physical and emotional strength, your jar-opening hands, your bone-crushing hugs, our muted laughter and slurred 2AM conversations whispered between our rooms about everything and nothing.

    You have a tremendous capacity for humour, tolerance and forgiveness. Even when it's my fault, you always say sorry first. You exist in fragments of interrupted sunshine and contentment - the memories of my childhood. You reign in the recollections of my sepia euphoria which pulses in my beating heart.

    Our filial connection is tangible, strong yet unspoken. Our hair, our lips, our eyes, our origins are one; you, always my brother and me, forever your sister.

    P.S. The year is 2007, a deliciously cold December in Osaka. My hands tremble as I take off my black gloves and capture this moment.
    I grew up in a different country and you dyed your hair a ridiculous shade of orange.

  • Letter III: To The Parents

    13 juin 2010, 10h23m par aznsupragrl182

    Dearest you,
    The lessons you have instilled within me upon seventeen years of instruction cannot be rewritten in one year, so please don't be afraid that I'll change. I have a feeling that the more I ridicule you about how pathetic your fears are, the more you believe them to be true.

    Trust me on this, please! I adore you way too much to leave and never come back. In fact, you are the part of the reason why I would choose to stay, only because I can't bear to see you miss me.

    You have always believed in me and you have encouraged me to turn my dreams into reality. I'm doing just that, and I know you're proud. I acknowledge that the sacrifices you have made in the past have been great. It is through your experiences and noble attitude that you have taught me to treasure the fragility and beauty that is life, to acknowledge my ancestry and embrace adversity.

    When people compliment me, they're really complimenting you.
    I love you more than I can say.

    On another note...
    I find it hard to muster any emotion reminiscent of love or respect toward you. I know that you're scared of being a horrible parent, but the irony is that you ARE.

    Once upon a time, you did hurt me. But these days, if I were to treat people the way you do and blame it on my upbringing, I'd be just as bad as you.

    I'm nothing like you, and that is my biggest achievement to date.
    I'm confident, I work hard, I'm talented, I've got potential. I love, I empathise, I tolerate.
    What's more, I love being the person I am.
    I'm not going to let you make my life a misery, just because you go out of your way to tell me that you don't like me.

    You need to realise that the only person you are hurting is yourself. Maybe one day this will end with a happily ever after.
    But in order for that to happen, you need to turn the pages.
  • Letter II: To The Crush

    11 juin 2010, 11h36m par aznsupragrl182

    To a son and defender of the beautiful game, my Bundesliga superstar.
    I often like to daydream that I could call you my own. All of you - your physical rhythm, your grace and air, that I could be the catalyst for your every smile, that I could embrace every inch of your 5''7'. Alas, you are the property of Germany.. and the unwitting recipient of my adolescent adulation :D


    To a studmuffin (all those cupcakes have nothing on how cute you are).
    I wasn't even looking when you graced my life with your presence. And then you found me. You, a Western European god, with your quite confidence and beautiful soul. You impress me!
    You make every moment special and I love getting to know you more and more each day.
    Won't you forget your shyness, your gentleman's tact, your self-control or your chivalry just for a minute and say that you want me as much as I want you?


    You have the X Factor (and you love The xx).
    You will forever be the secret keeper of my deepest affections. I try to convince myself that you mean nothing to me and I also make it a habit to look for distractions (see above). I hate that you seem to choose to surrender. Won't you fight for what you want?

    If one day you decide to partake in the battle, a part of me will always be here waiting to be (and wishing to be) your lover with arms.
  • Letter I: To The Best Friend

    10 juin 2010, 12h34m par aznsupragrl182

    Dear you, best friend:

    If I punched myself in the face for every time I got angry at myself for not making proper contact with you, I'd be a permanent installment in hospital, along with the crappy fake flowers and the disinfectant.

    The trouble is, you'd probably be in the ward next to me, cracking your stupid jokes and that grin that I've always found so hard to resist. We've both been to emergency before, we know the situation well. We operate - defibrillation for our broken hearts, lobotomies for our addled minds, dresses for lacerations.
    Nothing like hospital retail therapy.

    But no matter how agonising or bloody or gruesome or embarrassing or emotional surgery between you and me often gets, you've made the great operation that is life the single most human experience that I've ever had. It's only when I'm on the brink of dying on the operating table that I feel the greatest urge to fight as a testament to the wonderful work that you do.

    And it's this makeshift practice that we've both acquired in lessons of triumph and disaster that makes me know that you'll be a wonderful surgeon one day. I will travel the world and extend the universal goodwill you have installed within me - a new heart.

    Operate on me always as I will continue to spark life in you.

    "My mind tells
    me to give up, but my heart
    won't let me."

  • 30 Letters from Me to You (the reincarnation of my journal)

    10 juin 2010, 11h50m par aznsupragrl182

    Gosh, I've realised that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since my last post - more than a year, in fact! Can you believe it? I've really missed writing stuff here.

    Something cute that you should all see:

    Unlike everything else that I stumble upon on tumblr (which I absolutely hate. Blogging for people who can't find words to say, thus supplement with "shocking" pictures, quotes and bullshit), I found something rather interesting on a friend's page.

    It's called 30 Letters. Each day, you write one letter addressed to the following people, like so:

    Day 1 — Your Best Friend
    Day 2 — Your Crush
    Day 3 — Your parents
    Day 4 —Your sibling (or closest relative)
    Day 5 — Your dreams
    Day 6 — A stranger
    Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush
    Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend
    Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet
    Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
    Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
    Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain
    Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you
    Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
    Day 15 — The person you miss the most
    Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country
    Day 17 — Someone from your childhood
    Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be
    Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad
    Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest
    Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression
    Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to
    Day 23 — The last person you kissed
    Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory
    Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times
    Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to
    Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day
    Day 28 — Someone that changed your life
    Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to
    Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

    I'll probably give up, but I'm gonna give it a shot! I'm anticipating that it'll get really tedious after a while, but what the fuck. It looks like a good way to write every day for 30 days.

    Also, I think I'll elect to keep identities secret, but in utilising my true talent for tact (of which I hardly have any), if the subject matter is YOU, YOU will know who YOU are ;D

  • The things I HATE: Part 2, Let's talk about Homophobia

    22 juin 2008, 12h53m par aznsupragrl182

    Last night, upon surfing lastfm journals, I came across a really interesting one discussing homosexuality and I'm pleased to say that I feel really driven to give my ten cents worth about this particularly contentious issue that tends to divide our society.

    Now if you haven't picked up on my bias already, I'll say it now. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES do I tolerate discrimination in any form, especially homophobia.

    Homophobia is the product of ignorance, misinformation and fear - three fundamental things that are commonly the root of all discrimination. I can't exactly relate because I'm not a lesbian, and in NO CONTEXT am I saying that my situation is worse than the daily persecution of homosexuals, but being of an ethnic background gives me certain insight on what it feels like to be on the receiving end of prejudice.

    Notice that I'm talking about homophobia that is acted upon in terms of violence, isolation, verbal assault and so forth. I mean, there's no point talking about people who are completely passive with their homophobia anyway, because they aren't the problem! And for argument's sake, let's talk gay guys - not that this issue doesn't affect lesbians, but I believe the hate is more universal toward gay men.

    So what drives homophobia? Talk to any pro-active male homophobe (in which I have: high school is, in accordance with popular belief, a breeding ground for sexuality-based ignorance) and he will attempt to justify his actions with arguments which simply, in essence, boil down to a number of pathetic schools of thought, including the following, all of which are easily refuted.

    • 1. "Gay men will make moves on me"
      Contrary to popular belief, not every gay man wants to screw you. What self-respecting gay man would waste his affections on an openly obnoxious homophobe? This mindset is clearly driven by narcissism and arrogance. Gay men are incredibly selective - more-so than straight women, and if women don't find you attractive, never you mind about gay men even sparing seconds to think about you.
    • 2. "They choose to be different, therefore deserve to be victimised"
      a) I don't believe sexuality is something that can be decided, like choosing which t-shirt you want to wear. Do you HONESTLY think people would CHOOSE an option that exposes them to harassment, assault, violence, discrimination and persecution?
      b) Even if homosexuality was a choice, homosexuals under no circumstances deserve the treatment they get. They are not hurting anyone, nor are they are destroying the fundamentals of society - there exists no causal link between difference in lifestyle and entitlement of one to victimise a minority group.
    • 3. "My religion (Christianity) believes homosexuality is a sin, and therefore in the name of religion, I'm justified to label homosexuals abominations and act upon it"
      Christianity requires Christians to show tolerance towards people who hold different values. It's not as if going out of your way to terrorise homosexuals is showing the world how tolerant you are, or how great your God is.
      Additionally, religion is your own yardstick. As long as you walk in accordance with "not indulging in sexual immorality", there is no need to regulate the sexual activities of others. Don't even think about starting the Christian debate with me - I'm a Christian fighting for the rights and freedoms to be granted to people that are victims of discrimination, including people of the gay community.
    • 4. "I would rather bash and insult gay men if it means people don't call me a poof"
      This particular argument is often the characteristic of people whose own sexualities are questionable, as well as people who have incredibly low self-worth, pertaining limited or no consequential reasoning. People who would rather brutalise their peers than to risk being physically assaulted deserve to be bashed to oblivion to know what it feels like - then perhaps they won't be so spineless.
    • 5. "I am so arrogant and bigoted that I can't comprehend that homosexuals are just as human than I am"
      The fact that these people believe homosexuals are unnatural oddities, the product of awkward situations ( haven't you ever heard it? "During every awkward silence, a gay baby is born") or just sub-human shows a whole lot of disgusting sectarian thought processes instilled at a young age, of which these need to be re-evaluated and changed immediately.
    • 6. "My self-esteem is so non-existent that I feel compelled to victimise people who are less assimilated in society, in particular racial minorities and homosexuals"
      Well, that speaks for itself, doesn't it? I'm sorry. It's really hard for me to be serious and not sarcastic. Victimising people who you see as lower in the social pecking order as you are actually makes you the lowest of the low.


    All you homophobes out there, if anything, you should be actively encouraging homosexuality. Why?

    • 1. Gay guys get the chicks!
      If a heterosexual man is to compete with a gay man on the grounds of style, sophistication and personality, generally heterosexual men would lose the lottery.
      By stifling and denouncing homosexuality, making it harder for people to come out of the closet, this consequently means that homosexuals are more inclined to live under the facade of a heterosexual individual. And this is what happens: Gay men who haven't yet come out of the closet end up with the hotties, robbing you of chance with women who could have been yours!
    • 2. If all men were gay...
      Think about it. If you were the last man in the world who was straight, you'd have the undivided attention of every single heterosexual woman in the world. MORE GAY MEN = LESS COMPETITION = MORE WOMEN FOR YOU!

    Note my cynical tone evident in the above passage. If the above things are the only benefits you can see as to why you should be civil to homosexuals, you still unfortunately, are a douchebag.

    Homophobia is an illogical and counter-productive frame of mind which sadly is the product of invertebrate peoples with a poor excuse of an education and little self-esteem, not to mention lack of causal reasoning. Everyone should be accepted for who they are - clearly a concept not feasible for people as weak-minded and as intolerant as homophobes.
    Again, rather sarcastically: Encouraging your comrades to be gay with each other increases your own small chances of getting laid. What could be better to a hormonally-explosive neanderthal? Not much else!

    Homophobes, bring it: comment and make my day ;)
  • It's all about you, baby.

    5 mars 2009, 11h12m par aznsupragrl182

    I'm sick of the abundance of super-boring music questionaires on! I try to write in my journal every month, but instead of talking about me, let's talk about you! Besides, there exists no one who doesn't like talking about themselves.

    So, here's your chance! Answer the following in any way you like.

    Oh, it works if you're a little bit bored with some time on your hands. Some of the questions require a little thought ;D

    I don't expect you to answer them all. If you're feeling lazy, choose a question from each of the sections, or skip over the ones you don't want to talk about.


    FAQ; Your-
    1. Shoe size
    2. Worst thing you've done for money
    3. Worst habit
    4. Favourite word in the English language
    5. Best physical attribute (in your eyes)

    Preferences; would you rather -
    6. Hugs or kisses?
    7. Beer or wine?
    8. Maths or English?

    Sort of a preference question, but not really...
    9. If Russia and the US were to do battle RIGHT NOW, who would win? Explain your rationale.

    Short response:
    10. My last meal would be...
    11. The best ever date I've been on involved ....
    12. People I find really irritating are...
    13. I cried during the film ____ .

    In three words, describe the following:
    14. Sex.
    15. The way you dance.
    16. What you find most attractive in the opposite sex (if you're attracted to members of the same sex, then as follows).

    Extended response;
    17. Your favourite lyrics, and why.
    18. What gives meaning to your life?
    19. I have an extreme irrational fear of .... because...
    20. Is marriage overrated? Why/ why not?
  • The things I HATE: Part 1, English literature and teenagers

    8 juin 2008, 4h38m par aznsupragrl182

    I don't want to do my English creative writing story at the moment. This is all I have written:

    The world moved beneath his outstretched fingers in a psychedelic swirl of earthy hues as he exhaled briefly, channeling all his concentration with his eyes shut. The sphere spun and whirred while the tip of his index made contact – he traveled over the Swiss Alps, past the scouring sands of the Middle East, skipped Everest in a heartbeat; the Great Wall, Shanghai… and the orb ceased motion, quivering in a frenzied silence.

    I asked my brother to read it, and being the great big brain-dead neanderthal he is, he drawled in an equally brain-dead voice (a tone in which he believes is masculine, a tone in which I think is the epitome of intellectual light-weightedness),
    "Uhh, I don't get it."

    Well maybe no one does, but hey. At least I tried. These days, English and studies in literature isn't about self-expression. Did you think it was ? Well I'm here to tell you otherwise. To get marks, you have to exhibit the stylistic techniques and prowess of a freakin' FIFTY YEAR OLD in order to target the person who is reading your work, a freakin' FIFTY YEAR OLD.

    How can you expect an immature high school student to mimic that of a 50 year-old writing damn memos to themselves to curb the rate in which they lose their memory?

    How can you expect the very spotty, very average, very vain and ridiculously narcissistic to write in-depth analyses critiquing the downfalls and vices of our society?

    Speaking objectively, the perceived *majority* of people my age say to themselves before they go to a party,
    "Tonight, I'm going to drink so damn much I'll throw up in the mailbox."

    They decide that they love their boyfriend Bazza so much that after three months of sucking face they wanna TAP THAT, but think buying condoms would be so embarrassing.

    Personally, I feel as if people who have mindsets like that should have regulations passed against them in order to make it illegal for them to reproduce and bring up offspring who will have the same ignorant ideologies implanted within them at a young age, but it's impossible to police. What a shame.

    A shame that the worst minority is taken as consensus. Has it ever come across an adult's mind that a teenager can be evocative, emotional, well-developed or pertain the ability to express oneself in a succinct and direct manner?

    Obviously not. I get stereotyped all the time, and the worst one isn't the "cheap Asian" one, it's the "dumb, uninformed, lewd, loudmouthed teenager" one.

    Bottom line: At the end of the day, if English teachers didn't restrict their marking parameters to only prizing works that show maturity and insight, they've conned themselves into believing that they'll have to force themselves to mark whole bunch of stories that would be written about teen angst, emo-ism, Bazza the boyfriend and getting wasted on Saturday night.

    So fair game - it's hard writing like a 50 year-old since I admit I don't have the mental capacity to do so and I'm sure it's just as equally difficult to read essays and short stories 4LL WRi++3N LyK Di55 LOL :)

    But then again, I haven't actually read a good book penned by an adult author that convincingly brings the teenage mindset to life.

    And for this reason, because English teachers can't reciprocate the hormonal tidal goings-on of the teenage psyche, they likewise shouldn't expect us to capture the mid-life crisis melodramatic antics of overweight, whiny down-and-outs.

    Game on! Calling all teachers of literature, make my day and comment away.