Soooo....hey....

So I did have another blog but the website kept saying "504 Gateway Error"
I suppose that means the gateway to Hell.

Let's start this over. Hello. I'm weird. Please just deal with it. It saves time that way.

Yeah, yeah, obviously my name's not weird. Well it is, but my name isn't Weird. That'd be social suicide, if you were to call your child Weird. Almost like Number 42 Bus Shelter.

No. My name's not Weird. Or Number 42 Bus Shelter. It's Bobby. Well, that's a nickname anyway. Why do you even need to know my name? Are you going to stalk me? Please don't.

What always makes me laugh is the fact that everyone seems to hate their own name. I suppose after hearing it so many times it does become a bit old. Especially if it's your parents yelling it up the stairs every half an hour. And the spelling and pronunciations are fantastic. I mean, it isn't if it's your name being spelled and pronounced wrong, but it's pretty entertaining for everyone else.

Anyway, back to topic. What even is the topic? Was there one to start with? I can't remember, so I guess stuff about me.

I have serious issues with remaining upright with both feet on the ground. I like to blame this on my gawky size 8 feet. Sadly, being a girl, size 8 feet doesn't impact the size of anything else thus increasing my masculinity (unfortunately), it just increases my chances of falling down the stairs. By a lot. Thankfully, after a very long time of having feet which dwarf the rest of me, I've become prettyyyy good at covering my tracks. By breaking into some sort of tap dance, pretending to be a swan, or lying on the floor and pretending to be dead.

I also have this weird thing, when I drink through a straw, one of my eyelids flutter and I literally have no control over it. It makes my mum piss herself laughing.

I have weird hobbies. These include lifesaving, sea swimming, reading, writing poetry (because I'm a lonely Starbucks lover) and of course, guitar and writing music. Rock music. Which ruins my persona of an apparently "innocent", "adorable" girl who can either look 8 or 18 depending on how bothered I could be that morning to look presentable. There is no in between. The benefits of full fringes.

Also, I have hamster cheeks when I smile. These basically ruin my chances of being beautiful as I just look like a chubby little rodent that shoved all its sunflower seeds in its cheeks at once. My friends love making me smile just so they can pinch my cheeks and make "coochy coochy coooo" noises. Like I said, 8 or 18. No in between.

Also, I'm meant to be "smart". To me, there are two types of smart. One is the ability to cram loads of pointless information into one's head, vomit it all over a page (or two hundred) in an exam, and then move off to do A-levels and Uni and never have to even think about the quadratic formula or the effects of radiation on cells in the body ever again. Unless you take those subjects, in which case more fool you.

Secondly, there's initiative and common sense, which allow a person to work out things based on the way the world works. I am mostly this. Except when it comes down to the little things, I have absolutely no common sense. These include opening a door that says "pull", gullible jokes, and several incidents that have since been passed off as "blonde moments". For example, sitting at your computer after reading the statement ""Gullible" pronounced slowly sounds like "Oranges"" for half an hour going "Guuuuullllllllllliiiiiiiiiibbbbbbbbbbbbllllllleeeeeee.....NO IT DOESN'T! WHAT THE HELL???" Is not usually considered the antic of a wiser being. I tend to manage to make myself jump by leaning on the hand dryers in bathrooms. If you've done this before, you'll know just how scary it is. It's honestly worse than watching The Exorcism.

I'm the sort of girl that is loud and bubbly when I know you or when I'm feeling like socializing, but when I'm quite comfortable being alone and someone attempts to talk to me, I will literally mumble and hide behind the nearest object that I can conceal myself behind. I make the habit of proving to passers by that I am not a teenage thug by smiling and revealing the blobs on either side of my face that mark me as a loveable little ball of fluff to the world. Sometimes, passers-by glare. Sometimes they look worried. Other times, they'll look terrified, hold their children tighter and cross over to the other side of the street. Thankfully, most smile back. Occasionally, people say "good morning" and attempt to start a conversation. This is my cue to become fascinated by the components of tarmac and hurry along.

I get approached a lot by elderly people. The plausible reason for this as suggested by my peers is "Your resting-bitch face looks like you're absolutely terrified". Perfect. More hamsters. Next I'll be performing high-pitched squeaking noises to show discomfort. But evidence stacks up. People walk up to me and ask me if I'm okay. I permanently look worried. Honestly, I get more and more attractive by the minute, I swear.

When I get loud and happy, I can become obnoxious and somewhat annoying. This makes me rather unpopular among many people, however most people learn that it is my way, and that I will calm down sooner or later. Just today, I was quite happy, and spent the majority of break head-banging, swishing my hair from side to side because it felt nice, and playing hand keepy-ups with the earphone that was not at that time in my ear. If you find that sort of thing endearing, you need help.

I think that's enough for you to generate a fairly accurate opinion of the weird British girl that writes this blog. But hey, let me tell you one thing: I;m rarely ever boring.