Day 49

Teenager Whine I

[Because of the whole Day 47 problem, this blog has been forced into the expedient measure of shanghaiing guest bloggers until we can track down Contact Provider. Resident female teenager is up today. – Ed.]

It’s not fair! Why do I have to do this? Are you gonna make the boys do it too? And, anyway, what’s it got to do with me? As I have been pointing out since I was six, I am only related to this man through marriage; it’s not as if he is a real, close relative of mine, like my girl cousins.

And, if I have to do it, like why do I have to do it at stupid o’clock in the morning? [The regulars are used to their fix early in the morning – Ed.] But, dickhead in brackets, see up there in the corner, the red Publish button? When you hit that, you get the option of publishing straight away or of scheduling for some time in the future. So, spaswaz, you could have asked me last night to do it when I was awake instead of dragging me out of my bed this morning when I had only just got into it, for flip’s sake! Get a brain cell!

I like staying up really late because it means I have the place all to myself. Well. apart from yer man, who also likes staying up really late – and getting up really early too: how can this man be my father? who gets up early on purpose, apart from those stupid, chirping birds outside my window? I wish Lila would kill more of them. But he usually stays down in his study doing whatever it is he does to keep me in sugar, which means I have free use of the TV to watch versions of The Godfather on with no noisy boys running in and out playing their stupid games. Part 1 is the best, and Sonny is my favourite – obvs. I really like Mafia movies. I should have studied Italian. Then I could shimmy over to Sicily as soon as I am released from here and find a made man and become a gangster’s moll. I have the eyes for it.


See what I mean? Luigi wouldn’t stand a chance. Yer man bought me that barcadi breezer, so I suppose he’s not all bad. But he is sooooooooooo embarrassing! Going out anywhere with him is just a nightmare. First, he’ll be wearing something ridiculous from the last century. Then he is always going to draw attention to himself by doing something  like talking to someone. Third, you never know what he is going to say, but you can be sure it will not be something ‘normal’ like anybody else’s parent would say. Why can’t he just talk about cows and sheep and silage like the rest of them? He moved to the country, for flip’s sake – he should show some interest in the local fauna.

Not that I do. Show any interest in the local wildlife, as me and the girls call the sausagefest on the buses to school in the mornings. Most of them have not the slightest clue in the world. We prefer the more exotic sort you get at the nightclub we go to, which is like a zillion miles away from here. Well it feels like that when you are on the way back and dying for a pee and then the MacDonald’s in Ballymena shuts its toilets just before the bus back from Ballycastle pulls in cos they do not want to have to clean the toilets after the male wildlife have been at them. I suppose fair play to yer man, again: he pointed out to the slave in Domino’s across from MacDonald’s (I prefer their potato wedges to chicken McNuggets after a night on the vodka and Coke; more soakage in them) that it was actually illegal for them to sell food to eat on the premises with no toilets open. One of the other girls dying for a pee thought he worked there, though, and was thanking him for opening the toilets and all. Embarrassing! And, yeah, I suppose he does turn up at Z o’clock in the madrugada to collect me half-pissed off the bus, so fair fucks to him for that too.

But, like, who else’s Da even has a blog? Never mind abandoning it for some reason and making brackets dickhead pull me out of my boudoir for no reason. Especially now there is no school, there is no point in even having mornings anymore. They should just abolish them, like. And when is the school going to get the message? We are gonna get grades without sitting the exams, so why keep spamming us with schoolwork which will not count towards the grades we get? And the grades we get will not count towards our final A Level mark anyway, so who gives a fiddler’s about them? Get the message, spas: school’s out for Summer. And it may not be coming back, either. Life, Jim, but not as you know it, like.

The teachers are still probably cunting around up in the school building looking for something to do, so they send us a Showbie or a Google Classroom demanding an essay back about Meursault’s connection to the natural world by next Friday. Dream on, Miss! Oh, Miss, I think the wifi connection wasn’t working in my house that day. You sent an email? Nobody reads emails anymore, Miss, you need to put it up on Instagram or youTube or something. And why do we have to do this essay anyway? It’s not fair! There is no exam for this module now, so who cares about some dead French bloke’s absurd life and his ridiculous girlfriend? She should have sorted him out years ago, before he killed that Arab on the beach and all. Or else dropped him like the clanger he is.

So, bracket bot, if you find yer man, tell him I need some more orange barcadi breezers, will you? Or blue WKDs. I’m outta here. And NEVER wake me up this early again. EVER! Nincessantly.


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