Consistently Inconsistant

Well, it’s been a short while. I have a cold, one of those ones many get in between the transition between Summer and Autumn. The ones that are a nuisance and a depressing notion. Burning incense may or may not be wiping ash up my window, it smells of roses and smoke from what I can smell through my limited airways.

The new school year has properly started and I am anxious. Anxious because I have to start new things, that I have to ask new questions, that I have to take hold and guide my life down the correct pathway with my meagre knowledge. My anxiety is very much centred within my struggle to socialise: Social Anxiety. I attempted to pull all my courage together to attend a book club in a Waterstone’s in a close-by city; I had read the book thoroughly, I watched the newly released film and prepared. However, my effort was rendered unrequired as a friends’ birthday meal interrupted my plans, I decided I had better strengthen my friendships in my school in order to improve my fifth and sixth years there. I had an Italian meal and saw a film about a prehistoric shark, full of jumpscares. I did not jump nor scare once but laughed.

A Facebook notification, two weeks after, told me the book club would no longer run.

I hope to study English at University and in order to make up for requirement grades that I will most likely not receive, I have to show how much I like English to convince them. Merely reading books and writing short stories that I never show anyone apparently will not suffice. Thus resulting in my attempts to join a book club. And to start a blog, well, I’m here now aren’t I? I have still much to go, there are ‘to-be-confirmed’ writing classes on in the city theatre that I am still to look into, and a Creative Writing Group in my school that I will have to venture into alone as my friends are nowhere near interesting in writing through their lunchtime. I am scared, not of the group, but in general. In a very general way.

These things are new, these are things that I don’t know anyone else doing. It is as if I am paving a very extremely mundane path, hindered by insecurity and doubt. My specialities. I feel as though normal, everyday things effect me more than things that really should make me sob into my pillow, like friends with cancer and family members dying and suicide. I feel selfish but I am unsure how to stop. I recently submitted my creative piece for my English portfolio for fifth year, I love writing but I have no friends who are as equally enthused.

I suppose that is why I so willingly turned to blogging.

Maybe someone who reads this may reach out, may talk, discuss, debate. I have long since been yearning for someone with similar interest in the art of words and writing to reply. To respond. As well as someone who blogs similar content, I do often struggle with blogs and computers etc.

I also struggle with not talking like a robot online,

but please, talk to me,

Eilidh.

A complex complexion

I am pink and pale. My hands and feet turn a worrying, mottled mixture of blue and purple as soon as the temperature drops ever so slightly. I have paper-thin skin which flushes extremely easy, causing me to be an open book of emotion and no exercise. I am speckled with acne all over my chin, sloping down each side of both cheeks, crossing my upper lip and flecked sparsely upon my forehead. A lightly tanned mole is jammed under my left eye causing it to crinkle funny and my features are drowned in endless freckles, the type you have no hope in hell counting.

These are a few of the things that cause the issues I have with my skin. I type this as I gaze down at the thousands of freckles smattering my lanky, milk-bottle arms. I would also like to point out that I am not the pretty kind of pale.

I am not an elegant and blemish-free faerie queen from mythical lands or a strikingly, beautiful model that looks simultaneously like they have not slept in days. My face blossoms red, particularly my nose, in the slightest cold temperature, my freckles blend so much they look like dried dirt upon my features. My lips are generally quite pale and almost always end up matching the tone of the surrounding skin. My under-eyes are so purple I am often asked whether I sleep enough or even if I had been in a fight, no matter what I do they won’t go away. My acne stings.

Many of these were reasons for my reluctance to go on holiday. I come from the highlands of Scotland, a place of stunning views, reluctant sunlight and cool temperatures. Due to such temperatures I have the advantage of wrapping up, drowning my body in coats and jackets, jumpers and long-sleeved tops. Whereas in the warmer climates of the Channel Islands between England and France, I knew I would lose my advantage. I was also aware that I would be in a hotel with a nice pool and spa facilities, a pool I would be forced to go in. A day out to the city alongside my friends achieved myself a bikini and a few spoonfuls of anxiety.

There were absolute bloody models at the hotel when I arrived. Tall blonde girls with endless legs, clear, tanned skin and bikini bottoms that showed their whole arse. I could only imagine they were some kind of Swedish models, whereas I see myself as a speckley, freckley brunette with a bad posture and similar attitude. However in I came in a ropey, white bikini from H&M blanketed up by the hotel owned dressing gowns that smelt pretentiously of lavender. Pale, pink body and all. A second however includes that as they frolicked and giggled with open, pearly toothed grins in the cerulean water, I lay upon the chairs, huddled up with my copy of ‘Lolita,’ pages wrinkled from the chlorine air. I studied H.Humbert’s obsessive description of ‘Lo’, almost matching each detail with the girls. I suppose I am not a 40-something year old’s type. Shame.

I typed this out without proof-reading so please don’t shoot me for mistakes,

I am already a mistake enough,

Just kidding,

Eilidh