Difference of the inheritance of women and men.

Written by Lily Meyer.

Across from me at the kitchen table, my mother smiles over red wine that she drinks out of a measuring glass. She says she doesn’t deprive herself, but I’ve learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork.

In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate. I’ve realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it. I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so.

Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it’s proportional. As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast. She wanes while my father waxes. His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters, poetry. A new girlfriend who was overweight as a teenager, but my dad reports that now she’s “crazy about fruit.”

It was the same with his parents; as my grandmother became frail and angular her husband swelled to red round cheeks, round stomach, and I wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking, making space for the entrance of men into their lives, not knowing how to fill it back up once they leave.

I have been taught accommodation. My brother never thinks before he speaks. I have been taught to filter. “How can anyone have a relationship to food?” he asks, laughing, as I eat the black bean soup I chose for its lack of carbs. I want to say: we come from difference, Jonas, you have been taught to grow out, I have been taught to grow in.

You learned from our father how to emit, how to produce, to roll each thought off your tongue with confidence, you used to lose your voice every other week from shouting so much. I learned to absorb. I took lessons from our mother in creating space around myself. I learned to read the knots in her forehead while the guys went out for oysters, and I never meant to replicate her, but spend enough time sitting across from someone and you pick up their habits- that’s why women in my family have been shrinking for decades.

We all learned it from each other, the way each generation taught the next how to knit, weaving silence in between the threads which I can still feel as I walk through this ever-growing house, skin itching, picking up all the habits my mother has unwittingly dropped like bits of crumpled paper from her pocket on her countless trips from bedroom to kitchen to bedroom again.

Nights I hear her creep down to eat plain yogurt in the dark, a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled. Deciding how many bites is too many. How much space she deserves to occupy.

Watching the struggle I either mimic or hate her, and I don’t want to do either anymore, but the burden of this house has followed me across the country. I asked five questions in genetics class today and all of them started with the word “sorry.”

I don’t know the requirements for the sociology major because I spent the entire meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza, a circular obsession I never wanted, but inheritance is accidental,

still staring at me with wine-soaked lips from across the kitchen table.

305 Willow street.

A singer/songwriter by the name of Sam Miller had been reading a lot of Ray Bradbury and so had decided to give it a go and write his own short story. He is an incredibly talented songwriter who I have followed for a few years now, and so when I saw that he had uploaded a blog of a short story that he had written himself, naturally I was infatuated and instantly drawn in to the complexities that he writes. Before even realising that I was reading it, I had finished and was so totally moved out of my own subconscious mind that there really was no choice for me but to share it with as many people as I could, including publishing it here on WordPress. So, without further ado, I present to you ‘305 Willow Street’.

Betty Walker.

305 Willow Street. (written by Sam Miller)

“Damn fools,” he thought, as he watched their moving truck drive away.

“Sherry!” he called. “Another one!”

From the perch of his 2nd floor window, through binoculars and eyes blurred by confusion, he saw what looked like a normal family carrying boxes into 305 Willow St.

Neighbors came across the street with cookies to welcome the normal, happy family. He turned to the wall across from his 2nd floor window and identified them as the neighbors from 312 Willow by their photographs.

“Sherry!” he called. “The neighbors from 312 are bringing them cookies.”

But she said nothing.

He had to warn them. He rushed down the stairs, out the door, all the way to the intersection of Willow and Pine, where the 200 block ended and the 300 block began. He stopped abruptly. He called out to them. He tried to warn them. They couldn’t hear them.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the 300 block, and his foot landed on the 400 block.

He was disappointed, but he wasn’t surprised. For as long as he and Sherry had lived at 222 Willow Street, that was the way it had always been. It didn’t matter if he traveled by foot or by bike or by car of by ski. It didn’t matter if it was the early morning or Twilight. 222 Willow, 230 Willow, 238 Willow, 404 Willow, 420 Willow. He could see the 300 block, but he couldn’t get to it.

He had tried it all.

If he had known this was the case when he and Sherry had moved into 222 Willow St, he wouldn’t have moved. But what choice did he have now? He hated the mystery of it, but he had to solve it. Back to the window to watch and study.

More neighbors brought over some type of baked good covered by aluminum foil. No need to turn to the wall for this one. It was the neighbor from 301 and his beautiful wife.

As far as he could tell, the 300 block had it perfect. They never fought, not like he and Sherry did anyway. Their leaves changed color together perfectly every year, not like his leaves. The recycling truck picked up their trash even when it wasn’t properly sorted, not like their recycling truck.

“Sherry!” he called. “The neighbors from 301 are bringing them something.”

But his empty house said nothing.

Celebrity culture.

I don’t think I like celebrity culture.

I like celebrities.  I love them, in fact.  Most of them anyway.

But I don’t like the culture that has been built around the exploitation of the most shocking and outrageous aspects of their personal lives. I don’t like the revenue model for most successful artists now (be it movies, music, television) involves making your personal life accessible for the rest of us to inspect and judge and gossip about.

I don’t know whose fault it is, and I’m certainly part of the problem because I gobbled up the Jimmy Kimmel-Kanye West shit up like cocopops. But it’s less about feeling bad for the celebrities (I do sometimes), and more about what it does to the individuals within the broader culture of gossip consumption.

Here’s my problem; I think critiquing and celebrating artists personal lives over their art reinforces the idea in all of us that we are the center’s of our own universe. Kanye West makes albums so people can listen to music, which regardless of how it is motivated is a pretty selfless endeavour. But when we make it about Kanye, and not his music, then we’re aspiring to be scandalous people, not creative artists. And with the rise of reality television came the rise of reality-television-based-reality, or people who live to what they see on the screen. People became convinced that they could all be just as famous as the stars of Jordie Shore if they acted like them and found someone to point a damn camera.

So in a culture where all you have to do to be adored is be wildly interesting, people adjust their lifestyles according to what sells. Sex sells, scandal sells, whatever you have to do to make people talk about you. And people will do anything, say anything, pretend anything, fake any tragedy, all for the sake of attention.

Don’t get me wrong; I love a good personal narrative.  My Ed Sheeran listening experience is enhanced by knowing his story, his past, his path to success, his insecurities and best friend’s names. But those are all traits that derive from his art. Seems like that’s a pretty distinct difference between the marketing of gossip and the obsession with scandal.

Betty Walker.

What is it with fruitella?!?!?

Quick blog…why is fruitella so addictive?! 

I went to the shop the other day to get myself a drink before going to my youth club, and I saw that a 5 pack of fruitella was buy one get ome free, and seriously, I freaked. I bought 5 packs, getting 10 in total. That’s 100 fruitellas!

Fruitella is such a badman sweet! I seriously think I’m getting an addiction to them. I’m concerned for my health, and yet I continue to buy them.

Only time I’m going to say this, but…YOLO.

I hope you all have a fruitella-ey day!
Ciao,
Betty Walker

My youth club…

So I’ve spoken about my youth club that I go to a few times now, so I think I should just explain it a little bit.

It’s in a hall in my town, and basically 12-18 year olds (although there are a few in their 20’s) come and sing. It’s held every Tuesday after school/college,  and we will be doing a “gig” this Saturday (23rd November), where people will be paying to come and see us perform. There are around 20 people who go, most are all really good friends of mine, and we take it in turns to sing on a stage, there has even been a band formed there with drums, bass, guitar, and a singer, and they are sooooo good.

Since we have this gig, the youth workers decided to start doing am extra, later session on a Monday to help us rehearse,  but that was only for 3 Mondays. There were only 5 of us that went to that, and so, due to the lack of people attending,  it was cancelled. Sice the 5 of us really enjoyed going on the Monday, we now go to a youth cafe, that is held at the same place at the same time but in a different room (with a pool table, a tv, sofas, and free tea!!!!!!).

But on Tuesdays, my best friends and myself sit backstage behind the curtains, in the dark, being unsociable. Only problem with the Tuesday sessions (it’s not a problem, but kind of defeats the point), I don’t actually do anything. I literally sit there, and watch people sing/perform,  and I write blogs. Like this one. I am sat backstage writing this.

I’m unsociable.
Ciao
Betty Walker

What’s it to you?

Why do people always feel the need to get involved, acting like it’s their place, like it’s their battle? Just fuck off, yeah?

Ok, so maybe that’s a bit harsh, but you see my point right? They may be your friends and all that, but they know it’s not their place to get involved, they even tell you “it’s not my place to say” but they go and freaking say it anyway?!?! Ugh.

I can understand a friend trying to defend you. Yeah, ok, I get it. I get that your heart is in the right place at the time, but you still know that there are going to be consequences. People need to learn when to just shut the fridge door!

They always are shocked by what happens after though, like how you react. So to explain, here’s my situation: there’s a guy I like (yeah, yeah, so stereotypical that a guy’s involved), but basically my best friend doesn’t like him. She doesn’t hate him or anything. Heck, neither of us really know him. She just thinks he’s cocky. And he is. But he knows he is, and in my opinion, being a little cocky isn’t that bad. I actually quite like it. My friend doesn’t think it’s bad either, but she just finds him really annoying because of it. So, I see him every Monday and Tuesday at a youth club thing that I go to, which he restarted going to about 5 weeks ago, when we met. It was pretty obvious that he started flirting with me, but at first, me being as blind as I am, didn’t really notice it. Everyone else noticed and so began the constant nagging at me from all my friends telling me how obvious it was. But because it took me so long, my friend kind of come to the conclusion that he was messing with my head, thus she didn’t like him even more. Anyway, last Tuesday (12th November), he didn’t want to go home straight away after the youth club, and so he walked me home, and we ended up going to this field near my house that I go to almost everyday. He knew that I went to this field so he was curious what the big deal was. So we went and we just kind of messed around for like 2 hours and we ended up lying down holding hands. When he had to leave, we hugged for ages, like a really cute hug, but that was all. So I got back home and checked my phone which had been on silent and noticed I had 17 missed calls and a bunch of texts and Facebook messages from this friend. She was just worried about me because we always make sure we message each other when we get home, and obviously I was in a random field so didn’t message her, but this just pissed her off more with him.

So on Friday, my friend messages this guy, saying how she wants to restart because they got off on the wrong foot and since me and him were getting close, she thought it would be for the best. But then she messages me and goes all crazy bitch on me telling me how he has had a go at her and wouldn’t accept her apology. Now, I know my friend. I know that she can exaggerate things to go in her favour, and so I asked her to tell me exactly what had been said so I can see what’s happened. She refuses.

Maybe I overreacted, but her refusing to tell me what was said, really annoyed me. So I just said basically ‘look, you need to tell me what’s happened’. And she just starts having a go saying that she can’t be bothered to send me the conversation and she’s lost her phone so I can’t ring her for her to explain. So I just leave it and say if she can’t be bothered to tell me then there’s nothing I can do, so goodnight.

Next thing, my other friend (friend 2) messages me. Friend 1 has only gone and told friend 2 every single detail including everything that was said!!!!!!! So she can’t be bothered to tell me what happened,  but she will tell this other friend everything?!? And all he (friend 2) does is tell me to speak to her (friend 1), to which I say no to because I said goodnight to her, so it’s best left until I can see her in person. He tells me she had actually gone to bed so it’s done.

An hour later she comes back online, and does something she knows pisses everyone off. She makes a Facebook status aimed at me. She does this all the time, makes a status blatantly aimed at other people,  and she has lost a lot of friends over it. But nonetheless,  she makes one about me. She then proceeds to comment on my status trying to start an argument,  to which I private message her basically telling her to stop. We have a massive argument and it takes her 3 days to finally send me the conversation. (She was completely in the wrong and told him to stop screwing me over and leave me alone. He isn’t screwing me over in the slightest,  but now he won’t come to the youth club because of what’s happened. He thinks everyone there talks about him behind his back.)

So now this guy won’t even speak to me! Why did she have to get involved? Why couldn’t she wait a few more days and talk to him in person? If you talk to a person through some sort of text, you are leaving them to interpret it in any way they want. Talking to them in person lets you get your point across in the way that you want to!

This blog has completely lost it’s point now. I didn’t want to talk about my situation in such detail, but I felt the need to rant a little bit.

What I’m trying to say is, learn your place. Look at the situation at hand and think about whether it’s really necessary to get involved.  But also think of how getting involved will make anything better, and the right way to go about it. Bottom line though; don’t argue over text/Facebook/twitter or anything else like that! You are allowing other people to read it in their voice. You’re leaving your point open to misinterpretation,  which defeats the whole object of doing it in the first place. If you want to get your point across to someone,  talk to them in person.

I hope you realise what I mean by that.

And as always, have a glorious day!
Ciao,
Betty Walker

My “love” theory.

Love. Even the way it looks is ugly. Love. My teacher always said, that if a word has an ‘e’ at the end, it made the previous vowel in that word sound the way you say that letter in capital form. That would make an ‘o’ sound like ‘oh’, making the word love sound like loathe, the word that means the complete opposite to love in all its entirety. So why is it, that the human race is still in a constant battle of deciding whether the person we loathe, is actually the person we love?

Love. It’s meant to be the easiest thing in the world, and yet it remains the hardest thing to concur and even more so, the hardest thing to maintain. It messes people up. Everything they knew suddenly goes out the window. And for what? A person who will eventually break their heart. No relationship lasts forever. Nobody stays in love. Not forever.

I don’t see love like everyone else. I don’t see how a person can suddenly hate a person who they claimed to have loved a few days earlier. Doesn’t that just defeat the point of it all? How can a person describe love as a beautiful and limitless gift, and yet so easily break a persons heart? How can a person preach that love is precious, and then slam on same sex marriage, saying it’s disgusting?

Love. It’s just four letters squished together to form a word that people can use to label a relationship in hope that it will somehow give it a meaning. The best definition I have ever heard to define love, is that it’s natures way of tricking us into reproducing. And that’s true really. That’s all it is. A way to keep the human race going, and ensuring our offspring is cared for so they can reproduce too.

Sweaty palms, and heart racing? That’s not love, that’s like.

Can’t keep your eyes or hands off them? Lust.

Proud and eager to show them off? Luck.

You want them because you know they are there? Loneliness.

Are you there because that’s what everybody wants? Loyalty.

Do you stay for their confessions of love because you don’t want to hurt them? Pity.

Are you willing to give up all of your favourite things for their sake? Charity.

Are you there because they kissed you or held your hand? Unconfident.

Do you pardon their faults because you care for them? Friendship.

Do you tell them everyday that they are the only you think of? That’s not love, that’s lies.

Love. All it does is make people go into deep depression. You constantly see things over the internet, telling us the story of how a young girl killed herself because she was told by the person she loved that she wasn’t beautiful, or he didn’t love her back. That’s love? Loving a person who doesn’t love you back to the point that you are willing to take your own life for them? Nothing is worth that. But that’s love right?

Pointless.

It makes me laugh to see how caught up people can get in the fantasy that is love. How much they are willing to change about themselves just to be able to say that have been in love. But what does that even mean? To be ‘in’ love? Love is suppose to be an emotion, and yet people don’t say “I’m in happy” or “in sad”. How can you be ‘in’ an emotion? It doesn’t make sense. And yet people are willing to change themselves to be ‘in’ love. They change the way they dress, the way they act, the way they look, the things they watch on TV, the things they do in their free time. To experience love, people become fake. Fake to their real selves. And yet they do at will, with such ease. Some people waste their whole lives searching for ‘the one’, but never find them. I wonder why. Perhaps because the very thing they are looking for is the very thing that is completely overrated and only a word that is overused by the human race.

What even is the purpose of love? What does it lead to? Marriage. A civil ceremony that unites two people and their families together in a loving atmosphere? Or a piece of paper that reinforces the fact that it is seen as immoral to go around sleeping with other people whilst in a relationship. All this whilst the government gain money and respect by enforcing the idea that marriage creates a steady home for children to grow up in, even though it is those very same people who are constantly making it easy and more acceptable to get a divorce, once again causing more depression and disappointment. That’s what divorce does. That’s why it’s there. It’s basically telling you you can do better, that you’ve settled, which, again, completely goes against the moral being that we call love.

Love.

Pointless.

I’m not completely depressed, I promise! Maybe it’s because I’ve never been in love? I don’t even know. But this is my “theory”, my idea of the socially diverse word ‘love’.

Ciao,
Betty Walker.

An introduction?

Ok, so my first thoughts, “you’ve finally got this blog thing going, best introduce yourself to these wonderful people!” But then I started thinking. What if some of these wonderful people know who I am? With the things I plan on writing/ranting about, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to actual tell you who I am. To be honest, if you know me well enough you would know who I am purely by the username, but if you can work that out then I wouldn’t mind if you knew who I was.

So basically,  I am going to give you a few details about myself without actually telling you who I am. Sound good? Probably not, but hey, what can you do about ot other than comment?  

Another reason for not going into much detail is the fact that I never really know what to say about myself. I’ve been asked twice this week to tell someone about myself and I instantly draw a blank. Which is strange really, because I have such an amazing life and everything…

Ok, so firstly, I am of the female gender. I am 17 years old, 18 in march, which makes me a Pisces (incase you’re into horoscopes etc). I reside in the UK, and studied A-levels for a year after 5 horrendous years at an all girl grammar school. After actually failing all my AS levels,  I decided to leave that 6th form and go to a wonderful place called college (no sarcasm, I love it) where I am studying Motorsport Engineering and hope to eventually go to a university as far away from my town as possible. 

I have some absolutely amazing friends who quite literally have made me the happiest I’ve ever been (I met most of them when I was studying A-levels) and I actually adore them! ♡

I guess I should give you a name really to call me by… I don’t want to give out my real name for the reasons I expressed at the beginning,  so instead I will give you a random name chosen by an online processor.  And that name is Betty Walker. Sure.

Well thats all really, for now at least. I’m pretty much going to use this to rant about everything and anything. 

 

Ciao for now, Betty Walker.