Too many questions, too little answers.

Why am I more nervous about the US elections than my upcoming Biology and History exams?

How did my jeans rip "down there" and why am I still wearing them?

Why have I already starting planning what to wear Friday night, when I've always been a rather day-to-day person?

How does Facebook manage to be so interesting that it's not entirely impossible to spend all day on it?

Why the hell am I blogging about this?

Back to work!

And I want to start blogging again. Yay for me.

Written by Yours Truly.

Geachte lezers,

Het is ons een eer om u hartelijk welkom te heten in de wereld van Visade Meisjes A1. Hoewel wij voor sommigen als redelijk gemiddeld intelligent overkomen, blijkt in de kleedkamers en daarbuiten vaak dat de meesten van ons toch een tikkeltje apart zijn.

We zullen de lijst van teamgenoten op rugnummers afgaan, want alfabetische volgorde is zo cliché. Dat hebben we met de Gala Turken al gedaan.

#2 Hannah met het hoge stemmetje zou maar al te graag wat van de boobies van Teamgenoot X overnemen.
#35 Stephanie houdt ervan om tegen zoenende 16-jarigen in een discotheek te schuren.
#38 Maaike kan niet wachten tot ze haar snoepjesstring bij het uitgaan mag showen aan het Nederlandse publiek.
#40 Anouk is het baby’tje van het team – doet geen eindexamen, slaapt veel.
#47 Elaine. Of was het toch Eliane?
#102 Karlijn heeft van jongs af aan een bijzonder talent voor de sport van het boeren waar elke basisscholier van droomt.
#103 Maxime heeft een fascinerend vermogen om boeiend te vertellen hoe een Hunkemöller medewerker haar trui op vrijdag 12 september 2008 met lintjes heeft inpakt.
#117 Simone is hopeloos verliefd op meneer Bartos en heeft een Spongebob tas waar menig 5-jarige jaloers op zou zijn.
#121 Maxime, bij Visade omgedoopt tot Oma of Peanut, is de nieuweling en vuile overloper van Volleybalvereniging X en heeft dus weinig recht van spreken binnen het team.

Dat was het dan, en wij hopen u zeer binnenkort verder te mogen verbazen met onze verrassende talenten, verbazingwekkende persoonlijkheden en verfrissende volleybalkunstjes, dus komt allen naar onze eerstvolgende wedstrijd!

Hoogachtend,

VISADE MA1

Ik ben weer thuis.

De politie die om het uur langsrijdt,
de ongezellig-etende buren,
het natte en vooral vieze weer,
fietsen,
iTunes,
een fris ruikende koelkast,
schone douches,
stopcontacten,
scharen,
Billy Bobb,
de Nederlandse taal,
een kledingkast,
normale kaas en normale melk,
redelijke tarieven voor SMSjes,
MSN en internet,
boterhammen,

Jep, ik ben weer in Den Haag.

Hah! I figured you out.

They're all out to get me.

First my TV. Dead. Gone.
Then all my clothes and books. In boxes. Gone.
My photos and any other memoribilia. Packed. Gone.
Then my bench. Taken away. Gone.
Not to forget my scooter. Broken. Gone.
And my lollipops. Eaten by monsters. Gone.
The food downstairs; the fruit and candy. Disappeared. Gone.

It's a conspiracy. I swear.

My concentration. Disturbed. Gone.

Bloody movers.

Shudder.

I actually intended to write this months ago but, as the days, weeks and months passed, I was always haunted by images. I just can't get them out of my mind. Amateur psychologists and emo kiddies alike recommend writing to recover from emotional traumas. My optimism and dire need to exorcise the images tell me that it's worth a try. Here it goes.

On a cold February morning I was listening the radio. Q-music, as always. It was exactly 7 o'clock so they started their short news break. Jeroen van Inkel told us about a survey carried out by Olaz. They had concluded that 86% of Dutch women are content with their looks. We would supposedly also like to look au natural because 46% of us spend no more than five minutes on their make-up.

AND BOY, DID THESE FACTS GET CONFIRMED THAT WEEK.

The same morning, as I cycled to school with light hypothermia, I saw things I'd rather not have seen. One lady, a latina (i.e. XXXL buttocks), wore hot pants with a legging. Her clothes suggested that she had the inability to see herself from 360° in the mirror as the pants didn't cover her entire behind. I would have forgiven this lady for the wardrobe malfunction, had she not given me the arrogant stare back when I gave her the arrogant stare. All I did was try to tell her my humble opinion about her outfit without words... Anyway, her stare back definitely told me without words that she liked the way she looked. She was happy.

The second frightening outfit I saw that week was a young girl at school. She was wearing jeans - too short, too tight. Her shoes weren't worthy of the title 'shoe'. The pink Crocs with holes and fluff should not even be mentioned. Good lord. I feel blessed for not needing to see the shirt or sweater this girl was wearing, but unfortunately I did need to endure the pain the coat caused in my eyes. It was purple, oversized and could have come straight from a rubbish dump in the 80's.

The last, but certainly not least, traumatising thing I saw that very week, was a middle-aged woman in a changing room. I was changing into my volleyball gear, when this lady sat opposite me and took her shirt off. Not only did two melons, metaphorically speaking, come tumbling out this shirt, but a different bright orange shirt also appearead from the sports bag next to her. On it, "IK BEN BLOEDMOOI." I wasn't quite sure whether I should vomit or laugh, so I just kept quiet and stared. Stared at her nose that could have been stolen from the elephant man, and stared at the flabs of blubber around her waist.

I'm not quite sure what to think of the 'good' news that Olaz brought us. On one side, it's a good sign that, in general, us chickies are okay with our looks. On the other side, I still believe there are enough people around that shouldn't be okay with their looks and may need to consider a change of lifestyle. LIKE A DIET.

Because pictures say more than a thousand words.

It's back. Three months of lovin'.

Spring officially started a couple days ago. I don't really like spring. (Except for my birthday.) The weather is never right; it's always too cold to dress warmly but too warm to dress summery. And it's always raining, which I've realised this weekend.

Anyhow, I don't really like to work with official dates. (Unless it's my birthday.) I prefer it when I can just feel that it's spring rather than have to look in my diary to know that a new season has started. The last few weeks have prepared me for the start of spring.

First off, we also had a couple days of sun in February which was a sign. I know I said days, but really I meant hours. I mean, pfffft... fat chance we'll ever get a whole day of sun. The two hours of sun we had two weeks ago were pretty exceptional for Dutch standards.

Another way of telling spring was coming up was the stress among teachers in school. Spring = exam week = death. Add to that, bad grades + lazy students = half of the school failing the year. Which all adds up to major stress. That, in turn, turns into illnesses which results in - yay! - lots of teachers not turning up. Free periods!

Lastly, there were online hints. By logging in to MSN I was able to calculate when spring would start. The number of hearts and roses in people's names revealed how close to spring we were. Around Valentine's there was a short hiccup in the rising number of hearts but overall it's been a steady grow over the weeks since New Year's. It reached it's highest point to date two days ago, so that's a solid sign that spring is here.

PEOPLE, YOU BETTER GET YOUR HEARTS BEATING AND THE REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS MOVING. I want this number to grow.

Because more hearts = more love = the weather must be getting better.

You know, I've never really been a fan of the Godfather.

Originally, I didn’t really have plans for this Sunday. But after the shower I just had… I think I may need to get out. And that’s not because I want to.

On Thursday, during a peaceful shopping session with my lovely friend, I looked in the mirror and encountered an overgrown fringe and a bunch of hair that was as flat as the mirror itself. I decided then and there that I wanted my fringe to be cut and I wanted curls again. Permanent.

The moment I returned home I phoned the hairdresser. Could I come in tomorrow? No, we’re full. Saturday? Sure. As a hair-disaster, I left the house yesterday morning at 11.05. From the moment I called I had been mentally preparing myself for a good two hours of hair and head abuse.

The two hairdressers started to put the curly things in my hair. One of them seemed like the Godfather of the place and the other one was the n00b. Guess which one pulled and tugged most? That’s right, the old and bitter Godfather.

I had asked them not to curl my fringe. The Godfather refused though, she said it would look weird. I had asked for the largest curls. Godfather refused, again. I was too intimidated to complain.

After almost two hours I was finally done. My hair smelled of chemicals with a mix of hairspray and it was… curly. The fringe was also curled and looked a right mess. The Godfather seemed really pleased with the catastrophe she’d just created, though, so I figured I wouldn’t reveal my personal thoughts.

Upon coming home, I looked in the reflection of the window and freaked out. I wondered how a haircut could still look acceptable in a hairdresser’s mirror and look like road kill in a window reflection. Then I remembered the Force 7 wind on Beaufort scale.

I walked up the stairs and entered my room with pure dismay. My hair looked a mess and I could've put my parents’ money to better use. Like alcohol to drink my sorrows away. I wanted to cut my hair myself again, like I did the last time I went to the hairdresser’s. I didn’t though, because I figured I have no experience with cutting curls.

This morning when I woke up and say myself in the mirror, a flow of optimism rushed through my body. Maybe a shower would help.

And how wrong I was.

One hour later, I’m writing this post. That’s how bad it is.

I have become the personification of road kill. And I think it’s time I bought myself a hair straightener because apparently them car tires don’t straighten enough.

Yes, I'm alive. Alive and kicking.

Apologies for the extreeeeeemely long unexplained hiatus. Inspiration and commitment has been low. Somehow I only managed to write half a post and then writer's block would bugger in.

But I'm back. And with all the whining about not updating, I guess I should be getting back to blogging now.

New post this week, I PROMISE!

Do they know it's Christmas? YES I bloody do.

There’s always a couple ways you can tell it’s Christmas time. And I mean without looking at the date.

- Pepernoten are 70% off.
- You find bottles of wine, tequila and other alcoholic goodies in your living room. “Politics,” Dad says.
- What was first your favourite colour has now become a colour that sickens you. Red.
- Every radio station has had a Christmas sing-along hour and you now know Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas by heart.
- Annie is on TV. As is The Sound Of Music, Lord of the Rings and Home Alone.
- The number of toy and electronics commercials have risen by at least 10%.
- All I want for Christmas gets played in your school auditorium.
- Even though it’s two in the morning it’s still light outside. The lights in the trees and the bright red Santa’s guide you home.
- The Tokkies are on TV.
- Your little brother asks for a new Xbox game that he was planning to buy himself weeks ago.
- Mom offers you alcohol. Twice. In one evening.
- Your credit speeds down to zero.
- You feel guiltier than usual when you decline to donate to charity.
- People brabble about Jack Skeleton again.
- Dad gets in a DIY-mood and is determined to do everything himself. You go to IKEA and come back with only a trashcan, when what you really wanted was a desk. Next day you're off to Gamma and return with a bit of wood that over the holidays should transform into a desk.

Christmas is weird. When else do you get to bring a dead tree into your house? When else is it okay to force feed yourself? When else do you see tipsy family members?

I really miss the red Coca-Cola trucks, though. I haven't seen them once this year. =[

Ohh yeah. Happy holidays everyone.