I hated my blue shoes.

If there was any other reason to adore my gran more, its this story. She was telling me today about buying a pair of shoes. They are green shoes, fainted green almost light blue but mostly green. They actually look cute, I wouldn't wear them per se but that's because my task as a twenty year old is to wear footwear that damage and bend toes in directions they were never intended too. So there we were, talking about shoes and how she had bought a pair today and it made her think when she was about fourteen, how her mum bought her a pair of blue shoes. She described them as blue-ish shoes, her favourite colour had always been blue, but she never wanted blue shoes. She hated them, her eyes rolled slightly, she sighed and I quote 'noone else had blue shoes.' just that sentence alone has inspired me to get writing on my book :) Thanks gran <3

Well what else has been happening... I guess you could say paranoia. It bit my ass severely this week and it blows trumpets. But I'm getting over it, and shutting it up with cake, which FYI, works :D 

A final thought after a short blog; I never thought I'd be biten by a love bug.

That song is 'wrong'.

I've been thinking for a while about making a blog. I'm too lazy to make a diary and keep to it for over a week, plus in the first couple of days I do use a diary I get an 'ocd' attraction where I must write everything down, every little detail. Let's be honest, that's just not worth it. If anything my hand starts hurting from the writing. Is it obvious by now that I write as little as possible and type compulsively? I even type my shopping list, memorise it and go to the store. That's right, I'm not 'techno' enough to even be bothered printing the thing, I use my brain. Which of course laughs at me as I stand in the toiletries aisle wondering what I was actually supposed to put into my basket.

If anything I thought tonight was a good time to start the blog. What you will notice is I will type a lot. Somedays each blog post will last a million letters, and thats minimum. Other times I'll log in, have a look about and leave as fast as you've thought 'Huh?'. I'm hardly an interesting person, I don't do much and well that means there wouldn't be a lot to post about. But I do know my life is a little random, somethings are said and somethings are thought, I need a way to get them free. I would write them down, but we've already covered that. So blogging seems a good idea. I just hope it doesnt become as addictive/obsessive as writing and filling a diary piece. Although I have been told it can be worse, doctors are on the research panels trying to name the disorder.

That song is wrong, what song? Well, you've probably all heard the song that goes along the lines of;  

"Well, you're nobody til somebody loves you. So find yourself somebody to love."  

Dean Martin - You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You

It came on as a film my dad had on the television ended. I started humming along, as you do. When I came to a conclusion: the song is wrong. I sat up and spoke formally to my father telling him, "That song is wrong." His confused face alerted me that it was okay to continue, which I did automatically. "The song? He is singing 'You're nobody till somebody loves you,' then he tells us at the end to go find someone to love? But we all know the world doesn't work that way. Not everyone you love, loves you back. Thats contradicting yourself, well he was." I waited eagerly for a reply, as though my dad was about to bow down and apologise for the songwriters choice of words. Too which my dad got to his feet, shaking his head lightly he laughed, "You think about things too much," before walking into the kitchen. I guess he's right by those standards, but surely I have a right too, because; that song is wrong. No?