What it's like being 7311 days old (or 20 years and 1 week)

As most of you are probably well aware, it is terrible. You see before you a girl with a chipped manicure, rocking a 'just-taken-out-plaits' hairstyle, who possesses a pink iPod nano with Ashley Tisdale's unfairly overlooked debut album, 'Guilty Pleasures', ready to blast through her car stereo on the drive home from work. It's possible we have an epidemic on our hands. Or a pandemic. Or just a general emic because I don't really know what any of those words mean... Let's just go with 'code red'. Or perhaps more fittingly, 'code grey', because that's what I've been fearing I will find stacked on my head when I look in the mirror every morning after I wake up.

Truthfully, on the day after my birthday I really believed I'd woken up with wrinkles. But as it turned out, I'd just fallen asleep with my make-up on and decided to smush my face into my pillow so as to make myself look as unattractive as possible. At least there's still part of me that's lazy enough to be classed as a teenager. I can't remember if this was also the night I had a dream where my neighbours ginger cat bit me on the face. Not that this is relevant, but as a certified old person, I'm now supposed to bore you by going off on strange tangents.

The day itself was obviously a lot of fun - as birthdays should be! I was awoken at six in the morning by an interesting rendition of 'happy birthday' sung by my mother; who also, being a total joker, decided to sing the line "happy birthday to someoneeeeeee" instead of inserting her own daughters name. Classic hilarity from Mrs Potter. We then preceded to play a game I would like to call "Mum can you stop telling me how much you think I'm going to like each present it's practically the middle of the night and my eyes aren't able to fully open". My parents gave me a silver star charm for my Thomas Sabo bracelet; receiving this gift is a moment I will probably always remember, obviously because it's beautiful but also because when I opened it, my mum looked me straight in the eye and went "because you are a star". Couldn't sing my name in the happy birthday song though, could she?

This all went out the window when four days later I picked out a truly gorgeous rose gold Marc Jacobs watch that would be, as we say in our family, my 'main present'. I'm still so in awe of it's beauty that I keep forgetting it is actually a time telling device. Brains AND beauty, what a catch. And just to blow this whole thing even more out of the water (I don't think I've used that saying right), the rose gold on the watch matches my rose gold iPhone 5S. I cannot tell you how much of a first world white girl I feel. It's an exhilarating experience to say the least.

Once I'd got past my midday "oh my god there's something wrong with my knee I can't move I've officially reached old age this is the end" anxiety attack, I was able to continue celebrating myself - with more presents (shout-out to my adorable best friends who proved once again just how well they know me *cough* chocolate fingers *cough*, and to my boyfriend for the really sweet gifts of my favourite things - including a new MASSIVE Yankee candle that the pyromaniac inside me can't wait to get back to uni and burn baby burn), and a Smarties birthday cake - courtesy of my boyfriends family because they're the sweetest people ever. Sadly the day ended with me in tucked up in bed early, ready for work the next day - and for those of you thinking to yourself that I would've done the same thing even if I didn't have work early in the morning, to you I say, shhhhhhh.

Now it's a whole week later and the world looks no different (which is good because it means I'm not losing my sight), and to be honest, I don't really feel any different. I still have trouble getting up in the morning, I seem to be getting worse at making toast, and I'm just as atrocious at driving as ever. I did voluntarily clean my room yesterday though so make of that what you will.

Thank you so much to everyone who wished me a happy birthday and/or sent me cards and gifts; you guys are the best.

~ Eleanor xo

PS. You'll be pleased to know I completed 9 of the 19 things I'd planned to do this year. Most disappointing of all was my failure to keep my cactus plant alive. Better luck next time. Maybe.

What I don't get about facebook

If I were to make a pie chart of the reasons people use Facebook, I imagine it would be a choppy mix of "to boast about how amazingly you're currently doing at life", "to show off happy relationships", "to vent about shit relationships", "checking you are still doing better than that slutty girl who bullied you when you were 13" and of course, "stalking your ex. And his new girlfriend. And her brother. And if you're having a really bad day, his best friend". 

Just last month I found myself discovering that an old college friend had found himself a girlfriend. It was a jaw dropping moment and I had to take a moment to process what I'd just seen. I preceded to "oh-my-god" and flap my hands in the air for a good few minutes before I was able to regain my composure. Of course, now I've had time to let the revelation sink in, I find myself wondering why exactly I care. The fact he fancied me first is neither here nor there. Essentially, what you see on Facebook is either going to make you feel super pumped or horrendously upset. Kind of like cocaine. I imagine.

But what else don't I get about this ridiculously addictive and soul destroying social network?

1. Why am I able to 'suggest friends' to people? It's like saying, "yo, pal, I gots more friends than you and I feel like you should know so I gon point it out over Facebook hell yeah" (why have I written this as though I am a gangsta?)

2. I accidentally told Mark Zuckerberg I was in a relationship before I told my family. My mum called me up a couple of days later not really understanding what any of it meant. I believe her words were "what does it mean you're in a relationship? It's not real though is it? It's just on Facebook". God bless mums on Facebook.

3. The United Nations will soon make it law that no selfie can be uploaded without a filter. It's basically our way of tricking people into thinking we're a ten when we are quite clearly a two (at best). My profile picture may or may not be airbrushed... No dark under-eye circles for this girl, thank you!

4. When a complete stranger from the other side of the world with no mutual friends tries to add you. Just the other day I had a nice french guy try to add me; I did consider accepting it because he was wearing a snapback in his profile picture and just oozed street cred but I didn't feel that was a strong enough reason considering I, you know, have no idea who he is. Désolé, ami. (I had to use google translate for that - sorry if it's completely incorrect)

5. Why are some people so open about every element of their lives? I once used twitter to ask if tripping up in front of a cute guy and making him laugh counted as flirting (sadly I don't think it does), but some people feel the need to post super personal stuff, I mean, super super, and it's just uncomfortable. So, yeah, please stop that.

6. Kissing pictures. WHY?! Nobody ever looks at their news feed and thinks to themselves, "hmm, you know what's missing here? A wonky-blurry-black-and-white image of my friend with her tongue down someones throat". Ok? Never.

7. When your jackass BFF uploads that ONE picture of you looking horrendous. True, it's probably your own fault you look so bad (let's all blame it on the alcohol) but it's so not cool when a picture of you with your eyes going in different directions or you grinding on a what-you-thought-at-the-time-looked-like-Zac-Efron-but-really-now-does-not shows up for all to see. My sister and I once took a picture together where I felt I looked really good, but she had her eyes closed, so naturally, I cropped her out and uploaded the picture with just me in it. She flipped out afterwards, but I assured her I was doing her a favour. You're welcome sis, I got your back.

8. Those weird adverts on the side of the page. They're supposedly catered for you specifically but mine are currently advertising "British Military Fitness", "Financial Spread Betting" (what even is that?) and a "wedding photographer". Yes, I want precisely none of these things. However, I'm now starting to worry what my search history is if this is who the algorithm thinks I am...

9. Why am I still Facebook friends with a bunch of my friends ex's? Well, I know why. Because I want the friend count.

10. People who continuously post statuses that are pointless. Literally no-one, not one single person on the face of this planet cares that you just drank the perfect cup of tea or that you're watching the film currently showing on itv2. And I think I speak for everyone when I say that you do not need to post what the fucking weather is. Not only do I have an app on my phone for that, but I can also, you know, LOOK OUT OF THE WINDOW. You will know I've just read a weather status if I begin massaging my temples. Or if it's sunny outside.

But even I have to admit that Facebook isn't all bad (especially considering most of you probably got here because of it), it's a great way of piecing a nights events together and also means that my mum is able to keep track of me when I'm at uni and forget to call her for three weeks. Shout-out to my dad for texting me every time my mum turns to him, sighs and says: "she went out again last night" every time I go out partying. Everyone should have their parents as Facebook friends, it is tremendous fun.

~ Eleanor xo

I saw you wrote about me on your blog

It happened. Someone said it. The dreaded "I saw you wrote about me on your blog". Pretty much one of the worst sentences I've ever heard. Well, that's a total lie, I've heard far worse things. An example being: "Those shoes are disgusting". Ouch. But that's not the point. Anyway, I knew exactly which post this person was referring to and if I wasn't sitting upright in a car with my seat-belt on (safety first, kids) I would've slowly slid off my seat and into the hole I had apparently dug for myself. Instead, and in a rather appropriately dramatic manner, I swiftly turned my head to look out the window (that's how they do it in films) and muttered "yeah, we don't talk about that". While I considered using the app on my phone to erase all traces of myself and this blog from the web, he changed the subject. Thank God. I really didn't have the 3G to spare.

Because essentially, what I write here in my strangely blue corner of the internet is basically, how can I put this? Word vomit. Ah, another Mean Girls reference. But seriously, I sort of forget who reads what I post. I figured I'd be fine sharing my life with total strangers and anyone nosy enough to click a link on Facebook, but then it dawned on me that real life people do read it. You there, you're real! Congrats! Just count yourself lucky you're not doing one of those weird warpy 'prove you're human, and not a vacuum' literacy/numeracy/I-don't-get-the-point-of-these-I'm-literally-just-buying-concert-tickets tests. No-one ever gets those things right first time; screw you internet, not only do I have GCSE's, I also have A Levels - who are you to judge me?

I like to make fun of myself, hence the content of every single one of my posts, but a blog is like a diary, isn't it? You know everyone's read it, but you have a mutual understanding that they don't tell you they've read it and neither of you try to start a conversation about it. Well, that's how it happened with myself and my sister. God knows why I kept a diary for so long - or why I kept it hidden in the same place. I was clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.

But not only do I not have control over who's reading this stuff and laughing with me (not 'at', she says hopefully), I technically do not own what I write here. Well, I mean, that's what I'm assuming. I never read the terms and conditions. I'm guessing this means that the guy who owns 'blogger' now technically owns all current 460 words of this post. Blogger is essentially owned by Google and who owns Google? I'm not actually sure. Ok, I did a Google search (how ironic), and according to 'whoownsgoogle.com', Google is owned by Bill Shor. Call me presumptuous, but I'm thinking this website is a viable source to use. So, Bill, if that even is your real name (still might not be, I only checked that one website and it was dated 2009), what do you think of my writing? Will it be sold unknowingly to me and used in adverts and other media extensions across the world? Hmm? HMMM!? I know how your sort work, I've watched a documentary! On purpose! By choice! Yeah, exactly. Not only that, but I can quote Legally Blonde backwards, so I could totally take on your multi-billion dollar company. Someone bring me a smart suit, an american flag and a tiny chihuahua, stat!

Obviously, I'm not actually going to go back and read the T&C's I've completely glossed over, but I think it's good to be aware of what may or may not become an eventuality. In the meantime, what I think I'm saying is that maybe I need to think a little more before I post on here. Which doesn't really make sense because I've just written about the person I was supposed to not be writing about. Again. (It's been a long day). I have a feeling this won't work out for long because if I don't write about the embarrassing/bad things that've happened to me, how can I a) help you guys out or b) cheer you up because at the end of the day, at least you're not me. Plus, the rest of my life is horrendously uneventful and I've used the same make up brands for years and I've absolutely no money to be a fashion blogger.

I guess I'll just have to keep slating the people who teach me the greatest life lessons. Shame.

~ Eleanor xo