+ passionate people pet peeve.

sorry??..to all eleven of you
It would almost be just as economical to personally apologize to each one of you than write this. I will admit I did have a little blue post it note full of blogging ideas, and literally a puff of wind tore it from me. It just wasn't meant to be. Or I wasn't meant to be holding post it notes at arms length off my balcony like some gust of inspiration was going to hit me, cause it did, and blew all my ideas away. Brilliant.

I would like to think that in my seventeen years of life, I've met a fair few people so far. And it's a small group I would like to single out and punch in the jeans today, because I don't feel like minority groups are bullied enough at all...

It's the passionates. People who are passionate about something in particular.
(not to be confused with passionate lovers - people, similar, but different)
It's plain awful.

Especially when they're truly in love with a specific field that is completely unnecessary and insignificant in the scheme of things. For example I met a guy on the weekend (applause please) who sold furniture. He was perfectly normal. Then wham. "I sell furniture". Oh dear. I was sucked into a blackhole (and all those physicist out there know you have to travel faster than the speed of light to escape these - and quite frankly I can barely run 200m) into the furniture dimension. Huzzah. Like your typical garden variety idiot, I opened my big fat pie hole and informed him, as though no one had ever told him this before, "it's just furniture". Oh, farewell to the next fifteen minutes of my youth. A perfectly recited speel on how furniture is imperative to life. The history and integrity behind each seam and carving and curve and I completely tuned out. It is like the television was fixed on AntiquesRoadshow and you just realized you can't find that remote. A familiar frenzied panic as you lift every billion cushion your mother insisted on buying - possibly to hide the remote in scenarios such as this..But really, while they're yabbering on about the character and influence of each little scratching and thread of fabric, you've got your nod face on. Nod. Nod. "Oh yeah..." Nod. "Oh really?" Nod Nod Nod.....nodding off...

One of the worst are those English fanatics - or English teachers. You get the plain ones and the interesting ones, and then you hit the mother of grammar. The one who practically established the damned apostrophe. You may be reading the most innocent of books and the line could be "I promise you won't hear another word from me" (yes, Robbie's dying words in Atonement) and suddenly you're thrust into yet another swirling vortex of english entropy where you're forced to analyse even the punctuation and the words that aren't there. (Classic case: Eats, Shoots and Leaves - good book read it) Being a literature student, I understand, but really? I remember in year eight reading The Running Man. Like any english class we analysed it to kingdom come, and then we learnt we'd be meeting the author. My english teacher, on the spectrum of excitement, was off the rictorscale (excuse the spelling of this - apparently - made up word). She arrived at the intimate session with a list of questions and inquires and worked through them methodically. It came to one of the analytical questions based around the symbolism of something seemingly unimportant. "When you placed the boot beside the tree, not under it, did you mean..blahblahblah" I don't even remember the details. His response: "oh, I never considered it like that, that's quite clever I suppose." Brilliant. The author hasn't even read into his book as much as we have.

If we were to analyse the not so obvious (not that symbolism ever is) representations of this scenarios we would find that we weren't meant to find anything.
Sure you get the musicians who should have been born in the fifties and grown up in the 60s, the era of the Beatles and good ol drugs *swoon*, and the artists who feel that they can only express themselves through bits of paint, we've learnt to accept you arty creatures.
But one last one please, and then you can exit this window, or navigate back to facebook.

I know I'll be in the very very small minority (because you know, minorities are generally huge....??) here when I charge against the oh so marvellous MasterChef, but I can't stand it. The only reason I'll sit through the fumbling hour is to see what MattPreston is wearing. Next time you sit down with your cup of three minute noodles, watching the 'amateur' chefs whip up some crockenbusch in envy, actually think about what the hosts have to say. Not only does George speak with his conducting fists of fury, and the other one resembling Poomba from the Lion King speak chin first, but they reel on about food. No one should ever take food that seriously, seriously. The essence, the soul, the character, the textures, the fragrance, the dedication, the whispyness, the load of bullcrap. The three of them could describe cardboard in a way that even Kevin007Krud would take a lil nibble (I imagine like a rabbit nibbling at carrots). Don't over analyse the food. Eat it! And all the "MasterChefs" pouring their heart and soul onto a plate and serving it to the three hungry wolves, oh please. If you're heart was served with a bowl of rice, wouldn't you feel a little embarrassed/exposed? (and at least garnish yourself with the asians favourite decorative herb/plant/thing - parsley) Stop with this passionate culinary culture.

I won't beg you, because that would make me a begging enthusiast...but really, in the scheme of things, is the curvature on this desk leg a revolution? Is that extra pinch of oregano going to make me weep? Because if I'm passionate about something, it's not about being passionate.

Stay Tuned.
life's narcissistic narrator.
+ the red fox.

-OVER AND OUT-