Top Ten: Things I can't live without

I know that I can't live without food or water because, well, I'd be dead. But this isn't that kind of list. This is more of an 'I could live without them but I wouldn't want to' list. Indulge me for a moment and read on...

1) Sleep:

As evident from previous posts, readers will know I have lived without sleep for days, many times. The results? Not pretty. Hallucinations, holes in memory and angry tirades directed at innocent family members. If you value friends and sanity, make sure you get your 8 hours while I try to get mine. 

2) Music:

Music is my best friend. She's there when I'm happy or sad. She's at the gym, urging me on for just five more minutes. Within the same breath, she can inspire and move me to tears. She drowns out the silence on long car journeys and is as much a memory as the memory itself. I can't see her but I'd be lost.

3) Books:

Learning to read opened the door to my imagination. All the stories - the hundreds of world's I've visited without having to move - has enriched my life and the way I see the things. As long as I have a book - I don't care what it is - I'm content. 

4) Memories:

Memories make us who we are on good days and fuel us on the bad. Idle insignificant moments of my life where I am lost in banality, stress or sadness, can be altered by the recall of a distant memory. The smile, the happiness evoked, flicks the switch. Without memories, life would be very poor. Just ask patient H.M. 

5) Pen/Pencil:

We might live in a technological age where handwriting is that swirly thing kids learned in primary school (and left there) but I would hate the inability to write things down. I don't even need paper -  the skin on my arm is sufficient. I might not be Shakespeare and his quill but I have the right to try, damn it!

6) News:

Reading it, watching it - I'm not fussy. Good or bad, I'll take both. The thought of going a couple of days without access to the news gives me palpitations. Not knowing what's happening in the world? Excuse me while I go get my Sky News on. It's for the good of my health...

7) Internet:

How else can one watch TV, book a holiday, buy a new wardrobe and read a list of the most unusual deaths (and anything else weird) without leaving your desk? Impossible!

8) Passport:

I might not like the picture inside but my little burgundy book represents a wealth of opportunity. The instant access to hundreds of destinations provides untold possibilities. All I need is my passport. Money helps too, of course, but that's another matter. 

9) Laughter:

Handing out smiles makes me feel like a decent human being. Nothing else will remedy a bad day (or an awkward situation) that laughter. My mum taught me to laugh, particularly at myself, no matter what the occasion. So I do. A lot. Most people laugh at me too but I can deal with that; as long as they're happy. 

10) Writing:

I suppose I could have put this with number 5 but writing is so much more than the physical act of using a pen. It's a whole process; thoughts, creativity, imagination. I can't bear to think of a life without the time or opportunity to write. It's a fun, sometimes cathartic, activity that prevents my brain from exploding. Needs must and all that...

So reader, what things can't you live without? 

The Voice of the Unheard?

When Mark Duggan was killed in a Police shooting last Friday, the news barely scraped my consciousness. I did not know him. He was yet another face to match another front page headline. As awful as it sounds, though I fleetingly thought of his family, I went about my day like any other. 

And when the riots started in Tottenham, seemingly in protest to Duggan's death, the same happened. I'd seen this before: the student riots were not that long ago. I didn't fully understand their motives and I had a head full of questions (and a mouth full of rude words) but it did not affect me. I was unconnected. 

But then Monday came. It was 8.30pm. There was a chorus of sirens - Police, Ambulance, Fire - and they were edging closer. In the distance a helicopter hovered above a thick stream of white grey smoke. The air was acrid and heavy and it wasn't the weather. For the first time in my life I decided to stay indoors for fear of what might happen outside. Instead, I watched the news. 

Businesses and homes were looted and vandalised. Hooded youths of all age ran amok with the kind of adrenaline only a riot could provide. Antagonised Police tried to contain the problem with their meagre hands of power but it was never going to be enough. 

Within minutes, a furniture shop built through generations of one family was nothing more than charcoal. Children carried by their parents, cried, as their homes and belongings drifted up to the sky in a flurry of black ash. Everything earned during a lifetime of hard work vanished in seconds.

What started as a problem elsewhere slowly crept in to my vicinity. In an instant I was connected. It makes me ashamed to admit such superficiality. Initially uncaring, I shrugged at the issue as if it were trivial.  It was beyond my realm of comprehension because it was way over there in someone else's street. It wasn't in mine. I had no experience.

But as the evening darkened and the sirens grew increasingly frequent, I felt it; the fear of the community, the wonder if it would ever end. There was one image in the newspaper that really struck me; a shopkeeper had posted a note in his window: 'Due to imminent societal collapse, I regret to inform you we'll be closing at 6pm'. The words made me laugh but in the seconds it took to process, I wondered. Could society collapse? Was this just the beginning? Disaster has to start somewhere.

Martin Luther King once said 'riots are the voice of the unheard'. People riot when they have exhausted all other means of communication. If I was to examine the riots across the UK recently, I wonder if I could put them in this context. If these riots were about unemployment, budget cuts, or a real desire to truly know what happened to Mark Duggan at the hands of the Police, this context would be true. Sadly, it appears the real motive behind the riots has dissolved. In all I have seen and experienced, it seems to be nothing more than an excuse to steal, vandalise and have a good time fighting for fighting's sake. And that's even more frightening.

Reader, what say you?

The Death Effect

The passing of death always serves as a reminder of how fragile life is. It's a swift jolt to brains caught up in the monotony of everyday existence. Suddenly we remember that death is scary and final; death happens.

The death of Amy Winehouse at the weekend, sadly, did not shock me. It was everything that happened afterwards. It was the news channels spitting out the news only an hour after she was found dead. It was the gluttonous purchasing of her music on iTunes, sending an old album flying back up the charts, as if people hadn't had access to it for the last five years. It was the media lionising her unforgettable talent when previously all they did was berate her for her addiction, despite the messy tabloid gold it provided. 

It all just felt wrongly childish; as if we lived in a giant playground and everyone had decided it was okay to like that person again. It didn't matter if they knocked them to the ground and kicked them while they were down. That was yesterday.

Still, it is not the first time this has happened. Michael Jackson's death two years ago induced the same surge in his popularity. In recent years, condoned by the media in light of the allegations surrounding his private life, he was ridiculed and vilified. And yet, within hours of his death he was a renewed figure of appreciation; a talent the world would miss.

Take Marilyn Monroe. During her career she was never really viewed as an exemplary actress; her job was a 'sex symbol' and nothing more. But since her death at age 36, she is cited as one of the greatest female stars of all time. Her estate is probably richer now than it ever was when she was alive.

What is it about the effect of death on a person's significance? Seemingly, an untimely demise renews our interest in their contribution to the world. Where was all this caring and appreciation when it really counted?

Suddenly everyone remembers that person actually mattered and, perhaps surprisingly, that person was human; not some figure of greatness to perch on a pedestal. They were flesh, blood and bones; their hearts could break and their souls could hurt. They were just like us. 

Maybe that's what this is all about. Glorifying someone after their death is just a reflection of how we would want to be treated. Maybe this rush to celebrate Amy Winehouse and remember her talent is because we ourselves want to be celebrated when we're gone. We don't want to be forgotten.

Reader, what say you?

I predict a riot

Presently, the UK is in chaos. Hazardous snowy weather, jobless millions and a shaky coalition government trying to clean the mess its predecessor left behind.

After years of poor governing and escalating debts, the UK was in obvious need of an overhaul. Drastic cuts, increased taxes and political reform. It was on the cards and yet there was always going to be some who didn't like the hand they were dealt...

A few days ago, thousands stormed the Liberal Democrat headquarters to protest against one such increase -University tuition fees- and the anger of a broken promise. A promise from the Lib Dem leader, Nick Clegg, to scrap those fees completely.

But a seemingly peaceful protest descended into violence. Youths smashed windows with metal implements. A Police Van vandalised, people injured and, eventually, the protest bought to an abrupt end by hundreds of Officers.

Still, they wanted to shout for their cause. One sixth-form student said, '£9,000 a year fees are a joke. For three years, that's £21,000. It's ridiculous.' She's correct. It is ridiculous that after 18 years of education she still doesn't know her times tables.

Reader, I do understand their innumerate frustration. I was a student. I remember the struggle to find the £3,000 per year tuition fees, not to mention the thousands for accommodation and living expenses. University life adds up to one very expensive equation.

And sadly, for most young protesters there, University is not worth the math. They do not want an education. They want an easy ride; 4 lectures per week, booze-filled nights and 40% to pass the year. A three year gap before having to look for work.

But in that crowd, on shards of broken glass, there are those few. Those who articulate their peaceful protest, who have the common sense to know violence is never the answer. They are fuelled by a desire to be more. They want to learn and grow as human beings and show the world their potential.

What happens to them? Amidst the screams of pointless violence, who will hear their voices?

Reader, what say you?

Rant of the Day

I have an issue with injustice. A fundamental part of me - a gene - roused with anger at the very thought of people doing wrong and getting away with it. So intense, so intrinsic is this, I often adopt the behaviour of spoilt child: feet stamped and shoulders slumped.

For the past month I have followed the story of Constance McMillen. Aged 18, she was banned from taking her girlfriend to Prom in Mississippi. When fuss was kicked, the event was cancelled by the school - exposing McMillen to a flurry of abuse from peers. A Prom was later staged by parents but McMillen was sent to a fake venue with only 7 others in attendance. The rest of the school bigots had their heterosexual dance elsewhere.

When I read this, my heart was a caged bird. I felt its fluttering in my ears and, soon, my gene was roused. Anger lurked like an insidious lump in my throat. As evident from previous posts, I have no place for prejudice. Particularly this behavioural form. It is fine to have a difference of opinion but to enforce this difference on others and its resulting behaviour is both offensive and unjust.

McMillen already lives with one difficulty- that her sexuality does not fit the 'accepted norms' of society. Of course, this is arguable. I live in a place fully accepting of the LGBT community. Clearly, McMillen does not. Furthermore, to be faced with an array of prejudicial abuse from her school, her peers and their parents is one difficult step too far. Where is the justice in this?

Discrimination of this kind is an insult to human nature and its malleability. We have such great potential to learn from past mistakes and grow in acceptance of all things, of all people. And yet we continue to exist in a fixed sphere of intolerance and the more we do so, the more injustice occurs. I'd like things to change.

What say you, reader?

Happy Blogiversary!

A year ago today, I became a Blogger. What a fun-filled tumultuous 365 days it has been. Let us hop aboard my non-existing time travel device and go back to the beginning...

I introduced myself in a list of random facts. Wrote about the importance of memory and acting your shoe size. Explained how the violent relationship with my abnormal appendix came to an end, and the first rate hospital service provided during recovery. Throw in some poetry, a Top Ten series and a few jobless rantings and you have the perfect mix of what my blog represents. Sadly readers, this isn't a recipe. Apologies.

In order to keep this blog going, I've decided to shake things up. A bit like a couple desperate to add some spice in the form of handcuffs when their sex life goes stale. Here's a list of what's coming up (no pun intended) this year:

1) The LiveWriteDream Blog Review:

Occasionally I will pick a random blog to read and review. If I like what I see, I will promote it. If I don't like what I see, well, I'll write that too, constructively of course. Perhaps it will end in a libellous lawsuit, perhaps it won't. Nevertheless, I'll have fun trying.

2) Rant Day:

On a yet to be named day of the week, I will write a purely rant-filled post. This will be about something that has annoyed me, be it what I've read, seen or experienced. It may even be about a celebrity. Not so fond of those. At present, all of my blog posts are general rantings so you may have to wait until everything stops annoying me. Readers, it may be a while.

3) The LiveWriteDream Blog Award:

Currently, I am creating my very own blog award to present to my favourite bloggers here in the blogosphere. I can't promise it will be fancy. It may look like it was created by a 5 year-old. But it will be given with love and admiration and should be displayed proudly for all to see. Just like the stick-people drawings by a 5 year-old given to her parents and stuck proudly on the fridge door.

And there you have it. The new and improved LiveWriteDream. Coming soon(ish). Maybe. When I can be bothered. Oh, the anticipation!

'Tis healthy to be sick sometimes...'

It's that time of year. The over 65s get flu jabs. Tesco runs out of tissues and Vicks vapour rub. The red-nosed germ infested man breathes heavily down my neck on the central line. Everyone is coming down with something. And so am I. A relentless scratch at my throat. An annoying sniffle. A plague of headaches that will never cease. I am sick. Of. Everything.

I'm sick of hearing about the X Factor. In Sainsbury's. The pub. Boots the Chemist. Even the oldies in the Post Office give me their two pennies' worth. Just the sound of their admiration for the 'sexy' swinging hips of Olly-can't-sing-but-will-probably-win-Murs results in ear ache. Plus an annoying hum that won't end. A bit like the high pitch that accompanied the BBC test card with the little girl and the freaky clown.

I'm sick of reading about Tiger Woods and Tiger's Wood (now an upcoming porno- get ready people). As mistress number thirteen comes out of the woodwork (pun intended) I wonder how he managed to have sex with all those dirty women and play golf. Contemplating levels of sanitation makes stomach heave. Chunks threaten to rise.

I'm sick of Gordon Brown and all the other waste of space MPs who've spent all our money on golden syrup, potted plants and pay-per-view porn. (I've now said this twice in one post. It's getting out of hand- no pun intended).

I'm sick of people thrusting their iPhone's in my space. As if I want to use a phone that doesn't have keys to press and looks like it's been made by aliens. And no I don't care if you have an 'app' that makes the screen steam up like a shower. Will that help me when I need to call 999 after I've had a mental breakdown from all this rubbish? No. But it will look pretty. Sod off.

Henry David Thoreau once said it was healthy to be sick sometimes. If that's the case, I'm the healthiest bloody person I know...

We shall keep the Faith

It's that time of year again. Out into the cold they tread, men and women, medals pinned to their chests. They jangle a tin of coins and present a box of poppies.

The poppy as a symbol of remembrance originated in 1918. Inspired by the war poem 'In Flanders Field' by John McCrae, US Professor Moina Michaels promised to always wear a poppy for those who served in the war. And so it goes...

Sadly, the Poppy Appeal has bought much debate in recent years. Last year Channel 4 newsreader Jon Snow refused to wear a poppy on air, stating that it should be a personal choice, not a political force. 2009 proves no different. In The Independent yesterday, Mark Steel asked, 'why should I be pressured into wearing a poppy?' He argued that the selling of the famous red flower was a government conspiracy; a ploy to ensure we keep on fighting. Even pubs and libraries have jumped on the 'poppy fascist' bandwagon by refusing to sell them.

I am disgusted.

They are missing the point by a country mile. The wearing of a poppy is not just about remembering those who have lost lives fighting for the freedom of our country. It's not just about the past. It's about hope and support for our future. To turn the poppy into a political symbol is outrageous and extremely naive.

The Royal British Legion use money raised in the Poppy Appeal to help provide financial, social and emotional support for those who have served and continue to serve in our Armed Forces. By actively refusing to wear a poppy, we are implying that these needs are not valid; that our forces are not important; that we just don't care. In times such as these; how is that right?

When my Nan passed away a month ago, we found a poppy amidst her belongings. Stuck to a small wooden cross, underneath she had written, 'To us you were the world.' This for my Granddad who died in the RAF in 1944. It represented his memory, her pride in his duty served. A tiny red symbol of her loss. Our loss. She kept that for sixty-five years. Political? I think not.

Just like my Nan, I keep a poppy. Every November I buy a new one and I wear it with pride. Not just for my Granddad but for all the Granddad's. Uncle's. Brother's. Friend's.

In the big scheme of things, it isn't difficult to pin a small red flower to your lapel. For one week, one day out of a year, that's all it takes to show some respect. Forget the political ramifications, the debate, and the conspiracy theories. Remember the dead, the injured, the families left behind. That's what the poppy really stands for.

Humanity is just a work in progress...

I am not a misanthrope. This is me we're talking about. I openly adore happy endings and smiling at strangers. I want the good guy to win. Always. But sometimes optimism fades.

As a society we are confronted frequently by our actions. The seedy underbelly of humanity is laid bare on a daily basis, stripped of benevolence. Through media we have no choice but to meet with our failings, or as such, the failings of others. Sex isn't the only thing that sells. Add violence and corrupt politicians and you've got one big money-making equation.

Day after day I read some version of kids murdering kids, people enslaving people. Governments stealing from their own country. Abuse. Fraud. Theft. The list is endless. Out in the world we exist together, and yet so far apart. People on the street are lost; passers-by a void around them. Hold open a door for someone and you won't get a thank-you in return. Sometimes it's the little things.

Repeatedly I get knocked; gradually I am worn, eroded. That's when the optimism, the faith in humanity, starts to wane.

But today there was hope. I awoke this morning to stories that recharged my belief that, at its very heart, humanity can be good. People can be good. A small group of British Firefighters are off to help search for survivors in the aftermath of the Samoa tsunami. The knowledge that these men are to risk their lives for others, in a country that on any other day we would not think about, warms my soul.

In addition to this story, a British football team stopped a woman from jumping to her death from the Humber Bridge. This simple act of kindness to someone in need reminds us of the invisible ties that bind us. Humanity, in its most basic form, can be found in the strangest of places.

As a result (for now at least) I find my faith in humanity restored. Or should that be faith in footballers...?

The Legacy of Peter Pan

When I was three years old I danced my very first dance. Well, that's debatable. It was more like a bum wiggle. But the song that so inspired the wiggle was 'Don't stop till you get enough.' And I didn't. I 'danced' until my little legs could no longer do so.

The following year I was given a battered cassette tape labelled 'Bad' and a portable player from my sister's hand-me-downs. Clipping the player onto my skirt, I adjusted the massive headphones and pressed play.

The rest, as they say, is HIStory.

So far I've had a 21 year love affair with Michael Jackson's music. I spent most of 1988 to 1995 listening to the entire catalogue of hits from 'Off the Wall' to 'Thriller' and 'Dangerous.' Needless to say I was shocked when I heard the news of Jackson's passing. The reminder of death always leaves an unpleasant feeling. It hangs around, questioning our beliefs, our way of life, our future. It goes against what nature intended- that is-to live. Ironically, death is a part of life too but, when it happens, you never remember that. Why would you want to?

It is important to remember that Jackson has succeeded where so many others have failed. He left an amazing musical legacy that I doubt anyone will repeat. Or even come close. Despite his death he will continue to live- through this legacy. Regardless of how the media and some may have viewed him, he's left his mark on the world. One hell of a mark. Isn't that something?

Barbie is a Bigot

For the past week I have been lost in slumber. This doesn't mean I have been asleep for seven days. I'm not that lucky. I've just been kind of numb. Vague. Life seemed a bit blurry around the edges. I've been on a drug trip, without the drugs. I have no idea what bought it on. It must have been time for a funny five minutes. Or perhaps a silly seven days.

It is not often that something can anger me so much that it jolts me from my own numb little world, where life (in my head) is equal and just. But this weekend it did. I was watching the news when a barbie-doll-type creature appeared. Her dress was so sparkly I feared I might be blind as the light reflected off the silver gems and burned my eyes. She was so plastic she looked close to melting point under the harsh studio lights.

I'm talking about Miss California. This past weekend was the Miss USA pageant; a disgusting form of 'entertainment' that thrives on the idea that women are objects and beauty is paramount. I never thought of myself as a staunch feminist but catching a glimpse of the contestants in their bathing suits with their fake tans and perfect white teeth, parading their bodies like show-ponies, I have to admit that I am.

However, it wasn't the whole beauty-objectifying aspect of the Miss USA that became world news this weekend. It was gay marriage. When celebrity blogger Perez Hilton asked whether she believed in same-sex marriage, Miss California Carrie Prejean, a.k.a Barbie, replied:

"We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite. And you know what, I think in my country, in my family, I think that I believe that a marriage should be between a man and a woman. No offense to anybody out there, but that's how I was raised."

This was the moment that jolted me from my numbness. Can you believe I actually forgot that people like her still exist? She's not the only stupid one.

And you know why Barbie is so stupid? Because she makes her own belief sound ridiculously outdated. She points out that she lives in a country with the right to choose but basically states that the right to choose is wrong. Furthermore, she bases her whole argument on the way she was raised when actually her sister is a gay rights activist. Surely her sibling was nurtured by the same parents and yet she never turned out a homophobe.

Perhaps I am being unfair. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion and in a twisted way, it's refreshing that someone had the courage to voice theirs in a world rife with political correctness. But everyone should have EQUAL rights. If people can't marry because they are the same sex, we are endorsing the idea that gay people are second-class citizens. Why do so many insist in moving backwards when society has struggled with a ferocious determination to move forwards?

Consider me truly baffled. Reader, what do you think?

Now I've heard it all...

Have you ever read something that caused your jaw to slacken and your head to shake wildly in disbelief? This is usually followed by the words ‘no way!’ Or if you’re me: ‘no fucking way; what a load of bullshit bollocks!’ What can I say, I like swearing. It’s cathartic.

Anyways, the Daily Mail revealed that British students can now study how to be a redcoat at Butlins. In case any of you have no idea what this is, let me explain it for you. Butlins is a cheap and cheerful cheese-fest of a holiday camp. Camp being the operative word here. A redcoat is the nickname for the entertainment staff who work there, singing and dancing through cringe-worthy routines all the while wearing- wait for it- red coats! The mind boggles, it really does.

I read the article and the above happened. My jaw slackened. My head shook wildly, exorcist-style. Through my disbelief over this new educational development, I did some research on what kind of degrees are available here in the UK. The results shocked me. If becoming a redcoat isn't your thing, what about about a BA in Gambling? Or a BA in Boats? And my lovely old University of Sussex even do a course in bee-keeping. Yes. Bees.

Reader, what is happening to our education system? We used to value skills so highly; basic skills that would help us in our careers. A mathematics degree may be difficult, it may be a struggle, but I’m pretty certain that any owners of this degree have guaranteed jobs at the end of it. Can they say the same about the owner of a BA in boats?

Don't get me wrong here. I admire any dedication to a subject. It takes a lot of strength to continue learning past the legally required age. Plus I'm all for learning something new. Widening the minds, gaining new skills. Variety. But bees? I really have heard it all.

What’s next, a PhD in the art of pillow fluffing?

Lest we forget...

Deep within a museum in Washington DC there is a room. Resting on the three-floor-high walls of this room are one thousand photographs. They do not make you smile, nor do they evoke joyful reminiscence. They make you angry. Bitter. Sad.

This room is called the Tower of Faces. Every picture that lines this room tells the story of a lost soul. A lost life. They tell us about the Holocaust.

The Holocaust was a defining moment that will live on in the walls of that room, that museum. It will exist in the pages of faded, yellowing textbooks. It will reach out to the farthest branches on family trees, through generations.

It will survive within hearts and minds.

And yet there are those who do not see those faded pages. Those who fail to recognise the cruel imagery that we now equate with such a shameful period of our history. Roman Catholic Bishop, Richard Williamson questioned the true extent of the Holocaust during an interview last month whereby he argued ‘there were no gas chambers and only 300,000 Jews died in the concentration camps.’

The sheer ignorance of this statement angers me to unimaginable heights of fury. Not only does it prove Williamson extremely uneducated but demonstrates a blatant disregard for Holocaust survivors and their families. Such distorted views comes three years after historian David Irving was imprisoned for Holocaust denial.

But I wonder how this is possible. How can one ignore a vast piece of our history? How can one deny the evidence? Memoirs. Photographs. Rows of mismatched shoes; sole less and scuffed. Piles of spectacles, twisted frames and fractured glass. Emaciated men, bones sharp, skin thin. How?

I’d like Williamson and Irving to stand amongst the tower of faces. I’d like them to look at every single one of those 1,000 photographs. Look into the eyes. Then I’d like them to tell me the Holocaust wasn’t real.

We do not remember days; we remember moments

Memory. It never fails to amaze me. Deep within the recesses of our grey matter, amidst the firing synapses, there lies this vast cognitive ability that allows us to remember.

I find it incredible that I can be sitting at my desk and suddenly I’ll be transported to the time I cut my foot open on a crab shell at aged 8. Or I'll be watching rain fall from the grey sky and instantly, without force, I can feel the gust of heat and humidity as I stepped off the plane in Florida when I was nine. Memories are that powerful.

So I find myself wondering; why would anyone want to rid themselves of such power, such capacity? Astonishingly, there are some who do. Today the Daily Mail and The Guardian reported news of a memory-erasing pill, developed to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. The idea is that it will expunge the sufferer of any painful memories thus allowing them a happy and fulfilling life.

Quite frankly, I’m astounded. Do the decades worth of research count for nothing? What about all those patients, people who lost their ability to remember? Take H.M for example. Henry Molaison was a 27 year old man who underwent brain surgery to correct epilepsy and developed amnesia. For over fifty years, until his death, he could not form new memories. He spent those five decades in an institution assisting scientists’ research on memory.

This case study doesn't bear thinking about. It's heartbreaking to know that one person can live such a life, so unfulfilled, simply because he cannot remember. I’m pretty certain that H.M would have given anything to lead a vastly different life than the one he lived. The chance to form new memories and remember old ones is a like a basic human right. No one should live without it.

And yet there are people willing to do so!

Memories are there for a reason. Yes, some are bad. But the bad ones are like mistakes; they help us grow. We learn from them. We become better people because of them. I don't understand why anyone would want to throw such potential away.

Jobless

I feel a certain amount of shame announcing that I am jobless. The word 'unemployed' that really gets to me. It makes my cheeks burn. Eye contact goes out the window. I'm ashamed, I admit it.

Considering today's economic climate, I shouldn't feel this way. According to National Statistics Online, the unemployment rate has risen to 6.1%, the highest rate since September 1997. Trust me to graduate at one of the worst economic time periods in over ten years!

It is assumed, unfairly, that finding a job and securing it is easy. Let me tell you something. It. Is. Not. For two months I have spent twelve plus hours a day online, printing CVs, writing cover letters, visiting jobsite after jobsite. When I finally finished my MA degree those four months ago, I felt empowered. I thought I had possibilities. Prospects. I felt like my life was finally about to begin. I am not one of those graduates who expected a job to fall easily into my hands. I expected hard work. I expected rejections. I prepared myself for that eventuality.

But today, employers want more than degrees. They want experience. This makes me angry. I don't have work experience in the field I want to start my career in. But I am more than willing to get it! Unfortunately, no one will hire you without it. Just how am I expected to learn? This is what baffles me the most.

I feel disheartened. I feel like a little lost soul, simply trying to find my niche in the world and am getting nowhere for trying. But I won't ever stop. I will continue my daily efforts. I will write more cover letters and CVs. But what I'd really like is an opportunity to show that I am capable of doing a job, that I can give 110% in my career. All I need is someone to take that chance. Until then, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed!