'LEAVE CROCKER ALONE'

Recently, through a sheer stroke of luck (or more realistically, when a friend liked his image), Chris Crocker popped up on my timeline. For a lot of people, they will immediately know exactly who Chris Crocker is. The blonde kid sitting in front of a curtain screaming, 'LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE' is one we could hardly forget.

The video was uploaded in 2007, that's SEVEN years ago to my fellow mathlete failures (I counted with my fingers. It's legit.) ((Is that how you even spell mathlete? Is mathlete a word?)) and since then Chris has done A LOT. Look him up now and chances are you won't even recognise him.

A strong advocate for LGBT rights, Crocker has never made his cross dressing a secret, a rarity in itself considering the deeply religious background he came from. Crocker strives to be a role model for young men, and women alike, who live in fear of prejudice and isolation due to their sexuality, gender identity or whatever the fuck else makes them happy that isn't considered a 'social norm'. Crocker has no problem telling his 'haters' where to go but despite this, he is still faced with an assault of hate mail on a regular basis from religious nuts or insecure 'macho' guys who, judging by their atrocious spelling, are all illiterate.

On the 16th of January, 2014, Crocker uploaded this status on his facebook page:

My inbox is flooded with messages from "Go to hell, you disgraceful tranny." to "Cut your dick off. You are a disgrace to life itself."

My question is: What part of this is suppose to be hurtful?

If I was going to stop being myself for you IGNORANT, BACKWARDS-MINDED Christian-Brainwashed pieces of shit - I would have stopped being myself a LONG time ago.

So bring on the insults. Just know you are trying to take down 26 years of confidence. Confidence that comes from being EXACTLY who I am.

Let your hate rot you to pieces 

because it will destony ONLY you. Not me. 

Your problem is what is possibly inside of you. Are you possibly gay? Do you possibly WANT TO CROSS DRESS? Do not take your anger at yourselves out on me. Come out to your parents. Come out to YOURSELF.

Looking more closely upon Crocker's page, I began to read comments left beneath photos which left a taste similar to that of a dog named 'Society's shit. Beneath photo's of Crocker dressed as a woman were slanderous comments marking Chris as 'unnatural' and 'an abomination' (and those were the nicer ones!) While photos of Chris without make up in his 'male persona' received comments like; 'You're so handsome!' and 'You don't need all that make up!' - while I understand that these commenters meant well, telling a crossdresser that they 'don't need' to dress as the opposite sex is incredibly insulting. Most don't do it out of insecurity, they do it because they damn well want to.  

Comments like this almost made it seem that while a lot of people want to seem 'supportive' and open to the LGBT community, they still don't understand it. They don't understand why a man would want to marry another man, or a woman another woman, most don't even believe that Bi-sexuality is a real sexual orientation. To then have to try and wrap their heads around why a person would want to dress as the opposite sex, or why they feel trapped within their own bodies is a completely different ballpark that society seems just too lazy to try and understand. To actively protest that you are an LGBT ally and then tell happily tell a crossdresser or transsexual that they don't 'need' make up is almost worse than outrightly saying that they are 'going to hell' because what you're basically saying is; 'You clearly have no self-esteem, which is obviously the ONLY reason you could possibly want to dress as the opposite sex so I'm going to be your hero and tell you how great you look when you look just like everyone else!' Ignorance is just as destructive a force as outright homophobia. Perhaps we'll all learn this some day.

I'm going to wrap up my rant here despite having a lot more to say on the topic, mostly because I know that I myself, am more than likely ignorant in some way or another, but I'm happy to be educated and to learn as much as I can about equality in all aspects of life, not just online. 

Disclaimer: All views represented here are my own, how 'correct' I am in terms of correct terms etc is always open for discussion and if I have said something here offensive and thereby prove my own ignorance, feel free to leave a comment/email me letting me know. 

Christopher Cunningham-Crocker's Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/ChrisCrockerOFFICIAL

Dear Diary..

While clearing through the hazardous (and more than likely, toxic) mess that is my room today, I found my journal. Flicking through it's contents, two years of memories began to flood back to me. It's earliest entries describing the day I was trying to change under a towel in the car when the hottest boy the less than 'relationship-experienced' 15 year old me had ever seen knocked on the window to say 'Hi', to the most recent entry, which whined about my last break up....8 months ago.

I ended up spending over an hour reading the diary. Flicking through it's thick pages, watching as my handwriting changed from gaudy bubble-writing to failed cursive. I never did like my writing. 

I had bought the diary when I was 15 while staying with family in West Cork. Mum had taken my sister to get ice cream while I had wandered into one of the 'artsy' stores opened around the small town to attract the tourists. Walking into the orange-scented store, I knew almost instantly that everything here would be over-priced, from the intricately framed mirrors to the bejewelled pens. As pretty as it all was, it was completely out of my measly price range. As I was walking out to meet my mother, who was now standing impatiently outside with my 7 year-old sister, who was busy stuffing her face with mint chocolate ice-cream, I spotted a 'bargain bin' tucked under a shelf of painted glass elephants. Fishing through it's contents hurriedly, I found a small stack of journals, each one covered prettily with different designs, each one unique and empty. Waiting to be filled with experiences and memories. I had never owned a journal before, but after two days without internet looming before me, I was willing to start writing in one to pass the time I would have otherwise spent with my family, a fate worse than death for any moody teenager. It didn't take long to find the journal I wanted. It wasn't brightly colored, like most of the others, it's design even seemed sloppy compared to the other covers. But straight away, I knew this was the one I wanted. A beige cover with a red spine, a sloppily drawn Classic New York taxi was the main focus of the front with Monday 25th December 1939 scribbled above it. On the back is a stamp with the only legible word being 'Government'. Looking at it now, I still can't believe I chose it, especially seeing as the college course I'm hoping to study next year is Government and my dream is to somehow bag a job in New York. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but I prefer to think that I'm awesome enough to see the future, I just don't know it yet~ 

The contents of the journal made me laugh at times. Partly as I reminisced over funny memories, but mostly out of embarrassment as I read rants about topics I couldn't care less about now. 

I've written a pretty long post here, and to avoid the risk of boring you, I'm going to only say this: Keeping a journal/diary teaches you that what worries you today, really will be something you'll laugh about tomorrow. It teaches you to not sweat the small stuff, to take each day as it comes and to live and let live... yada yada, *insert endless clichés here* Reading an old diary teaches you to consider your current situation and think, 'Will I even care about this in a year? Will I be proud about how I reacted to this? Am I paying enough attention to what's happening right now?' 

Also, starting off with the phrase 'Dear Diary' is really lame. 

-Sonj. 

Just a Little Light Reading

This is just a little of something I've been writing recently, not entirely sure whether I should continue on with this piece or just leave it as an unfinished piece. Opinions appreciated. - Sonja

Scarlett’s eyes squeezed shut as an icy breeze brushed over her skin. Strands of her ruby hair followed the direction of the wind, trying to escape their owner’s head before they were grabbed and shoved hastily into a ponytail. Tonight was the night. Finally. A devious smirk curled her lips as she thought of the money she’d earn from a night’s work. A girl could do a lot with a hundred grand.

She stood outside what could only be described as a mansion, busying herself by shoving a glimmering black helmet into the compartment beneath the seat of her motorcycle. Inside the building were just under a hundred people, gathered for a charity event. Scarlett only needed one.  

Her fingertips brushed over the lumps around her hips. Black clothing hid an array of concealed weapons, a pouch holding three daggers, a gun just above her right pocket, a silencer strapped just above her left. If those were to fail, she had a gun tucked under the fabric of her boots, the flat soles of which crunched harshly over gravel as she approached the back door of the mansion.

She was greeted as soon as she opened the door and stepped into the building by a frantic young man, his hand gripped her shoulder as he cried with relief and shoved a silver tray into her hands.

“Ah! More help, Thank God! Fill the empty champagne glasses over there and take them back out...Go!” Startled only briefly by his abruptness, Scarlett nodded swiftly and darted to where he had pointed, ignoring his agitated grumbles of snobby rich folk complaining about his efficiency as she filled the silver tray she had been given with delicately long necked champagne glasses. Filling each one with the fizzling concoction before she breezed out of the kitchen she had wandered into.

               

Admittedly, the assassin hadn’t been expecting to be given a cover quite so easily. Dumb luck had blessed her with an absentminded head-of-staff who, without a moment’s hesitation, had provided her with the perfect disguise as a member of the catering service supplying the party with food and drink. Her footsteps were silent as she headed walked along the long corridor, she had always been careful with her clothing. Rubber soled shoes were always the best for those in...her profession. Especially in buildings with plenty of wood-flooring, where the target could hear their death approaching louder than a stampede of elephants come trampling clumsily their way. She was dressed in black, a common colour for service staff. Her clothing was loose enough to conceal the compact weaponry strapped to her without been too loose as to cause suspicion.  She had been criticized once as ‘too cautious’ by another assassin, the thought of which instantly caused her temper to flare.  It was the same assassin who had labelled her as overly cautious who had tried to kill her less than three months ago... an ordeal she was still recovering from.

               

She weaved her way through a room of men dressed in designer suits and women with their hands and necks decorated with enough jewels to sparkle brighter than the Christmas tree in the centre of the room. She paused, allowing the wealthy alcoholics to reach for her depleting supply of champagne glasses. Her hazel eyes meanwhile drifted to the tree. Something as simple as a Christmas Tree was a rare sight for the young woman. Even from her childhood she could recall only two times where she had stayed in one place long enough for decorations to be put up. A smile curved her rosy lips as nostalgia overwhelmed her. When she was six, her father had stumbled into the motel room they were staying in with a small, 3.5ft Christmas tree resting on his shoulder. She remembered how he smiled, light radiating from his handsome face as she danced around the tree like any young child would, hanging little cardboard stars from the lowest branches while she ordered her uncle Arthur to decorate the places she couldn’t reach with more of her handmade stars. Her smile faded quickly, as memories of her first real Christmas dissipated to remind her of her second and last. She was sixteen at the time and it was two weeks after her father’s funeral. Arthur had walked into the apartment they had rented, smiling somewhat sheepishly as he lifted a bag that was in his hand into the air before his features fell into a frown again. He placed the contents of the bag gently onto the table where she was sitting. Her head was on the table and tucked firmly under her arms in an attempt to hide the pool of salty tears she had created in his absence. When she finally lifted her head, Arthur was gone. At the time she assumed he had retreated to his room, as he always did. She found a small cactus facing her from across the table. Beside it were two pictures, one was of her deceased mother, and the second was a picture of herself, her father and Arthur that had been taken during their first Christmas. Her father was smiling broadly, as he always did when in her presence. Arthur was standing awkwardly, as was his usual stance, but smiling, his eyes glowing from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. She was grinning broadly, one of her front teeth missing as she stood on a chair that had been placed between them. She’d always hated looking so small in photographs, especially compared to the tall stature of her father and uncle. Though there was no tinsel, or even any cardboard stars, Scarlett considered the cactus and two pictures as Christmas décor.

                “Well, well...If it isn’t the Scarlet Assassin herself.” A familiar voice murmured into her ear, snapping her from her memories and back into the present, fury pinched her spine as she stiffened. She didn’t dare look back at the owner of the voice. That would involve turning around, and if she did, she knew that the now empty silver tray in her hand would be used as a weapon to break his jaw. Instead, he walked around to face her. He was tall, much taller than her, with short chocolate brown hair and eyes that were such a light shade of blue, she’d swear they were silver. He was built like an athlete, not too much as to look overly intimidating, but enough to attract the right sort of attention for himself. The thought that she had been tricked into the same games as no doubt countless other women caused her to scowl with contempt, they had been left with pretty trinkets and an empty promise that ‘if love was true, they’d find one another again’, she had been left with something much more permanent.

                “What the hell are you doing here?” She hissed as she stepped closer. People were beginning to look their way, wondering why the ‘servant’ was looking so openly furious. Forcing herself to clear her dark features, a neutral smile replaced her scowl. A smile which faltered the moment he reached between the space separating the two of them, and gripped her arm. His touch, though gentle, sent her reeling. Electricity coursed through her as emotions she had buried catapulted into the air once again, her heart beat unnaturally fast. She could only hope that he couldn’t feel her racing pulse as he held her arm and guided her discreetly from the room.  She was falling again, and she knew it.

                “Let’s find somewhere more private to talk, Darling. I’ve never been one for crowds.” His voice was like silk, flowing like a ribbon from his lips and into her heart. Get yourself together, child! She reminded herself harshly. Now is not the time.
“How did you find me?” She demanded with a growl. He replied with a lazy, but charming smile.

“The same way I always do Scar, I stop looking for you and you turn up.”

Needless to say, his words stung more than she had expected. She realised she still held the silver tray in her left hand, avoiding drawing any more attention to it, she continued to walk. Her grip neither tightening nor loosening on the tray, as though even she had forgotten she was holding it.

                Soon enough they were in what Scarlett assumed to be an office. There were no papers, or a phone, or even a computer. But there was a desk, two ornate chairs, and rows of bookshelves lining the walls. As soon as the door had been closed, the male released her arm and walked towards the window of the office without looking back. She set the tray to lean against the wall beside the door swiftly and silently before following him to the window. She kept a few metres away from his tall, imposing figure, she’d learned from experience that moments like these could only be described as ‘the eye of the storm’, soon enough he’d turn on her. She prepared by reaching for one of the blades strapped around her hips.

“Don’t.” He warned without lifting his gaze from the window. “Three blades, three guns and a silencer.” He turned to face her, another charming grin overwhelming his already charming face. “You’re terribly predictable, Scar.”

“Why are you here, Alastair?” She demanded, unwilling to take any more of his snide comments.

“Business matters. I see you’re doing the same... Who’s your target?” The forwardness of his question startled her briefly, not that she allowed herself to show him that.

“I fail to see how that concerns you, Alastair.” She ignored his snort of derision before taking a few steps backwards. He followed, stepping closer and closer until she found herself against the desk. His tall frame leaning over hers. His hands rested on either side of her on the desk. His gaze softening as soon as their eyes met, Scarlett however didn’t see the closeness of their bodies as intimate, she knew better by now. She also knew exactly how to get herself out of the cage he had created with his own body.

                Pulling herself up so she was sitting on the edge of the desk, she lowered her gaze to his slightly too-thin lips, then upwards again to his eyes. His lips quirked into a knowing smile before his hands rested on her hips. His fingertips then trailed smoothly along her back, a hiss of agony escaping her lips as he did.
“You’re still unwell?” She couldn’t help but detect the hint of concern in his voice, whether it was genuine concern or mockery was the question.

“What did you expect darling, when you stabbed me in the back?” Her reply came openly enough for him to flinch with embarrassment. She wondered deviously what he would do if she were to show the scar he had created less than a few months earlier, now pink and hideous. Would he feel ashamed? Sorry? He certainly looked it. A wave of satisfaction washed over her at the thought as she reached out and cupped his face with her hand. Her lips connected briefly with his forehead and kissed it gently. “Hush now, had I been offered half as much, you would be dead right now.” A grin lifted her lips. His eyes were closed as he forced a chuckle before replying.

“It wasn’t worth it. I thought you were really dead Scar...” She frowned at the pain laced throughout his words. Could it be that he did love her, like he said? No. She felt her softening heart steel again, her emotions disappearing as fast as they had arrived. No matter what she said, she knew that no amount of money would ever make her murder the one she loved, or try at least.

                His eyes opened and drifted upwards to lock with hers. A moment of silence engulfed them both before suddenly Alastair’s lips pressed against her own with crushing urgency. She responded by kissing back with equal passion, she lay back on the desk, pulling him with her until he was leaning over her. Breaking away from the kiss, she smirked, her lips inches from his as she mumbled breathlessly.

“You were wrong about me, Alastair...” Frowning gently, Alastair ran a hand through her ruby hair gently, equally breathless as he spoke.

“How so, darling?” Scarlett brought her lips to his ear, smirking gently before she growled.

“I am not predictable.” A bolt of energy passed through her as she kicked out and sent him sprawling backwards, causing herself to slide across the desk and towards the door. Before she could hit the floor her hands pushed out and sprung her back to her feet in a cartwheel-style move. She didn’t look back as she sprang for the door, but she could hear him already giving chase. Grabbing the tray she had left by the door, she spun and slammed the flat piece of silver into the side of her pursuer’s head. With an ‘Oof’, he crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. She dropped the tray on the floor and dragged his unconscious body onto one of the chairs by the desk. She used his belt to tie his wrists behind his back and kissed his cheek softly, leaving an imprint of her red lipstick before allowing his head to droop.

“Goodnight Alastair.”

                And with that, she left him. Knowing she had only minutes before he would regain consciousness and come after her. Meanwhile, she had work to do.

*

                It had taken longer than expected to find her target.  When she did finally locate Richard Gibbons, his cheeks were reddened from alcohol and his lips had set into a troubled frown as he kept his distance from the rest of the party. He stood on a balcony on the second floor of the mansion. As she stepped out onto the balcony, Scarlett noted that metal piping ran along the wall just a short leap away from the barrier of the balcony, a perfect escape. Nobody had seen her step onto the balcony, chances were that nobody had seen her at all. Scarlett had been careful to take the ‘less travelled route’ while searching for her victim. There had been incidents in the past where the police had come close to catching the young assassin because of witnesses recalling seeing an odd young woman with ruby red hair amongst the crowd before the murder. She had been careless then, even she could admit that.

                Scarlett smiled broadly towards the troubled looking man as she approached. He was younger than a majority of her previous targets. His hair was still its original colour, raven black, with streaks of silver around his temples, looking like silver thread had been weaved into his healthy mane. From her research, Scarlett knew he had turned 56 in October, young enough for a man whose wealth had sprouted entirely from his own determination and hard work. He was taller than Scarlett, approximately 6ft3”, and had what had once been a trim athletic figure but it evidentially deteriorated over the years, what was once a six-pack was now a beer bloated stomach and his once strong and imposing posture was now slumped, hunched over almost. Scarlett would have taken pity on him, he looked like a man who was losing a long battle against the world, but then her eyes locked with his, and she saw nothing but icy contempt.

“What do you want?” He growled, his terrible humour threatening to infect her as well. Biting back a harsh comment, Scarlett instead forced herself to smile sweetly.

“Would you like me to refill your glass for you, sir?” His steely gaze drifted to the empty whiskey glass in his hand before he thrust it out towards her. Closing the gap between them, Scarlett took the glass from his grip gently and turned, heading for the door as he called after her.

“Whiskey, on the rocks.” Scarlett didn’t turn around, she headed straight for the door that led back into the house from the balcony, then stopped and closed it. The faint click of the mechanism holding the door closed instantly drew her target’s attention, she turned in time to see him begin to charge towards her, a furious snarl erupting from his lips as he attempted to tackle his assailant to the floor. It took just two movements for her to defend herself from the stumbling drunk, she ducked just moments before his body collided with hers, causing him to trip over her hunched body before slamming her elbow into his jaw as he fell. He hit the ground with a thud and stayed there, groaning as he clutched his dislocated jaw and held it in place.

“Get up.” Scarlett demanded. Her voice calm, quiet and no doubt terrifying. He ignored her at first and continued to groan in agony, but when she gripped the hand holding his jaw and twisted it sharply, he screamed out and was forced to his feet. Scarlett pushed him towards the edge of the balcony, if she could make this look like suicide, less questions would be asked, and from what her employer had told her, the less publicity the better. She knew that the fall from here would kill him, if not immediately, then soon. She nudged him to the balcony, ignoring his weakening struggle before she allowed him to sit on the low marble barrier. She knelt in front of him, her eyes level with his as she spoke. “You were expecting this...So why don’t you have any protection?” She wasn’t expecting a reply. Instead a grin broke out across her ruby painted lips as a sense of realisation overwhelmed her, “Oh...but perhaps you do have protection...he’s just been...incapacitated. Well, as wonderful as this has been Mr Gibbons, I’m afraid that it’s time for me to ‘clock off’, and you know what that means.” A short, agonised cry of protest was the last sound to leave Richard Gibbons’ lips before his ankles were grabbed and tipped over the edge of the balcony. Scarlett didn’t watch him fall, but she did hear his body hit the pavement below with a head-splitting crack.

She instantly set about making her escape, knowing that walking back into the building would draw attention. Particularly if Alastair was conscious at this point, which she knew he would be. She had just leaped and gripped the metal piping she had spotted earlier when the door to the balcony swung open. Sticking to the shadows, she watched as Alastair breezed out of the building, looking significantly more ruffled than he had earlier in the night, and began to scan the area. He then glanced over the balcony, and cursed violently as soon as he spotted Richard Gibbons’ disfigured corpse on the patio below.

“I’ll see you around darling.” Scarlett purred from the darkness. She had disappeared as soon as Alastair began to scan the shadows in the direction her voice had come from. Knowing that delaying her departure would result in falling into the hands of the police, or worse, the enraged Alastair. 

Goodbye Childhood

For those of you who are already 18, you may laugh at this, or perhaps even think; 'God, get over it.', if you're the sort who 'doesn't suffer fools' then I suggest closing this tab/window right now, because what you're going to read in this blog post will be nothing short of nostalgic and unapologetically over-the-top mush.

Tomorrow, I'll turn 18. The world will continue to turn, there will be no marching bands, no applause, no 'formal announcement'. I myself will be the same person I was when I woke up this morning. I will not miraculously grow a few inches overnight, my years of abusing food, particularly chocolate, will not catch up to me overnight and leave me incapable of rolling out of bed (as I've joked before) and I won't have the perfect hair/skin/figure etc I imagined I'd have by now. Nothing will change. My 'childhood' will end, and that's that.

A part of me imagines that becoming an adult is impossible for someone with the mental maturity of a ten-year-old such as myself. Perhaps Peter Pan will appear tonight, apologize for being eight years late and send me on my merry way to Neverland to replace Wendy. Perhaps Edward Cullen will stop staring at me sleep (creeper) and decide to turn me finally turn me. I pray that if the latter occurs, you'll take pity on me and chop me up as soon as you see even a hint of sparkly skin in the sunlight. Check if it's glitter first though, yeah?

Today, for the first time, I thought about the things I've learned in my 18 years of life. I thought about my achievements, my friends, my goals, everything that made me..well, me. Perhaps I'll describe my reasoning behind these to you in more detail in another blog, but for now you'll get the short and sweet summation of my life and what I've learned.

1. You're gonna lose and make a lot of friends in your life. People change and outgrow each other.
2. Being 'Different' doesn't necessarily mean being yourself.
3. Caring about what people think about you is literally the biggest time waster.
4. Putting up with shit from someone you like/are in a relationship with is never worth it.
5. You're probably not gonna marry the person you like/are dating right now.
6. Appreciate what you have in life, there are people who are so much happier with a lot less.
7. Stop worrying about being forgotten, the people that matter will never forget you.
8. Getting up at 5AM for an interview for a Travel Award in Dublin is absolutely, 100% worth it.
9. Just accept it, you're always gonna start writing a project/extended essay the day before it's due.
10. Every action has a consequence. If you can't handle that then you seriously need to thinking about the way you're acting.
11. Treating people like shit gets you nowhere.
12. For God Sake, smile once in a while.
13. Nothing lasts forever, learn to say goodbye.
14. My heart will always belong to Vermont.
15. If you want something, you have to go out and get it/do it/make it. Nobody is going to do it for you.
16. Happiness is not a circumstance, it's a frame of mind.
17. If you can stand in front of a crowd and speak without feeling even the slightest hint of butterflies in your tummy, you're doing something wrong.
18. Life moves on. There's no stopping it.

And that's it. There's so much more to learn, so much more to see and do, but for now I'm happy. I thought writing this blog post would terrify me even more about becoming an adult, that I'd cry and beg to go back to the days when Santa was real, the Tooth Fairy was my only source of income and when being 'like, twelve' was a compliment cause it meant I looked older than I actually was.

If you found this a waste of time, if this little blog post frustrated you with it's idealistic, overly positive and perhaps clichéd views, then suck it up. I did warn you.

PS. I'll leave my window open a crack for you tonight, Peter. :')

-

I would like to make it clear now, rather than later, that my recent blog post 'I'll wear my crest with pride' is in no way a dig at 96FM or Neil Prendeville. It was retaliation to comments that had circulated recently and were made known on the show. I'll admit that prior to writing my last post that I have been told, by countless sources that Prendeville had made harsh comments, and so used them as a way to reminisce and defend our school's reputation.

It is in no way a scathing retort to Prendeville or 96FM's views, it is simply me commenting on current opinions of our school.

I'll Wear My Crest with Pride.

"Reputation takes years to build, and only seconds to destroy."

Perhaps this was something the students at Christ King Secondary School have only just learned now that their school has been so harshly branded as the ‘Knacker School of Cork’ by 96fm DJ Neil Prendeville, a man who should know better than anyone how badly one sensationalized  not to mention isolated case can affect a reputation in the long run.

If I hated my school, perhaps I would agree with Prendeville.

Our school is extremely large and so to keep numbers up accept quite a few questionable characters. These are not people who are influenced by the school however, teachers don’t walk into classrooms with a guide on ‘how to pull hair’. At 12:20 every afternoon we recite the Angelus, not the rules of Fight Club. Yes, these girls behaved in an appalling manner, and yes, we are ashamed to admit that they were once (or perhaps still are) a part of our school. That does not make our school a ‘Knacker Hole’, such a thing does not exist, and to even call a collective group of people knackers is extremely offensive, not to mention small minded. Do not tar us all with the same brush. It's like blaming a Tabby for a lion attack, simply because they're both classified as 'cats'.

I do not hate my school, in fact, coming to Christ King has perhaps been one of the best decisions of my life.

In 2007, I came to this school as a chubby 12 year old girl with terrible roots and an ego that a fly could easily outsize. In 2013, I will leave Christ King as an accomplished young woman, comfortable and happy in my own skin, ready to face the big bad world after 6 years of preparation and guidance from the staff and students of Christ King. I owe more to Christ King than I’m even aware of. It’s a school that provides more services to students than other school in Cork, I myself study Japanese as a Leaving Cert Subject during school hours free of charge. I have quite a few friends who study Applied Maths for free not to mention the Agricultural Science class who are offered discounted prices for classes after school on a Wednesday. Never before have I seen a school so accommodating towards Students with all kinds of interests, point me towards a school that offers such high, affordable standards and I’ll point towards the pigs flying above your head.

It’s not only the classes that provide students with the best opportunities to excel, but the staff’s interest in students activities outside of school is a kind that I had never experienced before Christ King. I've participated in debating and public speaking competitions, admittedly I've never won, but my participation and enthusiasm alone was enough to have teachers asking me how I was getting on, this participation led to a friendly relationship with my debating teacher, who later became my reference for a Travel Award to The Governors Institute of Vermont 2012 and who I believe, ultimately helped me to win the trip of a lifetime which I had the pleasure to go on last summer.

It is because of these reasons, and so many more that I cannot in good conscience say that ‘Christ King is the knacker school of Cork’. I am not the rare success story, those two girls are the rare failure.

For the last 5-6 years I have worn my CKSS crest with pride and I have no intention of stopping now. 

In the Beginning...

Writing the first post is always a daunting task.

While a part of you wonders; 'Am I being funny enough?' 'Am I being serious enough?' 'Do I even make sense?!' the other part of you is so uncertain as to what to write about that after writing, deleting and rewriting various intros, you eventually end up writing about how you're currently writing your first blog post. 

Not only that, but beginning a new blog causes all sorts of ideas to come to mind as to what to use this blog for, you become so excited that if you don't spend all day writing blog entries, you end up forgetting them, then leaving the blog to collect dust for a few months and much like that 'fitness regime' you planned a few months ago, you look back and simply shrug. No point in starting now.

I'm going to keep this short and sweet, because honestly, who reads those mega-long posts anyway? I am an overly opinionated (almost) 18 year old student with much too much time on my hands. Welcome to the dumping ground for my random mind clutter.