You know those days when you have no food in the pantry, $0 in the bank, a large supply of tea bags and you've smoked your last cigarette on the stairs of your apartment? Today is one of those days. I have this overwhelming feeling of anxiety sitting on top of my shoulders for so many reasons. I have work to do, I have food to magically procure, and some sort of direction to find. I get into moods like this quite often. You know, those moods when you're glum and feeling sorry for yourself because nobody else will. So, as a means of procrastinating and as a way to try and cheer my depressed ass up I have decided to blog. Dear diary moment if I ever saw one.... What a self absorbed pile of shit.

I was smoking my morning cigarette outside today, sitting in the warmth and sneezing at the sun when I heard these loud, slow high heel noises walking their way across the concrete. Has anybody ever seen Bowfinger and can remember that scene where the dog is wearing red high heels and is frightening Kit Ramsay (played by Eddie Murphy)? I got the giggles thinking about this moment and thought of a high-heel clad dog walking through the car-park. Luckily I wasn't wearing my glasses so the woman who was wearing them was a blur of colours and shapes, and the illusion of the dog was not shattered. This got me thinking, so often I find myself looking at moments in life, both past and present, and identifying them with images, characters, scenes and themes from films. Obviously, the Bowfinger moment was a comical and fragmented second which was there to cheer me up. But seriously, I can't help but watch films and find pieces of myself scattered throughout. I understand that this is why these films are so successful. We all liked Bridesmaids because of the hilarious sense of humour, but we also liked it because we've all been that unhappy girl (sorry boys, you can't identify here unless you're that smoking hot cop or douche-bag of a fuck buddy) whose life seems meaningless and empty. There she was on the screen, sharing our dark moments in the funniest way possible.

So, my dear readers, here is a list of Film and Television moments and characters who I have attached strings of recognition to, in the hopes that as they find themselves, I too can find myself.

Girls

My sister Liz told me about this new HBO series called Girls. It is a show about four girls in their early 20s who deal with the kind of first world problems I am currently facing. I find myself identifying with the main character Hannah way too much. She, like me, is a recent graduate and is on that joyful roller coaster of a ride to find a job and some sort of direction. One thing that the University brochures don't tell you when you're a doe eyed 17 year old at high school, is how unbelievably stressful it is to find the world's most perfect job with the apparently useless degree you spent four years working your ass off for. Luckily after months of tears, stress and too many cigarettes I found a job in the field of what I spent $50,000 of the government's hard earned cash studying. Lucky me. We are constantly showered with life expectations. You get a degree, you get a successful job, you travel, you met 'the one', you have children, you raise them right and by joves they're all gifted sons of bitches, you sit on your fortune and you die. What a load of bullshit. I'm really starting to agree with the Trainspotting poster we have hanging in the kitchen. Lets ponder these for a moment, shall we? I got my degree, it was four years of drunken blurs, late nights cramming and a nervous breakdown. Tick. I moved to the capital city in search of the perfect job. What I didn't realise is that four years of higher education didn't show me what I actually want to do. And now that I'm up here, I still don't know what I want to do. Maybe radio? Who wouldn't want to listen to somebody ramble about meaningless junk while sipping on their instant coffee and eating vegemite on toast. So half tick. I travelled. I have nothing bad to say about my travelling here, it was the most amazing thing I have ever done in my life and I would recommend it to everybody. The one - who the hell is the one? I feel like Ted from How I Met Your Mother, preoccupied with this conception that my ideal person is out there and that someday we will meet and there will be fireworks and a large marching band playing our song. Fuck the romantic comedies that have shaped me into this 'love can conquer all' kind of person. And fuck myself for actually wanting this. I'm not ticking this box. Kids - god help the day when I breed. No tick.

I'm getting off topic here. This bad mood that I am in is clouding my supposedly 'funny' blog which I hear so many people rave about (this is saturated in sarcasm, not arrogance). Back to Girls... So this main girl Hannah, she deals with the same ordinary life obstacles which myself (and lets be honest, probably half the twenty something girls living in our long white cloud) has to 'overcome' daily. Gee, I should really get into motivational speaking. If this doesn't make you want to pump your fist in the air screaming VICTORY then I have failed. I think the reason I love this show so much is that the flawed hero Hannah, like myself, is a mess. For once we aren't watching glamorous (Fergie taught me how to spell that word, thank you very much) teenagers deal with how to spend their parents' fortune (Wassup Gossip Girl - you unbelievable addiction). We are seeing unconventional beauties deal with the kind of shit that everybody has their face shoved into. No direction, average love lives, mediocrity, and the obvious lack of funds. Sigh.

New Girl

I started watching this genius of a show when I moved to Wellington. I had fantasies of wearing Zooey Deschanel's (Jess) fabulous outfits and meeting a perfect group of borderline nut-cases who would eventually become my family. It got to the point where I wanted to be Jess so badly that I cut a fringe in the hopes that some blind person with a vivid imagination would mistake me for her. Hardy ha. The reason I find myself on a similar level to Jess is that she is a basket case. Her quirky sense of humour and inability to care about what people think about her makes me want to jump on that wagon, say some more weird things and be all Cartman from South Park and "do what I want!" Luckily I was taken in by a group of colourful characters who I am clicking with like Lego. Ten points to the castle and all of the dwellers inside. My transition into Jess could totally happen... Just watch this space. And, bring on Nick!

Barney Gumble

My sister Becka got myself and my other two sisters to do a psychological test which would pair our personality types up with a Simpsons character. I, the lucky one, got Barney Gumble. The town drunk. Ha. Here is why I am Barney Gumble: ENFPs (my personality type, according to the Simpsons Myers-Briggs test) are introspective, values-oriented, inspiring, social and extremely expressive. They actively send their thoughts and ideas out into the world as a way to bring attention to what they feel to be important, which often has to do with ethics and current events. ENFPs are natural advocates, attracting people to themselves and their cause with excellent people skills, warmth, energy and positivity. ENFPs are described as creative, resourceful, assertive, spontaneous,  life-loving, charismatic, passionate and experimental. ENFPs are warm, enthusiastic people, typically very bright and full of potential. They live in the world of possibilities, and can become very passionate and excited about things. Their enthusiasm lends them the ability to inspire and motivate others, more so than we see in other types. They can talk their way in or out of anything. They love life, seeing it as a special gift, and strive to make the most out of it.
How did they get all of that out of the town drunk? Either way, now I see myself in Barney Gumble. It's one of those 'look into the clouds and you will see what I see' sort of moments. Funny how our minds work, isn't it?

Hufflepuff

My mad obsession with Harry Potter (the books, not the films even though I saw every single one at the cinema and got madly excited when the beloved Potter music filled my ear drums with its magical rhythm) has led to hours poring the internet, sorting myself and loved ones into Hogwarts houses. Half of you are smiling to yourself, because you too have done this. One quarter has never read Harry Potter, and the last quarter has but would never admit it to me, let alone themselves. You should be ashamed. If I ever get another tattoo it will either be a Harry Potter scar on my forehead of HUFFLEPUFF on my ass. I was having a deep and meaningful conversation about Harry Potter houses with a group of people a few years back. Everybody wants to be in Gryffindor and I was secretly hoping that this group of strangers would assume that I was a brave lion, desperate to rise up and fight for the greater good. But this dream was crushed when one of them piped up, laughed in my face and said I could only ever be Hufflepuff, no matter how many kick boxing lessons I went to. In an attempt to prove this person wrong I went to the beloved internet (and kick boxing lessons) and completed quiz after quiz trying to prove to myself that I could be in Gryffindor. But alas, time after time the answer was always Hufflepuff. And that is how I was sorted into the Hogwarts dud house. The house where everybody cares and mediocrity rules. This has given me a deep respect for all Hufflepuff characters, and admiration for the great Cedric Diggory (may he rest in peace) as he rose up against the other houses and was chosen for the Triwizard Tournament. You go Cedric - four for you!

Easy A

Olive (Emma Stone) is a witty, attractive virgin who pretends to sleep with less than average boys so they get a 'player' reputation and she gets moneys cash, cash moneys. Not prostitution, but more helping a brother out. I don't identify with this because I have never pretended to sleep with anybody. Unlucky for me, I have to tell the truth about everything. I get this horrible 'lying smile' that all my friends and family know too well. I can't help it. I'll try to lie about something and this stupid smile will creep onto my face and suddenly I'm caught out. So, I couldn't pretend to sleep with people in order to help them out. What I did identify with was Olive's way of dealing with her stained reputation. Everybody has a reputation. You can be the sister Christian like Amanda Bynes' character (which I once was), you can be the promiscuous girl, the cake eater, the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker. Everybody has a reputation, some good, and some so badly stained that no amount of nappy san will clean what has become. Olive deals with this in the most bold and comical of ways. Her class and wicked sense of humour helped me to laugh at myself when things got overwhelming last year and I found myself trying to be her in order to deal with the mess of a life I had made. Cheers Burt V Royal for writing a part which helped a sister out - top guy. One of the main catalysts in this film is gossip. The way it spreads around like wildfire (Game of Thrones used wildfire literally, totally worth the budget increase) infecting ears and taking whatever shape it is moulded into by those who twist and turn stories for entertainment purposes. I am sure we have all been victim of a false rumour which has been pinned onto our chest like a badge, screaming out to those who think they know all that this is apparently who we are. You know what I think? The middle finger is what I think. I have been so upset in the past by rumours (some admittedly true, others completely false) that I have just stopped caring. I feel like I'm going against the Hufflepuff code here, my problem is meant to be that I care too much.

Total Recall

Who doesn't identify with Arnold Schwarzenegger in this film? Personally, I see myself in the three-breasted mutant.

This is getting deep. Time to peace out.

I normally have a theme for these blogs. I sit down and ponder for five minutes until a brilliant idea pops into my mind and then I'm writing away, spewing out my ideas and posting them all over Facebook.

Today, I thought I would go for something a little different than my usual lists and simply write until I'm satisfied.

The tattoo on my right ankle - what a great 'thing' to write about. 

It was leading up to Christmas Eve and I had always thought of getting ink on my skin. I'd practised with notes from class (pen to paper is overrated I say), and thought 'damn this mess of an arm looks pretty damn fly!'. It actually didn't look fly and often resulted in a furious soap scrub before work. Lets just say that a red raw arm is not a great look when you're handing over chocolate brownie to thin girls from Auckland who ooze perfection. But anyway, this tattoo... So it was leading up to Christmas and after a day sitting in the sun I thought 'right, time for a tattoo'. I took myself to the tattoo parlour with a friend in tow and booked an appointment, gave them a vague idea of what I wanted and the next day I had a permanent forget-me-not chain on my ankle. How. Original. The number of girls with flowers, butterflies, Asian symbols, and the dreaded 'live laugh love' inked onto their skin is outstanding. 

It seems that most people I meet with a tattoo have a story behind it. They have created their own unique masterpiece which explains to both themselves and others why they chose that particular design and that particular body part. I am never surprised when people ask me what my tattoo means. I have crafted a series of replies which explain the origins of my tattoo. "It is a weed. Nobody likes weeds. They infect everything, twisting and turning, ruining everything beautiful. I wanted that on my perfect leg" "Nobody has flower tattoos, I wanted to be original" "It was either this or FTW on my forehead" These are all obviously dripping with sarcasm. The few who get it politely smile, and the others say things like "Ha. Good" - ahh the English language at its finest! The truth is my tattoo means nothing. I found it on Google images, liked the look of it and went with it. There are not many people who like it. I can tell. They either ask me about it and then quickly change the subject, or blatantly tell me that it is no good. But you know what, my leg, my choice, my pleasure. I love my tattoo. It doesn't remind me of anything, it doesn't have a story, it just has me. 

Will I ever get another tattoo? Maybe. In Thailand I was adamant that I was going to come home covered head to toe in cheap tattoos. But after a stern word from all members of the family (who are used to my spontaneous life decisions) I came home with no more than the small one on my ankle. Oh, that and a parasite in my stomach which meant I was sick for a month afterwards. Lets just say that some things happened during that time which I am not proud of. Bless long showers and clean underwear.

I got my nose pierced once. I was walking through town with two friends after a large night out and thought that right then and there would be a fantastic time to get a needle straight through my shnoz. I remember walking into the store wearing techno-coloured clothes, sporting remains of bright orange paint from the night before, and demanding a nose piercing right then and there. The shop assistant looked so shocked that I was torn whether she was appalled by my outfit choice, paint on my skin, or my obviously husky voice which to strangers sounds like I have smoked a packet of cigarettes everyday since I was five. I got my nose pierced five minutes later and it lasted all of two months. After many infections and 'bogan' comments from people my affair with the stud was over. 

Looking back on photos I am not drawn to the nose stud any more, more to the amount of make-up I used to paint myself with. I don't know why nobody told me that orange was not cool, blusher was a sometimes drug, and eye-liner gave me an impression of a baby panda VS Snookie. Luckily, thanks to the helpful make-up artists who have wiped my face clean and sold me the correct make-up, I no longer look like somebody who needs a chisel to take off their face. However, at the moment I do have a split in my lip and a scratch below my eye, so admittedly the make-up has been 'caked' on in order to avoid awkward jokes about my facial misfortunes.

I remember at work a few years back I was waiting on a table. It was a family and the father was a loud obnoxious man. The first thing people usually say when greeted by their waitress is a simple "hello" but this man thought he would mix it up and instead ask me why my voice sounded so strange. Until then I wasn't aware that I had an odd voice. I had gone through life thinking that an occasional crackle was part of life. I knew that I didn't have the silky smooth baby voice like so many of my friends, but I never thought it was a bad thing. I remember blushing the deepest shade of pink (which they couldn't see due to my cake face) and stammering "uhhh this is my voice" - obviously my wit hadn't kicked in then as nowadays I have perfect replies to these very statements which have become more regular over the past few years. His family were embarrassed for me, and showed this by laughing merrily and spent the night doing impressions of my husky voice. Needless to say it started a complex which lasted for a few weeks until I thought "can't be changing this. Time to embrace it? Yeah girl". So now, I am a full time husk and I'm proud of the fact that sometimes I sound like a 40 year old smoker or a pre-pubescent boy.

Ramble out.

If I had a dollar for every time somebody called me "weird" I would have quite the collection of dollar coins. Maybe an entire sack. Being weird is not a bad thing. I can say this because I am okay with who I am. I have had my entire life to come to terms with being a "weirdo" and instead of bottling it up I wear it on my sleeve like a giant badge that screams "yo I'm weird, wanna hang?"

I was called weird the other night, and it got me thinking. What is about me that makes me so strange? So I have decided to create a list (woah really? A list? This blog has never seen a list before!) in order to highlight what has made me the weird-oh I am today.

Urges

Not the sexual kind. Wrap your head around that you filthy animals. This is not a list of the inappropriate things you would find in a B grade porno where a girl yells and a guy high fives himself.

Sometimes (K, a lot) I get urges to do the most politically incorrect things ever. I always wonder what would happen if I were to go up to a random, punch them in the face and walk away. This sounds slightly psycho, but luckily it has never, and will never happen.

Having worked in hospitality (ahhh what a glamorous occupation, nothing beats the feeling of making coffee, cleaning up mess and dealing with cranky housewives who like decaf cappuccinos with no chocolate but extra marshmallows and soy milk - IT'S NOT A COFFEE) there is not a moment which goes by when I don't want to slap my forehead and curse mankind. The kind of people who laugh with their friends, give their waitress a cold look when they order their well cooked salmon filo, and go back to laughing again drives me bonkers. I know you can smile ladies, you were doing it five minutes ago. Humour me and smile when you order your food. It will make you feel polite, and make me not want to flip the table over and throw napkins onto your plastic fantastic face. If I could do everything I wanted to when I work in hospo I would be out of a job and probably have a fantastic reputation as a delinquent bad-ass.

I don't know what it is, but urges like yelling at people, running down a street naked in broad daylight, eating food off a stranger's plate, jumping off a bridge, or flipping a desk full of important notes just appeals. It'd be all normal then BAM! For a few magical seconds I've disrupted a stranger's day for no other reason than I bloody well felt like it.

I told a friend about this once and she replied "Oh my gosh! Same! Sometimes I want to punch pregnant women!"

This makes me feel that I am not so weird. Everybody (well at least me and one other person) have these absurd urges. But luckily we have the capacity to ignore them and live our life doing the mundane activities. Only occasionally disrupting our lives by spilling wine 'accidentally' on ourselves or others.

Awkward Turtle

There is nothing I like more than an awkward moment. Awkward silences present an opportunity to say something so completely out of context the moment becomes more awkward, but draws the attention away from the lack of conversation and unites people with 'da fuck' looks. So really, when I say absurd things in moments like these, I am not doing it to be odd, I'm doing it to help others out and give them a sense of unity. Jokes. I am doing it because there is nothing more rewarding than seeing people look at each other while thinking "who invited this girl?" - who invited me? Chances are nobody did, but I was there and I gave you something to talk about afterwards. You can thank me later when you're married with children.

Elevators are the perfect place for an awkward moment. I work in a corporate building (like how I threw that in there? Wear shirts and pant suits. Yeah baby) where streams of business people frequent the elevator, staring at the doors in complete silence. Having to maintain a professional persona in these circumstances I remain on my best behaviour. But that doesn't stop the odd awkward comment from flying out of my mouth. The other day I was travelling down the 26 floors when I was joined by a fashionable middle aged corporate woman. We stood there in silence watching the numbers tick down. Then, my ears started to block up. This happens regularly and I've learnt to deal with it. But that day I must have been feeling either lonely or bored (maybe a little from column a, a little from column b) and felt that I should share this with this stranger. Her response? "Oh" and then she hurried (yes, hurried) out of the elevator and dashed out of the building. It took everything in me not to follow her and share other moments when my ear drums were blocked. But the poor woman looked so surprised with this spontaneous and awkward human contact that she probably had to go home and update her status.

Hipsters are the perfect people to plant awkward bombs with. Living in the hipster capital of New Zealand there is a constant tap that pours out these specimen into the streets. I am not generally into stereotypes but for all intents and purposes, hipsters are going to be defined as a collective of attractive, judgemental, shallow, boring and uptight human beings. Coming into contact with one of these creatures is a magical moment which my weird inner being relishes. I came into contact with a group of hipsters a while back who were on the way to a party which I had just left. Having never met them before I thought it was the perfect opportunity to introduce myself, by yelling slurred comments and moving my hands in turtle movements. Their response? "Lets get out of here!" I will never recognise these people, and they probably won't ever recognise me. But for once I gave them something to laugh about. Something other than their trim lattes and expensive clothing. Katie Sherriff. Of the people, for the people.

Shout

I used to read 'Babysitter's Little Sister' when I was a child. It was about this girl called Karen who was a little sister of the Babysitter's Club. What a concept. Anyway, her teacher had to remind her to use her inside voice nearly every time she spoke. Karen, I feel your pain. I do not have an inside voice. No, instead of that I have a loud shouting yell which bounces off walls and fills peoples ears like cotton wool - annoying but slightly delightful.

When I am working I have to remind myself (and get reminded by others) that it is not appropriate to yell out a conversation I am having about my weekend, the printer, coffee, or the cute person who served me a scone in the morning. But you know what, when I'm yelling and people can hear me it means that they are too darn quiet. If everybody had my volume we could get along just fine. Jokes, we would all be loud deaf people relying on sign language and high fives.

Foot and Mouth Unite

Hello foot. Here is my mouth. Jump inside. You comfortable? Good. You're going to stay there for a while. Until I learn when not to say the absurd things which jump into my head. I cannot control what I say. It's like I have these great ideas which just have to come out. Soon enough I'm projecting verbal diarrhoea  onto anybody who will listen, spewing out odd questions and insane scenarios for no reason other than I just thought of it. Perhaps it is my willingness to share, or my lack of social awareness but I just like to say what pops in my head at the click of a finger. I like to think it keeps people on their toes, guessing what is going to come out. But, in truth it probably annoys people who are trying to have an intellectual conversation about things which really matter. Like Facebook, and who from high school got married in the weekend.

Sometimes the things I say (which we all know I shouldn't) are quite inappropriate. If you know me then chances are you've slapped yourself on the head and thought to yourself "Not again!" If you don't know me well, or at all (why hello there) then count yourself as lucky. Making Chuck Norris jokes at a ginger man who I had never met before was probably not the best thing to do when I moved to Wellington, but it happened. Asking the barmaid for a jug and straw because I'd had a bloody guts full of people updating their statuses about what they ate for dinner was just awkward and got me a glass instead. Correcting a friend's grammar got me the silent treatment and an awkward taxi ride home. But, for the record you can only use the word 'done' when you use 'have' before it. The same rule applies to 'seen'. Look it up.

Personal Space

I'm all about the personal space thing. Honest. If I could I would draw a chalk circle where I stand and stick up a sign with "Katie's space, don't touch" in bold font that would be great. But then drawing a fresh circle every time I moved would just be annoying. So instead I rely upon people's common sense not to enter my personal space unless invited in. This rule applies to me, but somehow I don't let it apply to other people. I like to touch. It's like when you go to the museum, the displays say don't touch but two seconds later I'm sticking my mits all over the dinosaur bones, picking up antique pots, or examining the fine brush strokes of a painting with my fingers. Shame signs, you'll have to work harder than that for me to follow your rules!

I like to touch people. That does not sound right. Let me try that again. I like to touch people, with our clothes on and in a non-sexual kind of way. What I mean is I like to hug awkward people, squeeze strangers on the arm, dance around couples in bars (or on the street), pat strippers on the bum (true story. She did a really good job and giving her a dollar just didn't cut it) and high five everybody. That stripper part didn't meet the criteria of 'with clothes on and non-sexual', but I'm keeping it in for laughs.

Being a touchy feely person has some cons. The most major is that people take my delight in human contact with flirting. This is NOT always the case, despite what some of you may think. Unfortunately my pats on the arm, high fives and cuddles have been construed as "woah this chick likes me! I'm in!" when in actual fact I have taken pity or simply been bored with our mundane conversation, so in order to spice things up I've touched them on the arm in a "have to move otherwise I'll tell you I'm bored, making this even more awkward". This has resulted in a tonne of friend zoned people, and a lot of females adamant that I am a lesbian on the prowl for some fresh straight meat.


I am weird. That is all.

Want to play to a game?

Remember that line from the Saw films? I do, of course. I'm sure that creepy doll on his red tricycle started a fear of sadistic puppets for many people. I am not one of those people with a fear of puppets. As many of my close friends and family know, I used to be a puppeteer once upon a time. This is something I am not proud of, but alas, it happened. My love for the Muppets, Sesame Street, and simple shadow puppets led me to a few years with my hand up a doll's behind singing Boyzone songs and telling children to love Jesus and clean their rooms.

But the famous line from Saw has got me thinking. It scared so many people. So what I want to blog about are my fears.

I am scared of a lot of things. I used to joke with somebody that I could start a career as a professional bad-ass. One flaw in this potential career is that I abide by the law (the exception being J walking) and am terrified by so many things that my bad-ass reputation would quickly be shattered if anybody ever found out.

So instead of somebody else shattering my dream, I'll jolly well do it myself.

I have compiled a detailed list of everything which frightens me. Here is hoping this doesn't bite me in the ass and become the source of a sick joke by one of my acquaintances. 

Are you afraid of the dark?

Hell yes I am afraid of the dark. My family home is a large(ish) two storey house. It creaks in the wind and there are many corners a monster, ghost, or vampire (hello Twilight, you horrible phenomenon) could hide. When I was a small girl I remember waking up and seeing a dead carcass on my pillow. Running downstairs in a fright I was told to go back to bed and stop imagining things. At the time I was adamant that there was a carcass on my bed, waiting for me to return so it could bask in its dead glory and frighten the small girl who was supposed to be sleeping. The older Katie now realises that my vivid imagination was playing tricks on me and there was no dead carcass on my pillow. However, this 'memory' (for lack of a better word) started my life long fear of the dark and an attachment to lamps.

As a film graduate (way to sound pretentious) I know how horrors are made. I know that zombies are not real, murderers could find better targets than myself, and the devil would be bored as hell to possess me. But when I was growing up this was not the case. I first watched The Exorcist at a friend's birthday party. By watch I mean hid behind the couch with my fingers in my ears and tears running down my cheeks. The devil's face which sporadically (thank you Clueless for teaching me how to use this word) popped up on screen stuck in my mind like a sticker on a window, and only recently have I been able to peel it off. The sight of the young girl crawling down the stairs like a backwards spider freaked me out so badly that I was adamant that the stairs in my house were home to a similar demon and led to many years running blind down the stairs so I wouldn't have to face it.

For many years waking up at 3am in the morning scared the living daylights out of me. This was the devil's hour and I was the devil's prey. This was also the moment where my bladder had reached its limit and I was forced to drag myself out of the warmth of my bed and make my way through the darkness to the bathroom. Now I know that nobody likes getting up out of bed to use the bathroom halfway through the night. But when you're terrified of the dark it is one of the worst things in the world. I wonder if I was the only person to count to ten with my eyes shut tight, just to plunge my hand into the empty space between my bed and lamp, thinking that it was only a second before something grabbed me and shook me until my head span around and I threw up pea green vomit. This never happened, but the two seconds it took to turn the light on lasted a lifetime and had my heart beating like a marching band in a Christmas parade. As soon as the light was on I was safe. Corners where I was sure something or someone were lurking were filled with bookshelves, the scratching noise on a window was not fingernails but a branch, and the coldness which I thought were dead bodies passing through me was in fact caused by an open window I had forgotten to close.

This fear has not left. I am in my twenties and am still afraid of the dark. I recently watched Paranormal Activity 3. I tried to act tough and be all "pffft didn't scare me" but it did. I curse the writer who named the lead female Katie. I curse Toby for hiding under a sheet and lifting Katie up by her hair. He is a sick sick make believe demon who causes me to open my eyes in fright when I hear something bang in my flat.

Titanic - not just a love story

I know a few people who share this fear. Shipwrecks under the water. What the hell. These are one of the most frightening sights ever. I like open spaces, I love the water, hell I even like boats. But put all three together in a blender, add a dash of darkness, strange looking fish and eerie music and you've got yourself quite the recipe for an awful time.

I love the film Titanic. Being the romantic that I am (sarcastic laugh) I could watch this film over and over again (true story). What I cannot watch are the shots of the sunken ship. I cannot put my finger on what exactly frightens me about this, but it is something about the lonely ship deteriorating and sitting in the emptiness of the ocean which sends chills up and down my spine.

I tried to show somebody what I meant by my fear of sunken ships, but even googling images made me retch and close my eyes. For some reason I couldn't press close fast enough and had a minor panic attack. What a baby, right?

Hello Death

What an original fear. Has anybody else seen that episode of Ali G when he interviews a man who looks like a frail Santa Claus? He asks him if he is going to die, to which the man replies "of course, everybody dies". Being the comedian he is, Ali G gets quite angry about this and yells at the man. I laughed when I saw it, and would probably laugh again if I were to YouTube this. But you know what, I don't want to die.

I don't believe in after-life, heaven, hell, being born as something/someone else, or the long list of religious 'guesses' about what happens when we die. I think that when a person dies, bam! They're dead. Everything shuts off and they either decompose or get burnt and scattered somewhere sentimental. What a pessimistic view of what happens to us aye?

I like to think I'm quite the optimist. I'm a glass-full kind of gal and always find something positive in amongst the negative mess. But death, nah I don't take that route. I would love to think that when we die we get to ride unicorns and eat marshmallows, but something inside me scoffs at the idea.

This is why I am afraid of death. Everything stops. My long life is suddenly over. BAM!

Freaky huh?

Maybe I should invest in some hobbies so my life isn't so meaningless. Then when death does come knocking on my door I can welcome it like a friend, take it by the hand and travel into the depths of nothingness with a smile on my face.

1 2 3 JUMP

This fear is strange. When I'm standing on a bridge, cliff, tall building (anything with a large height) I am not afraid of falling. Falling doesn't frighten me, but jumping does. I get this overwhelming sensation that I am going to jump. I am not the type of person who would hurl myself off something but I cannot help but think for a few brief moments that I am going to jump and it will all be over in the blink of an eye.

I confessed this fear to a friend once and was surprised that they too shared this fear. It comforted me to think that I was not the only irrational person out there. Perhaps this is why I am writing this list. To let others know that these fears I have are not uncommon. Jokes, I'm writing this to procrastinate the long list of things I have to do today. Woe is me and my busy timetable.

Parseltongue Potter

Snakes. How something that looks like a garden hose can freak somebody out so badly is beyond me. But they do. They terrify me.

When  I was in Malaysia my brave little sister wrapped two snakes around her body and laughed while I ran away from her screaming in disgust and fear.

The way snakes slither and coil themselves around a body, poking their skinny tongues out in a tormenting way and hissing at their enemies is revolting. If they were to have legs (oh I think you would call these lizards) they would be a friendly pet. But no, the lack of legs freaks me out. It is so unnatural to slide around the floor, twisting and turning, plotting revenge and death on those unlucky to cross paths with the snake.

Snake tamers, I salute you. But, I will never ever approach you.

Please excuse my lack of pictures in this blog, but these things which I have shared with the internet frighten my very core. Even looking at them causes panic attacks followed by binge eating. My already curvaceous figure does not need any more chocolate and pies.