The male (and self-proclaimed x91dominantx92) half of humanity will – no doubt – never cease to amaze me.

That is probably accusable to the fact that I cannot lower myself to their level.
.
When I was at work, I overheard a woman asking her husband to go and get some spaghetti. When she was about to tell him in which isle he had to look, he quickly said x93Yeah yeah, Ix92ll find it, donx92t worry.x94
.
Honestly, what is it with men and asking directions? Or receiving them for that matter?
.

It seems that their phobia stretches itself even outside their beloved air-conditioned 4WD. A supermarket for Seusx92s sake! Men appear to be afraid of looking weak by getting directions, especially from a woman.
.
.It doesnx92t matter if their lost in the middle of Albania, or V&Dx92s baby-department. They SHALL NOT lower themselves. Huzza.
.
On the other hand, men claim that women are worthless map-readers. Turning down directions as they try to maneuver their caravan trough sandy side roads, they always blame women when they end up wrong.
.
This wager between men and women, testosterone and estrogen, instinct and directions, has become a classic example of the battle between the sexes. A simple argument given by any man to his fellow drinking buddies when discussing how terribly complicated women truly are.

And then, as a blessing from above, there was Tom.
.

TomTom, to be exact. TomTomoGoxa9 if I want to use that cute little copyright sign.
.

Because where maps look weak and sissy, technology looks cool and manly. Men have no problem bragging about their latest updated navigator. Just look how shiny it is! Look at the extra functions! And check out the visual!
.

Donx92t get me wrong; TomTom, or any navigating device for that matter, is a very handy invention and investment for any car owner. Itx92s the fact that men have no problem getting directions from a sexy FEMALE voice from of a box, but refuse to listen to a real life woman sitting next to them.
.

Are women doomed? Have men finally found a way to shut us up for sure? Must we throw away our trusty maps, or locate them in our less amazing cars (cuzx92 no man will let his b*tch drive around a car cooler than his)? Are we banned to the backseat??
.

No.
.

Because technology is made by men. And men are not flawless. On the contrary.
.

How often does it happen that the machine will not work? Such an event usually results into a guy yelling at the small computer on his dashboard, while driving with his left hand, and rebooting Tom with his right. Such funny accident happen all the time.
.

And why does Tom not know therex92s an open market on St. Louis Boulevard? Therex92s one every friggx92n Friday morning, for Petex92s sake, why did he not maneuver us around it?! Now wex92re stuck between a banana car and a French guy yelling at us inx85 well, French!!
.

No Tom, I have to take a detour for some gas. No, I will not turn around! Ix92m telling you Tom, I wonx92t, stop asking me! DAMNIT, JUST SHUT UP!
.

*sigh*  Men are so subtle.
.

But, I believe the message is clear.
.

My beloved other female shotgun-drivers. Take good care of your maps. Find them a good spot underneath your seat. For we will innocently, but o-so-victoriously, flash our chauffeurs a charming smile at the exact right moment.
.

Need some help, dad?
.

..

A look says more than a thousand words.

-

True, because expressing yourself in words is very difficult. And I donx92t mean a poem or a serenade under your balcony, but a letter.

-

And with all those chat logs and text messaging these days, we communicate a lot more by x91lettersx92. Therefore, we found a lot more new ways to express ourselves.

-

For example; how do you know if someone is laughing at your joke, when youx92re on MSN? Easy, the other one starts sending things like x91LOLx92 or x91LMAOx92, thus we can conclude he or she is banging her head on the keyboard with laughter.

-

And if you want to x91shoutx92 during the conversation, you press Caps Lock when you write. Not that the computer of your friend will start screaming your message, but the idea works for most.

-

But when I got introduced to the wonderful world of MSN, I soon realised my favourite expression started to suffer under the electronic communication device.

-

x93Ix92m busy skydiving.x94

-

x93With your laptop?x94

-

x93x85 I meant that sarcastic.x94

-

x93Oh…x94

-

Damnit, no one understands me! I say things that make absolutely no sense, that would send people rolling over the floor with laughter in real life, but the MSN just f*cks it up!

-

Being sarcastic, ironic or cynical is so much more difficult on the internet. I do my best here on this weblog, but itx92s hard work, people!! Cyber-humour is problematic!

-

A joke is easy to recognize, but how do you know Ix92m being sarcastic without my typical x91Ix92m being sarcastic, you dimwitx92-face??

-

And thatx92s where this yearx92s boekenweek (bookweek) comes in.

-

Theyx92ve invented the irony-mark.

-

Itx92s a punctuation mark that expresses irony. No kidding! You can download it from the website!

-

Itx92s like a exclamation mark (!) with a Harry Potter-scar combined. They frickx92n thought about it. There have been studies.

-

I bet the chairman of that group is a JK Rowling-fan.

-

And now comes the silliest thing: there already was an irony mark.

-

Wiki says so, go look it up. It was invented by some Frenchman (okay, one reason to ignore the guy) named Alcanter de Brahm (silly name; reason number two) who proposed the mark at the end of the 19^th century. Only two other writers used it after him, and they were both French, so Ix92m not going to spill anymore writing space on them.

-

The mark was a question mark, but then backwards. That looks silly, people. I thought the Spanish upside-down-question mark was a strange sight, but backwards ainx92t any fun either.

-

So, maybe itx92s a good thing after all, inventing a new one. Although I wonder if itx92ll last, if we look at former attempts. But we can always give it a try.

-

-

-

At least this one isn’t invented by a Frenchman^

-

-

-

Nope. Definitely not working for me.

-

-

-xxx- Noor

-

-

-

No one could escape the last 14th of February unless you had yourself chained under your bed, in a deep bombing cellar, at least 2 weeks prior.

-

I assume most of you were not, so I guess itx92s also safe to say we got beaten to death with hearts, flowers, cuddling bears and dangling cupids, that come in the very surprising colours red and pink.

And all of that for just this once-in-a-life-time offer. How can you refuse?

-

Well, I can think of a few ways, make up a little list. Once in a lifetime, I wish.

-

Honestly, I refuse to have anything to do with Valentines Day. Oh Gods, I even detest writing it down. Ix92m just doing it because I know some of you are blond and can’t figure out what I’m talking about.

And donx92t even dare commenting with x93How did you know??x94.

-

Not only do I find the day a big load of commercial crap, offensive to lonely people and revolting to no ending (the fluffy-ness suffocates me). But days like this always get me wondering why no one celebrates the days that really matter!

-

Like Towel Day for one! Honour the great Douglas Adams, whom without you miserable figures would never survive space, let alone breakfast! Wear your towel with pride! KNOW WHERE IT IS!!

-

Get your agenda right now, and write it down: the 25^th of May. Come on, do it! So when I step up to you on that date, and ask our where your towel is, I wonx92t have to smack you with mine.

-

While youx92re at it, reserve the 19^th of September as well for Talk Like A Pirate Day. Itx92s not even that difficult to celebrate! Just put in too many rx92s in every sentence.

-

And beware of December the 5^th, cuzx92 thatx92s the day people like me (and donx92t you dare to say x91geeksx92) will be crawling in the dark, celebrating Ninja Day.

-

x93But Noor, what about us nerds, is there no day to honour our beloved calculators?x94

What idiot would make up a holiday like that? Besides the ones who came up with Pi-day (14^th March) and Mole-day (23^rd October).  Not that I do some calculations for fun or something, I just take the days literally. Eat pie on the 14^th, cuddle moles on the 23^rd. Duh.

-

Herex92s a day Ix92m certainly looking forward to: No Pants Day. Because on the first Friday of May (the 4^th this year, write it down!!), Ix92m interested how the boys will celebrate. Besides the Scotch. Or Scottish. Whatever. They cheat.

-

On the other hand, I would not dare to try out Hug A Cop Day (23^rd June). Ix92m not really sure if all agents are aware of this date, and will arrest me for offensive behaviourx85

-

What else is there? Well, what about:

-

- Blame Someone Else day (first Friday the 13^th of the year)

So it doesnx92t even matter what it is that goes wrong; just blame it on someone else!

- Winter-een-mas (I think it was the entire month January)

Okay, so it was made up by a on-line-comic-character; doesnx92t make it any less fun!

- Saint Patrickx92s Day (17^th March)

Wear something green, or get pinned. Or poked. Or smacked. Whatever it is, itx92ll hurt.

- Sweetest day (3^rd Saturday of October)

A day to honour candy; the best excuse of all!!

-

See, the year is not as boring as youx92d think. Just celebrate along with these days, and you cannot be bored! You could even forget about Valentines Day (yuck, I said the icky V-word again).

-

And if that ainx92t enough, why not join every other holiday ever though up? So many religions, so many festivals! Ix92m talking Rama-Lilas, Yule, Chanukah, World Ocean Day!

Life will be one big celebration!!

-

Wow, Ix92m so cheery right now!

Ix92m hoping you guys are too. Because that is the whole point of this article. Forget about the 14^th of February; there are 355 other celebrations to do!!

-

-xxx- Noor

=

=

Remember all those times an adult told you about x91when I was youngx92? Frankly, none of us can actually imagine our parents in those times. Strange images of weird hairdos, terrible clothing, roaring dinosaurs and stoned festival-goers pop up on instant. We try to picture our parents in a time, place and age based on vague sepia pictures, hidden inside old photo albums you found on a rainy Sunday in the back of the linen closet.

-

And so, most of the time, we shrug off the fact that our parents used to be less wrinkly or bald, and that the music they sing along to today once played in their favourite hang-out years ago.

-

That just gives me the shivers, imagining my parents x91hanging outx92.

-

I never really thought that my parents would ever pick up an old habit from their youth. Something like midnight-racing, Saturday-lake-swimming, or going to the movies with friends. And even if these habits would return, it would be after my and my sisterx92s resignation from the elderly house.

-

But nooooo. My parents arenx92t categorized under x91normalx92 or x91averagex92. Theyx92re under x91Beunx92.

-

Ever since we moved to this tiny village, it was clear that the centre of events was the pub owned by Gunter. People gather there when they have nothing else to do for the day, tourist stop to grab a drink, partyx92s are being held, birthdayx92s celebrated and gossip exchanged.

-

And my parents mingled.

-

They go there in the weekends, to have a few drink and chat up with the neighbours. They never had the chance to do this kind of thing before, because there simply was no pub in our neighbourhood. Gunterx92s pub is only a hundred metres walking from our front door.

-

I let them, as long as they make sure not to gossip about me, share baby-pictures or, during the summer, drink any sangria other than mine (I make one mean sangria).

-

But one Saturday-night, they came home late, and my mother said;

-

x93I think we gave away a round too many, hihi.x94

-

I was flabbergasted. And not just by the finishing giggle.

-

My parents gave away rounds?? Like teenagers do?? They did not just drink a lot on their own expense, but they were paying for -and receiving from- others??

-

And all of a sudden, I saw my parents very clear; they were happy here in Zondereigen, at a happy time of their lives, because they could do the exact same thing like when they were young:

-

Doing whatever they damn well pleased.

-

The shock faded, along with the disturbing (self-made-up) images of my mother dancing at a club at the age of 18, and my father hanging out with some x91nozemsx92 nearby the market.

-

Itx92s like I can finally see what kind of youngsters my parents were. Because nothing really changed. The only thing in their way, is us. My sister and I.

-

Ix92m glad we moved to this place. Because when we move out in a year or two, three, my parents will be more than happy on their own. Now, they have their very own hang-out. Just like when they were young.

-

=

Ahem.

=

In the colder days of the year (preferably those where your frickx92n nose is freezing off) we find warmth and comfort in large, shapeless sweaters, long padded trousers, thick home-made socks and comfy shoes. And let us not forget the warm joy of winter coats, fluffy ear warmers and wool gloves! Let us be thankful that we have invented enough types of clothing to keep us warm and safe from horrible diseases!

=

And my, do we look ugly in them.

=

At least, that is what half of the Dutch young female population thinks, or so it appears.

Every year, I am amazed by the numerous short skirts, bare bellies and thin fabric that waltz by before my eyes. Girls of my age, with ankle length shoes and thigh-high (or should I say low?) skirts, wearing either a pair of thin stockings or nothing at all to cover their legs.

=

Why? To look pretty, of course! Why would you look ugly and hideous if you could be sexy? The choice between warm/comfortable and frozen/dieing is quickly made if youx92re hoping to get any attention of the other sex!

=

And so far, I hear no complaints of the male side. Whenever I complain about it, they give me the same comment as they do whenever I complain about x91summer-slutsx92: x93They choose for it themselves, so let them. Itx92s their problem.x94 All hail the ultimate answer: not my problem.

=

Of course, my desire to start a discussion about that topic and the insane influence of sex on fashion, quickly declines when the topic itself walks by.

=

Short explanation: in my group, there are 5 boys. Four of them are of the x91wex92re-so-straight-itx92s-not-even-funnyx92 type: every girl that passes needs to be examined. Everything with breasts gets their attention, except for me and my only other female team-mate. And I wouldnx92t be so extremely bothered by it if it just wouldnx92t happen during important meetings.

=

It is as if a switch is made inside their heads when one walks by: they suddenly gaze behind me (all at once, no nudges or pointing included), drool and follow their prey with their eyes, and when she is out of sight, pop-quiz each other about her name, hobbies and cup-size. Very disturbing if you were in the middle of explaining an exercise.

Although by now, I can guess whatx92s going on behind me when those faces come up. The sudden urge to throw something at their heads is almost unbearable. But you know me, Ix92m too kind. Yup, thatx92s me; soft, sweet, kind Noor. With a brick and a machete.

=

Okay, getting off topic here. Back to the frost-bitten bitches.

=

Today, a miracle appeared, in the shape of a conversation. And you know how it goes with miracles: you just canx92t find the damn things when you need to.

=

If this is a blessing, it is certainly very well disguised. (Winston Churchill)

=

I was reading, waiting for class, when two of those boys started complaining right behind me about a girlx92s outfit, with the accent on her skirt. They agreed it was too short.

x93I mean, who in the right mind would wear something like that in this cold?x94

x93Yeah, she must be nuts. Like she doesnx92t know it’s winter of something.x94

=

I was stunned. These two chasers of the Bare Skin were actually agreeing with me? And my, were they even sounding a bit irritated?

=

I silently praised whatever Being had done this, thanked the world for finally giving some male members a hint of sense, and hoped (while grinning, I admit) that women would soon realize that attention just because of your looks is on the shortest of terms.

=

Alright, maybe itx92s a bit early to open the champagne (not to mention most of us are still full of New Yearx92s Eve) but still; itx92s getting somewhere! Even though this discussion might have been a spurge of the moment, it still counts as one!

=

=

                    -xxx- No-ACHOO! *sniff*

=

=

Damnit, I think Ix92ve caught a cold.

=

=

Hey, thatx92s not fair: I was wearing a sweater AND a scarf today!!

=

Damn you Murphy.

=

=

                    -xxx- Noor

=

=

=

Pssst!! Go check out Ktshyx92s full comic, right here!!

Shrub Monkeys 35 by Ktshy

http://ktshy.deviantart.com/

Alright, short stuff for today. My younger sister works at this toy-store, right? Well, they had this fluffy, 1,75m high real looking pony displayed near the entrance since they opened. Silly thing cost 700 euros, so it was bound to stay there for a while.

=

Today, my sister came home from work. And we had the following conversation:

=

Anne: Guess what; someone bought the pony.

Dad: Pony?

Me: The pony?

Anne: Uh-huh, the pony.

Dad: What pony?

Anne: The one in the store, ya know, the big one! The expensive one!

Dad: Oh, the pony.

Anne: Yeah, this lady walked up to me, and said:

Lady: Ix92ve come for the pony.

Anne: x85… the pony?

Lady: Uh, yes, the one in the front.

Anne: x85 Sarah, someonex92s here for the pony!!

Sarah: The pony?

Anne: Uh-huh, the pony.

Sarah: x85.. Jim, someone wants to buy the pony!!

Jim: What pony?

Sarah: The pony.

Jim: x85.. the pony?

Sarah: Yes, the pony.

Jim: x85. Rick, this lady wants to buy the pony!!

Rick: x85… the pony?

Jim: The pony.

Rick: …okay.

=

Okay, so maybe it was funnier when my sister told it. Just wanted to share this with ya

=

As a rookie student, I found out there are quite some things to learn, and Ix92m not talking about new schools and different time tables. Ix92m talking about the unwritten jet undeniable laws of the student society.

.

They are usually comparable with the laws of nature, only crueler. Like; x91Never drink ten shots and eat ice cream afterwardsx92 (luckily, I had that explained by someone else, instead of own experience). Of course, nature has some x91unlessx92 factors, so the student society canx92t stay behind. x91Unless a) someone dared you to and promised you money/valuable stuff and you accepted,  b) you lost a bet,  c) you want to, even though youx92re not sure whyx92.

.

I also learned that if someone bet you and you lost (b) you must always pay up to save your own social life, and that if c) happens, youx92re probably already past that tenth shot.

.

The cruel part of this all is that most people have to find out on their own how these rules work.

When lucky, one has a elder sister/brother who will transfer these rules to one, preferably with 3 or 4 years of experience.

.

I am not lucky.

.

Which brings me to the rule that I learned today. This rule is bond by a strong law from the same side. And yes, this will all make sense somewhere at the end of todayx92s story.

-

As I stepped in my bus home today, everything began great. I smiled at the bus driver, scanned the bus for empty seats or people I know to sit next to, and stumbled trough a pillage of bags and feet to find myself a spot. Unfortunately, a larger guy stepped in before me, which seriously enabled my view. In the end, I had no choice to follow him since the bus was packed with students, and I came to a halt at the worst place of the entire bus.

.

The back seat.

=

I looked in shock at the only open spot besides the one of the guy before me (who took place at the second-last seat). As I decided I would be better off next to him, the bus driver took a too horrible timed turn to be accidental. With force, the law of gravity threw me neatly in the back seat. Where I didnx92t dare to move for a whole minute.

=

After peeking around and making sure everything was dead (or at least not moving) I took a good look at the floor to see if there was any clean spot left for my bag. I quickly decided to place it next to me.

=

Maybe this was just an old bus, but it is seems logical; the back seat of the bus is the most troublesome place for the bus driver to keep an eye on. Which explains the endless lines of vulgar words on every piece of writable space, the colorful candy bar wrappers stuck between the seats, the creatively placed chewing gum, and the declarations of love scratched in the windows. Spots of unidentifiable substances and stains I do not even want to know what theyx92re made of, decorate the floor, the walls and, sometimes, the seats. Things squeak, panels ramble, suspensions below sigh and groan. The back of the second-last seats are broken, ruined with markers and most of the time completely discolored. The same was to say for the seat I was sitting on, only less horrible. But still very.

=

As I was taking in the result of driving around hyper active and mostly bored students, another guy stepped in at the stadiumx92s bus stop. He slid in the seat next to his friend in front of me, but not before throwing an almost empty plastic bottle on the other end of x91myx92 seat. Over his shoulder. Which indicates that the back seat can not only be tormented by itx92s users, but also by other travelers. The back seat is, simply put, nothing but the garbage disposal of the public transport.

=

I looked at the bottle in both shock and wonder, before I leant to my right. I quickly calculated how difficult it would be to zip his bag open and dump the bottle inside without him noticing. My options were minimal, and the bag a tad too far away. I checked underneath their seat to see if his friend had left his bag there, but no luck there either. Oh, I would kill for a picture of one of their faces when they open their bags at home.

=

Boy number three stepped in, obviously younger than the three of us, about fifteen years old. He was also left with no choice (arenx92t there any people getting out during this trip?) and sat down on the other end of the back seat. He had to remove the evil bottle, a ripped newspaper and a few wrappers to do so. He also decided that his bag would probably get eaten by the floor.

It was going to be a lot more difficult to bring my mission to a good ending with him on my side.

=

All of a sudden, the bottles former owner reaches up to press the stop button. I only had a few seconds before he would be out of my reach. I leaned to my right again (carefully avoiding any contact with anything alien-looking) and saw my goal being lifted from the ground.

Damnit!

=

I sighed as he walked towards the doors and waited there for the bus to stop. x93Maybe I should jus chuck it at his head.x94 I mumbled. The fact that I had a full bus of witnesses and a good 20 minutes with them left helped me to decide against the idea.

=

When I almost reached my stop, I gave a mean glare at the leaving backside of the first guy. The now empty seat in front of me looked inviting, but I only had a few stops left; it wasnx92t worth it. As I looked down on my failed mission, it rolled off the seat thanks to a bump in the road. I watched it roll away, down the bus, past the feet and the bags.

=

We turned into my street, and I fully inspected the stop button before carefully pushing it with as minimized contact as necessary. As I stood up (I was actually expecting a goopy, sucking sound and a lot of icky stuff on my coat) I gave a last glance around, took everything in.

=

It was my first time in the back of public transport. It was an important lesson.

=

=

I hereby take place as your elder sister.

=

=

When taking the bus, never wear white clothing.

=

=

Just in case.

=

=

                          -xxx- Noor

=

=

I was actually planning to write a humoristic piece about the sudden switch from Sinterklaas to Santa today, but I just have to get this off my chest:

.

@$F*ck#%&^*@#{$u&!!!!!!!
.

Ahem. Back to writing with syllables now.
.
Last night, some half-drunk guys tried to ruin our preciously hung-up Christmas decorations. Can you believe that? In a half deserted town like ours, you can still find enough vandals on a Friday night to break down someonex92s colored party lights!!

.

My mum heard one of our dogs barking, and got out of bed. As she passed the hallway, she heard something outside. She walked up to the window, opened it, and when she looked outside, she could see some boys pulling the string of lights out of a small tree in our front garden.

.

She asked them if ruining our garden was really that necessary, and they walked off. But only to come back a little while later to return theyx92re x91useful dutiesx92. This time, the fake ice-cones hanging from the roof where on their list of x91things-to-doomx92.

.

Mum yelled them off. But the colored lights are broken. They pulled some out, and itx92s one of those strings that only work when all the lights are well attached.

.

My dadx92s now outside, looking for the lights. If they dropped them, we can put them back in and marvel at their colors at night again. But Ix92m not getting my hopes too high.

.

I find this unbelievable. Why would anyone, and I mean ANYONE, ever ruin something thatx92s not theirs, for fun??

A long, long time ago (in a country far, far away: Holland) we had a Christmas wreath. And we hung it up every year at our front door.
Until it got stolen.

.

Ever since, we never hung up anything outside. But now wex92re here, in a silent, peaceful village. And with a new, fresh believe in the good of mankind, we bravely hung up our newly-bought Christmas decorations.

.

Turns out we moved to the Village of the Damned.

.

Herex92s a message not only to those who ruined our front garden, but all the other young criminal minds of the drunk and the stupid.

.

Santa WILL find you.

.

.

If not, I keep myself and my hungry hellhounds available, Santa.

.

                           -xxx- Noor

.

Picture: ‘Broken Christmas 07′  by sisky

http://sisky.deviantart.com/

.

.

PMS.

.

An abbreviation feared by all (and by all, I mean men).

.

PMS, or Pre-Menstrual Syndrome, is the troublesome and mostly painful curse of being female. On the bright side, it is the only curse (men on the other hand, decided they had not enough empty beer cans to keep count how many they had, so went off to buy some full ones to empty, and totally forgot what they were doing when they returned).

.

In some distant and not-too-distant cultures, the entire clan gives a great feast if a young girl has had her first menstruation. I concluded this is done to keep her pissed-off attitude tempered. Smart guys.

.

For us women, it is a fun time to take advantage of that fear of others (again, I mean men). Since there is no fun in the menstruation itself, we find it in dominating the opposite sex. We ridden ourselves from our feminine pressure by wearing big, cosy sweaters and furry slippers, eat more chocolate than Dr. Phil can handle, refuse to do the household, and demand mastery over the so male Remote Control. Because we have no need to explain why looking at Johnny Depp makes us feel better.

.

Yes, people fear the monthly dominance that can rise from within the most shyest woman. And with that, a question comes to mind;

.

What other ways are there to use our curse against the world?

.

To get a better spot in line at the bakery (or jus clear it completely with one growl)? To explain an officer you were speeding because you need to watch your soap and will get away with it? To gain respect on the working floor, even from your boss?

.

This last one has to do with my current position; Ix92m this weekx92s chairwoman. And not only these well prepared first 90 minutes this lovely Monday morning, but also the other, more sudden meetings following this entire week. Yes, 8 other students, plus a weird tutor today, will be under my control.

.

Or will they? Will I have enough power to convince them to shut up? Will they understand that I want to move on to the next agenda-point somewhere this century? Will the Force be with me?

.

But I say hank you Murphy, for even you fear me enough.

Because today, my chairwomanship falls together with my first day of PMS.

.

.

Have you ever tried to hide at your own school? Whether is was from an angry teacher whose eyes were set on x91killx92, or a guy you just had a terrible brake-up with? Or maybe even your friends?

.

No seriously, have you?

.

I know I have. And I still do.

.

Nothing to do with brake-ups or homicidal teachers, and I love hanging with my friends, but just for fun. I love hiding at school. I often have to wait a few hours before or after school, when therex92s nobody of my friends to talk too.

.

Ix92m typing this in the early morning, watching teachers pass by, most of them not even noticing me as they hug their cups of take-away coffee. Not at a hiding spot, no. Therex92s no fun in hiding if therex92s no one to hide from. Ix92m probably the first student around here.

.

The first time I occurred such a moment of x91lonelinessx92, I started exploring this new college. You would be amazed how many spots you can find here, places where no one comes! And 2 out of 3 have a electricity plug-inn nearby, so my laptop can work everywhere. Hooray for free wireless internet at school!!

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Of course, I was bound to be found once. I was at my favorite spot (the one at the top floor, with a big window too look at the passing clouds whenever I feel like it), busy with a drawing.

Yeah, if Ix92d been busy reading Timx92s work (a young journalist whose work I read online, and truly admire, Ix92ll tell ya about him once), I would have been doing something xb4usefulxb4 at the least. But noooooo; I was drawing, of all things to do in a school for journalism.

So I just smiled at the lady. One of those xb4therex92s nothing to see but a friendly girl, who will get pissed off if you talk to her, so just walk away slowlyxb4 smiles. To say that it had some effect would be an understatement.

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Now, to think that only my school as such great spots of solitary, would be a big mistake. Do it. Go do it now if youx92re still at school. Walk around the school, and look for places to hide. Somewhere you could take a book whenever itx92s raining and youx92ve got some time left. A spot you could sit and think or listen to some music, maybe even sing along. Places you can listen to the sound of the rain without the noises of your fellow students. If youx92re lucky, therex92ll be the soft and soothing rumbling of the boiler nearby.

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Even my secondary school had hiding spots. Try underneath a pair of stairs, or that corner at the end of the hall where people rarely pass. Explore a hallway that students stopped using as frequently ever since they build a new part of the school.

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I sent you all out on a quest, a mission. Reserve a free hour somewhere on your schedule (check the weather report for rain or snow, they make it more fun), grab yourself a cup of hot chocolate from the vending machine in the cantine, and maybe a good book or a laptop with connection to Timx92s writing. Go, and find your spot of peace and quiet, to never tell anyone where you went. Our hiding places are to be kept secret. Because nothing is as annoying as someone who stole your spot.

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Yet, wouldnx92t it be more fun to find out you both just want to spent the time silent? Maybe hiding together is a bit more fun that way. Just encountering the other, who also needed a moment right now. Never make appointments; rules and agendax92s make it strict, something itx92s not meant to be. Hiding must come as a spur of the moment.

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We, students, adolescences and bearers of the future; we need one of those spots, to hide from the deafening sound of the big cruel world. Because school is where the world shouts the loudest.

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