Feeling numb, numb, nu-nu-nu-numb?

Most people enjoy talking about themselves. To a person, their own name is the single sweetest word in the English language. I think that’s why I can sit down and churn out page after page of my own ‘factual story’, also known as a depressive look into my life, with a tackily humorous twist.

While I like the 90s for what they saw – Angry Beavers, Polly Pockets and reenacting A Bug’s Life with a few decorative rocks and some guinea pig seed – I think deep down, I’m fond of them because they were the most relaxing, carefree days of my life. And while everyone says that, it’s a bit extreme in my case, as my mind doesn’t allow me much down time between stressing about everything and concocting some fun new voices for me to hear.

Maybe again why I like grunge blogs. While they don’t promote mental illness, they don’t shun it. If you were to tell the owner of a Tumblr filled with orange tween girls with vans what you’ve hallucinated about, they’d probably cry. But not the grunge kids. We take what we’ve experienced, type it in a goopy font, and whack it on a pastel background for the world to take in. No nonsense, take it or leave it. WE R WHO WE R.

 Preach it, sista

 

And while Ke$ha’s catchy hit may seem similar to Lady Gaga’s Born This Way, people with mental illnesses often aren’t born with it. It’s their environments and stressors and the people they deal with. While there’s a slightly increased risk of developing depression or anxiety if your parents had it, you’re not ‘born that way’. After all, Ke$ha used to be fat.

Eat it, sista

I think it’s worthwhile taking the time to release your inner journo and write a factual story about yourself if you haven’t. Not a whingefest, just an anecdote. In my case, the added bonus of releasing my inner turmoil (terribly dramatic) was that I completed an assignment over a week early. There’s a first for everything!

Kurt you be any more amazing?

As April 5 marked the anniversary of the death of Kurt Cobain, perhaps one of the most influential grunge musicians of all time, I decided to do a spot of research on the talented heartthrob icon that, considering I list as one of my favourite artists, I know surprisingly little about.

Lead singer and guitarist of Nirvana, his life was cut short at just 27, although the circumstances of his death are debated and intriguing. While most supposed fans can barely list the band’s discography past “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, Nirvana released three studio albums in its brief time, with drummer Dave Grohl going on to join the post-grunge band, Foo Fighters.

Cobain was a talented wrestler in junior high school, but hated it. He would allow himself to be pinned to irritate his father; similarly, after his father signed him up to a baseball team, he would intentionally strike out.

Cobain translated his personal experiences very literally to his song writing. Arguments with his partner of the time, Tracy Marander, influenced the creation of “About A Girl”. After meeting and before dating Tobi Vail, Cobain constructed the lyric, “Love you so much it makes me sick,” in the song “Aneurysm”, as his infatuation for her and his anxiety regarding it caused him to vomit. Now that’s creative.

Images of Cobain with wife Courtney Love are well circulated, although their love story is not. For months, Love attempted to pursue Cobain but his determination to remain single prompted him to cancel dates and ignore her. By 1991, the couple had become closer, also bonding through drug use (probably not the best role models, but hey, the guy was a pure talent).

Love commented on Cobain’s first attempt at suicide. Prior to overdosing on champagne and Rohypnol, he had been admitted to a Roman hospital after diagnosis of bronchitis and severe laryngitis.

Following his admittance to a detox program is Los Angeles, he was visited by friends and showed no negative tendencies or suicidal mindset. He simply left the facility by climbing over the fence, and flew back to Seattle, being spotted in various locations.

An electrician discovered Cobain’s body on April 8, 1994, an estimated 3 days after he died. The electrician initially thought Cobain was just sleeping until he saw a gun pointing at his chin, and tests revealed a high concentration of heroin and traces of diazepam in Cobain’s body.

A public vigil saw 7000 mourners attending, on April 10, 1994. I wasn’t even born yet.

While there may be controversy about his death, his impact on the grunge scene is not debated. He featured in the 2006 list of “100 Greatest Metal Singers of All Time” by Hit Parader, as well as in MTV’s “22 Greatest Voices in Music”, among other awards.

While my pitiful contribution to his legacy involves forcing friends to listen to Nirvana’s music and reblogging Cobain’s portrait on Tumblr, I hope that he won’t be forgotten any time soon. Just as the grunge phase has repeated its 90 heydays in my teen life, maybe twenty years from now it will reemerge, with Cobain leading its rampage once again.

Being creepy.

It may have taken me 14 hours of burger selling and a nail-biting seven day wait, but finally my new love interest arrived – my grey suede creepers. While these dandy kicks adhere to my affair with grunge, they serve another crucial purpose – they make 160cm me taller. I’m almost brave enough to wear them to uni. Although they don’t break the most important rule (“Don’t wear heels to uni, you’ll look stupid” [established by my sister and several friends]), they’re just that little bit out there. I’m sure where ‘there’ is, but it’s intimidating.

You red it here first.

 

This is simply an epitome of the grunge phase. Just as I had wondered if I'd look fetching with bright red hair (don't worry, I won't go there... mum won't let me), I wondered if there'd be some really hardcore grunge kids on campus. I was let down to discovery that people were - SHOCK HORROR - normal?! For a moment, I was disheartened to realise that my target audience for my future career didn't exist, at least not in the confines St. Lucia. But my journalism and reporting lecturers lifted my spirits, as I found out that journalism is being very target-oriented. just as the semantic web is rising, so are my hopes that somewhere out there, people will rush to the news stands to read my interpretations of bright red hair and denim-on-denim.

Insights of a bored mind.

The other day I was filling in the hour between my lecture and my tutorial by people-watching at the Great Court, Boost in hand. Some people were sitting, most were walking. There was even a pair playing with a Frisbee. How typically uni is that?

Eventually it neared to 11:10 and the crowds on foot lessened a bit (easier for people watching, to be honest). After a girl with a nose piercing passed, I started wondering what I’d look like with one. Trés grunge, obviously. But I don’t think I could hack a needle or gun or whatever they use puncturing my nostril. I have one piercing, on the middle of the edge of my ear, but even that was a frightening Schoolies experience… and much easier to hide from Mum for a week or so.

The Frisbee boys were still going. People dressed like they’re from the 20s were still passing. A few hipsters and a few people in need of haircuts sauntered past. I still had half an hour to kill. I wished I had brought a magazine or a Barrel of Monkeys or something.

The daily grind.

Between cavorting around campus thinking I'm the epitome of slick, and sitting hunched on my bed reblogging grainy photos of Kurt Cobain, I make a living by working at a fast food outlet. By a living, I mean I require funds for snazzy new clothes and that delightful flavoured water from the Lolly Shop.

I don't love my work, but I don't hate it either. Between having coins launched at my face (not joking, we get some kooky customers) and fishing jeans out of the toilets (that was a fun shift), I've got a few good friends there and the staff discount is nifty, if not fattening.

Work never did live up to my expectations though. I always thought working in a fast food store would be, well, reminiscent of those in 90s sitcoms, with the buttoned-up shirts, funny hats and cheerful little mascots. Radical, it is not.

"It's an experience," my mother always says. I try to take that on board and think of it as something to write about. Who knows, maybe the coin/face incident could be the catalyst that leads to my dazzling career in journalism. Those hundreds of people that flock in and out of the doors and demand burgers from me every day could be my readers... although it doesn't seem hugely likely that a 70-year-old woman buying 12 soft serve cones for her tiny grandchildren would be interested in grunge music and acid washed muscle tops.

But journalism isn't about assuming, it's about finding out and knowing. Just because it's the official version that she doesn't like dip-dyed hair or black lipstick, that doesn't mean that she's not playing bingo by day, but bleaching her already grey hair and rocking out by night.

Vest friends forever.

These rather strikingly 90s numbers have featured both on my Tumblr, personal Twitter and now my JOUR1111 blog. It's somewhat remarkable and also slightly depressing that my presence on the wonder that is Web 2.0 can be expressed in vest-form.