Thursday 1 of December, 2022
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Sally Sampson is as much of a loser as she is a bitch. There we said it. So what happens when she turns both... ahem... qualities up? You get a life lesson in being yourself, of course.

Staff Writer

Earlier this week, I was going through some of my old stuff. You know what I mean: diaries, photo albums, and little bits of memorabilia that I still hold on to (because I’m actually a pathological hoarder and I attach emotional significance to practically everything!) and I had a bit of a revelation.

Now this may come as a shock to you but I have to say: I am so fucking un-cool! I’m not kidding! I thought I was un-cool during high-school because everyone that wasn’t a supermodel or was practicing oral sex was un-cool, but it turns out I haven’t changed that much.

I mean sure, I know now that make-up needs to be evenly applied, otherwise I look like a circus freak and that accidentally spitting your drink on your crush is probably not the best way to get his attention and, most importantly, I now know that if I pull my pants up too high, camel-toe is inevitable and should be avoided at all times (and if you don’t know that, then take it from me as one of the top five most important pieces of advice you’ll ever get and thank me later!)

However, my ‘un-coolness’ persists, because some things I have not been able to shake off. To this day I remain:

An absolute drama queen of epic proportions. I know this because more often than not, people will furrow their brows and look at me in the same way they may look at a caged chimpanzee in the zoo throwing its own faeces at its keeper.

A cry-baby. Irrational, unreasonable and ready with the waterworks at all times. I cry through most of Moulin Rouge, no matter how many times I see it. I’ve cried through documentaries on crocodiles. I cry when I haven’t slept enough and I cry when I’ve overslept. There is no logic to it; there is no system.

Obnoxiously loud. ‘Control of my volume’, as my parents call it, has never been my forte. When I have something to say, God Damn It, it will be said and you will hear me, because no other option exists. Also my laugh, whilst thoroughly entertaining because of its lack of restraint, if you’re not necessarily ready for it (i.e. if you’re casually talking to me about ladybugs on the phone), might potentially partially deafen you for a while as you try to stem the blood streaming down the sides of your face from your ears.

Inexplicably and loyally addicted to chocolate. I love chocolate. I don’t know what to do with myself. I like dark, milk and white chocolate. I like it in cake. I love it in ice cream. I want a beer-bong of chocolate syrup minus the beer. Oh and that new Dairy Milk chocolate (which is a rip-off of Aero) called Bubbly is my new heaven. I just wish my ass would co-operate and stop growing.

Retarded around people that I find to be attractive. I am an absolute nightmare. I was back in school and I still am now. I twirl my hair and giggle effusively to the point that the other person starts to doubt, not only my ability to speak the same language as him, but whether or not I can speak at all! My shining moment came, a few years ago, when I saw a crush of mine randomly and the first words out of my mouth were: ‘Oh my God! You look so….so…you look so…FLY!!!’ And seeing as I’m not Jay-Z, you can imagine the ‘you’re so fly’ sentiment coming from a little hobbit sized Egyptian girl nervously snickering, didn’t really have the impact I wanted it to.

And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.

Now, God knows, I am grateful for all of my weirdness. I make a living out of being more than a little unusual after all.

But I remember a time when I would’ve wished away all of my idiosyncrasies. Every now and again, I still imagine what it would’ve been like to be cool in high-school. Those girls looked like they had it all. They didn’t have the rolls of fat growing on their stomachs, or the extreme bouts of acne that made having the plague seem more appealing. The boys scrambled to dance with them at prom and they had killer bodies. Popularity back then was the shit! And I didn’t have the shit and no matter how much I wanted the shit, I couldn’t have the shit!

Why? Because I snort when I laugh, and I swear like a fucking seventy-five year old redneck sitting on a stool in a bar at 10 AM, pissed out of his mind! I sing all the time and I talk to myself in an attempt to understand what the fuck my problem is. I am random and I enter into conversation with people halfway through a train of thought and talk to them like they know exactly what just went on in my head. I’m a psycho.  I was back then, and I still am!

And yes, like I said, as a result, I am un-cool. Very un-cool.

And  maybe it’s because I’m growing up, or maybe it’s because I have an adolescent sibling who is going through similar experiences, (and I know this is cheesy) but I just want to state, for the record, that I’m really happy that I wasn’t cool in school. And I’m very, very happy that I’m STILL stubbornly and decidedly a freak of nature.

This was my revelation this week: the things I haven’t been able to shake off have all served a purpose in my life, and I have no doubt that they will continue to do so.

I’m a drama queen, but it’s made my life so vivid that nothing is ever boring.

I cry all the time, but that means things impact me profoundly and that I am not easily desensitised to the atrocities that occur every day around us.

I have no volume control, but that serves me well on stage.

Chocolate still makes me feel better when I’m down or on my period and thanks to J.Lo and Beyoncé, big butts are in! 

And even though, I’m still an embarrassment around guys I have a crush on, my erratic behaviour tends to attract only the men that seem to have a genuine interest in uncovering why the hell I am the way I am.

Everything for a reason…and in the words of Pink:

Pretty, pretty please, don’t you ever, ever feel, you are less than fucking perfect.

The moral of the story is: all you perfect, popular weirdoes can SUCK IT!

That is all.