....there's a cute blonde guy next to me, reading "The Physicists" by Duerrenmatt, and he's reading every single page until it's over, which leads me to the following conclusions:

1) He's probably younger than me ('cause I read that book in school). What a shame.

2) If he's not reading it for school, he's got an unusual literary taste. I kinda like that.

3) He doesn't just skim books but truly reads, which is always lovely. I hate when people don't read.

4) Actually, he has too much of a stubble to be in 9th grade. So he's either reading the book for fun OR for college, and that seems cool, if he was doing something with literature there....why am I not doing that? I'd have met cute guys like him! Could've said "bless you" when he sneezed just now. Didn't have the guts to do so. There goes my chance on true love.

5) I honestly don't get why they all think wearing blue suede shoes with a pointy tip like they were some trendy idol is a good idea.

6) Trying to figure out the kind of music he's listening to. The reflection of sunlight on his screen is making it a little hard. It's no familiar title, so I can't even guess it.

7) He's got really small hands. Or rather, small fingers. That's interesting, 'cause they're not chubby at all, just some good hands in miniature form.

8) Now he's really getting into his music. He's jiggling his knees and moving his fingers to a rhythm, raising his attractiveness factor noticably, in my opinion. Does he play the guitar? I love when guys enjoy music. I can't fathom guys who don't.

9) He probably won't realize that I've been obsessed with him for a good ten minutes of my life.

Love,

Rosy Smith

This is still a thing to me.

So I just saw a guy in moccasins, going all ew in my head cause I really don't appreciate that trend. Who even started that? Now I see fringes everywhere, like, this isn't a costume party! Anyways, I'm drifting off, it's just that I realized there's this boy I know who also wears moccasins and I actually like him. The thing is, I came to like him before I ever noticed his disastrous taste in footwear. When I did, I sorta went ew, too, but I couldn't think it with the same vehemence. I mean, he was still the same person, it would have been irrational to treat him differently because of his shoes-but thinking about it, people I meet on the subway (or, here in London, the tube) I actually do judge after their shoes, in a way. I bet you know what I mean, that little all-over-look you give people and then stare a little longer if they're hot or look away with a you-are-wearing-moccasins-why-do-you-do-this-to-me-look (just an example). The important question that hit me then and there- Would I ever have gotten friendly with that one person if I had seen him in those shoes first? And what meaning do certain style-standards of ours have if we skip them as soon as we started to like somebody? Do we only use them to rank total strangers we never meet again and get our mind set on things like clothes and shoes and hairstyles, just to waste time?

This is confusing me right now. Whatever, I hope people get over the moccasin-thing soon so there's no need for me to question my principles.

Love from a London tube,

Rosy Smith

....don't start on me, but it was too sweet a sight that presented itself to me on the train the other day. Firstly, there was a man beside me, with dreads in his hair and a canvas duffel bag on his knees, reading a book on capitalism. I know it's wrong to categorize people, but why wasn't he taking a look at the latest Danielle Steel? Because you rarely see people with canvas duffel bags clutching a nice tale of betrayal, even if it's second on the Time's best seller list. It's such a shame. I get that you care about our society, and the environment, and everything. In fact, I got you at "canvas". You can stop there.

"I'm scared to be caught photographing strangers"

Cut to two women across from me. The one on the right is prettily put together, in a fashionable blue dress with yellow flower print, a cashmere scarf 'cause she cares for quality, a light grey wool coat just right for this season and an impractical handbag. She's listening to music on her Iphone and as I let my gaze wander down, I notice that she's even taken the time to pick blue socks to match her dress. To me, that's the ultimate proof of having your life together. Everything about that woman seems to say: "I'm a grown lady, I have a good job and I'm damn great at it because I give all I have to get where I wanna go - that's why my tights don't have holes in them, too". A little intimidating, but also impressive.
As she left, she fumbled out a packet of rolling papers and impatiently put a cigarette together, then stuffed the rest back in. She didn't look too happy, but maybe she had just had a bad day. Maybe she'd tripped and fallen on her knee in front of her crush from work. Oops, now I'm doing it again, explaining all of life's troubles with men. She might as well have fallen in front of her female boss before a big presentation or something. But seriously, what would be the better story here.

The woman on the left is extremely different. To speak metaphorically, she's probably wearing socks that don't match and one of them is striped. She's still into colored jeans. She's wearing a rucksack, 'cause it's ergonomically wiser. That's also the reason for her choice of footwear, I guess; otherwise I'd have to say that she didn't find her way out of the child's section. Anyways, to compensate that impression, she's reading a book I won't name - however, it's very cynical and very "I'm a college student and the only girl in our IT class".
How did I get so mean? Just wondering.
I wish I could find some surprise element about her, but I feel like superficiality is frowned upon so much 'cause us poor superficial thinkers can't possibly tell how smart and fun and amazing someone is by judging their appearance, so all we say sounds like a roast. I'm sure she's lovely.

Last but not least, a look to my right and I spot a guy whom I identify to be Russian, as he's apparently speaking that language on the phone. He's wearing nice things. Lace up boots, which is a safe choice in a world where trainers are considered shoes by some. Random shot: He's a musician. He doesn't have typical musician hands, but they've got something about them I can't place. He's smiling to himself sometimes, then looking straight ahead again. He might be practising some really hard classical piece in his head and he's acing the best parts, so that makes him smile. Beneath his shirt, he's wearing a thin gold necklace. The Russian kid from my school used to do that, so let me jump conclusions here.

So, what do we learn from this? You shouldn't categorize people. But sometimes, you can't help but notice. It certainly passes the time.

Love,

Rosy Smith

There's a double meaning in my headline. Sure, I'm gonna rant on about public transport,  obviously. But this is the story of four girls whom it took four hours to get home....


It was all fun and games when our whole class (consisting of eleven, so it's not that big of a deal) sneaked out of the building before last period in a manner that would've done a Mr.Bean comedy justice. We were acting incredibly obvious, pressing against the elevator walls and then running head-over heels past the teacher's lounge, but trying to stay on our tip-toes, which totally doesn't look suspicious in 3 inch heels and a giant schoolbag over your arm. Whatever, it was one of these "you had to be there" situations which are actually really funny. Believe me. When one of us almost ran into the glass door, it really was a sight to relish.

But the thing with being bad is, while it's fun to do, sometimes you end up raising your eyebrow and seriously starting to believe in karma for at least five minutes.

We had a 15 minute delay, which is bearable, you know, you get pretty zen about little snickets like that after a while. But I guess the good start was supposed to trick us into thinking we'd be home in two hours. Ha! You wish! We made it to the first station; then, the train- well, it stopped. And stood there. For a while. And then, a little longer. People got scared, let me tell ya. One after the other, they stood up and got the hell outta that train. As for me, my phone went dead. Which is always a nice addition when you're already scared for your life (or your way home). Long story short, we got thrown out of the train. It was broken, as the lady on the speakers euphemistically put it. I'm asking you, how exactly does a train "break" in the middle of the freaking tracks?

Anyhow, so we were basically stranded in some station in the middle of nowhere (not as bad as the last time that happened to me, though) with about a hundred of other's who were all crowding onto the next possible train, so we didn't catch that. Meanwhile, I'm on my friend's phone with my mom, trying to explain to her that I had no idea when I was ever gonna be back. We were on 70 per cent, and you know how long that's gonna last an Iphone (oops, brand name dropped, sorry Apple).Exactly.
When our next train got cancelled as we anticipatingly stood on the track in the pouring rain (did I mention it was raining? Maybe not quite pouring, but my hair doesn't really care, it was totally done for), I remember letting out a choked scream that got two other girls' attention. Poor things had been even more unlucky than us, seeing as the phone of one of them had just gotten stolen. To the douche who ripped it off her, what kind of manners are those? The lady had just been thrown out into the dark city without public transport after a long day slicing up a corpse (med students, don't be scared)! How dare you take her only way of communicating with somebody who's not stuck here? She could probably find some important vein on you in absolutely no time, so better back off.

Naturally, we decided to continue our travels in a foursome (hence the bouncy headline) and managed to get to the next big station in only 40 minutes, which is basically no time (if we had a hundred years to live, that is). Running up and down the stairs, a few urgent messages to mom (no, I'm taking another line now! No, I have no idea where that comes from! And I don't care!) and soon enough we were positive to be going in the right direction. We were having a ball by now, hyped by the hysteric mood and the irony of me and my friend being later than we'd ever been if we'd only stayed for the last lecture.

Imagine our hair (two naturally curly heads over here). Imagine our physical exhaustion. Not to mention the psycho terror. Now, imagine a bunch of freaking dyed-blonde youtube wannabes or something walking past us, asking if we "had any idea where to find first class on this train?". On a public train, of which I only vaguely knew it was getting me home. I think I just laughed into their faces a little off-rockers. Another girl said "do we look like we knew that?" meaning, do we look as if we give a damn about where you're gonna place those acid wash jeans. "No, you certainly don't". Right. That's what he said. You should've seen the murderous look on our faces.
That's not how you gain subscribers, lovely. Bet you're not telling your audience about that entourage of yours.

Finally, we were on the last inches to my station- the others had to go one or two further. Under their applause, I was about to leave into freedom as the first one of us. Then I heard it: "This train will be stopping here due to people on the tracks". I turned to the others, who were about to be trapped for another twenty minutes.
That's the point where I sink down onto the stairs, hysterically laughing. It would've been awesome if it hadn't been so sad.

Soo, after I found my contenace again and stepped out of this madtrain into the real, comforting world, and about another hour, which added up to four in total, every one of us arrived, at last.

And vowed to never take the train again.

Until tomorrow morning....

Love,

Rosy Smith

....people I don't want to see, like, ever again. It's not that I hate them; I'd say I barely hate anyone, it's just that I have absolutely no desire to find myself in a face to face situation with them, because it would either be awkward or embarrassing, and definitely uncomfortable, and I like comfortable.
Thankfully, I can't think of too many yet, but here's the ones I'm filing under "avoid by hiding behind next available object":

That army guy who didn't get my humor. I've developed a serious aversion against his, well, personality. Come on, would you set me up with somebody who seems to lack the ability to understand sarcasm? Do you think I could hold a conversation with someone who apologizes every time I make fun of his opinion? The truth is, I couldn't, which is why we don't talk anymore (though I hope he didn't change his number just because of me, 'cause I wasn't that mean) and I would certainly have no idea at all how to react if I ever saw him again. Apart from the fact that I probably wouldn't recognize his face, I mean.

The man who made me fail my driving test. Twice. I'm not even that bad of a driver, and the second fail was totally not my fault, but that's not the matter here; He lectured me about half an hour after every test, which is a very insensitive thing to do to a 17-year old who is exorbitantly ambitious, not willing to deal with disappointment and who's looking at you with a kinda mad stare because she's trying to shoot little daggers into your ice-blue eyes which, in her opinion, show the coldness of your heart. So there's only one scenario I would appreciate him to see me in, and that's me shooting a music video in which I'm casually driving a fast, hot car alongside some cliff to the sound of an up-beat number one hit, giving him an ironic shout-out in a behind-the-scenes clip. I might have rolled over that sidewalk a bit, but at least I know a thing or two about timing.

The ticket inspector who gave me that fine today. I simply cannot handle two different bags - on Thursday, I changed 'em, being clever enough to actually take my train ticket with me. Of course, no one bothered to control me that day. Unfortunately, I didn't go as far as changing the ticket back into the original bag along with my other stuff, so today I realized I was spoken for, the very moment the inspector came around. Because it goes without saying that they're always coming at the most inconvenient time, just like death and babies or however that saying goes.
Lovelies, it was one of the most embarrassing things ever. I felt like some sort of criminal as he took my ID and printed out a little fine ticket and asked where I was going and everything. On the inside, I wanted to scream "I have a freaking ticket I pay way too much for each month, considering the stupid train is always late and I have to be standing up all the time, so don't come at me with a fine for processing my case, as if you're overworked". In reality, I didn't say so much, I was too mortified with my own mistake, the cruelity of coincidence, et cetera.
I also felt as if that inspector was full of disdain for this apparently impossibly wretched attempt of dishonesty (I'm not a criminal! Don't you dare make me feel like one!), so right now, I would definitely stop in my tracks and run if I saw him again.

Thinking about it, I probably should act all proud and sure of myself and me being a respectable citizien who pays their fees and is free of all faults except for not being able to manage rotating bags. I'll insist for the next inspector I see to check my ticket. Let them know I'm an example of correctness. And as soon as I can, I'll take a cab wherever I go. Cab drivers only wanna see cash. They're my kind of people.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....oh, where do I begin. The most obvious one, I guess, are delays. I've started dreading the train announcments 'cause they usually crash all my hopes on getting home at a decent time and make me go through various stages of emotions, from hysteric rants in public to equally hysteric laughter to zen-like smiles which are, actually, hysteric as well. And that happens at least once a day.

So, when the train is finally being announced, at last, I grab my 200 pound bag from next to me on the chairs in the smoker's zone 'cause they're the only ones available, cough the smoke out of my lungs, get into an expectant position - and almost fall onto the tracks trying to catch a glimpse on the "arriving train", because it's not arriving within the next five minutes people. Zen-like smile.

If I'm lucky, I get a seat. If not, I'm blocking the hallway, feeling like I'm about to pass out on my heels in the murderous heat 'cause I can't take off my coat, drawing inapropriate comparisions between animal wagons and our current situation, praying that I smell nicely 'cause I'm holding onto the ceiling above a guy's head. What happened to the whole guys standing up for ladys tradition, anyways? I get so passive aggressive, in fact, that I have thought of a system where everybody has to hold little signs stating when they'll get off so that people like me who commute can sit down instead of those who are resting their poor body for a single stop. Like, that should be a law.

The funny thing is, most of the time, I could practically take a nice walk alongside the train, because it is SO damn slow. It's like it couldn't hold in its delay schedule if it would actually function according to its purpose, and that would be such a shame, wouldn't it.

Moreover, a couple of weeks ago, I slipped on the bus and pirouetted straight into this guy I'd been eying for the whole ride, elegantly swearing. All I remember now is that his face was basically in breathing distance to mine and he grinned weirdly and I said sorry and twirled right back into position thinking unspeakable thoughts and holding on to the grab handle like I was paid for holding on to poles (ain't I witty). The moral of the story is that you get WAY too close to random people on public transport. I have to hold on to stranger's shoulders to get off the train without falling flat on my face. I have to share a 4 seat compartment with three old men drinking beer straight out of the bottle (isn't that a violation to some sort of code?). I have to endure some pre-med student's arm brushing along my leg 'cause he genuinely doesn't mean to harass me but can't put his stupid jacket on any other way! I've developed a pretty effective technique to do so without touching anyone. I'd be happy to draw you a chart, lovelies.

I'll stop now before I use any swear words (I'm proud I've made it this far), but without a doubt there'll be more of these.

Can't wait.

Love,

Rosy Smith