Hey. I'm Hattie. I squeal a lot :)
I heart creme brulee, simultaneous equations and peeling potatoes.
I don't heart wrists, helicopters or ladders.
(Those were trilogiums. Score!)
When people are bored, I get them to write poems for me. Here are the results:
Hattie: A poem by Amanda Canty
HARRIET VEALE was born in November,
So long ago she can't remember.
(the next four lines are censored to protect my dignity)
As a teenager Hattie loves her men,
She takes them to her secret love den.
Laura is her favourite guest,
It's because for a man she has big breasts.
Hattie's sexual move is a shoulder bite,
She uses it if they put up a fight.
Hattie is a really good friend,
She always has a shoulder to lend.
A Poem For Hattie by Lois Wilson (12/03/07)
Once upon a time I spied
A Hattie in the countryside
She sang a melody so sweet
It cause my little heart to beat.
And now the Hattie roams at school
And longs for Kavos swimming pool
And beach and alcohol and raves
And that her foot bubble behaves Most of you won't understand. Be glad of it.
But here, at school, in 'spanish class'
(Where we relax and let time pass
Avoiding work as best we can
Avoiding death-glares from FatMan)
We must make do with what is here
And what's good in Buckinghamshire?
I'll tell you what, it's friends like Lo
Who write for you a little po(em).
A Poem for Hattie #3 by Emilie Shannon (17/04/07)
I have a friend called Hattie Veale
Her favourite thing to do is squeal
Mostly at squirrels that fall out of trees
Or when she's being chased by bumble bees
She's also quite fond of the colour black
And has a passionate love of blu-tac
Ok, the last line may not be strictly true
But the wants to dye the ends of her hair blue!
On top of all this Hattie is amazing
And very soon we will be lazing
On the beach in lovely sunny Greece
Look out everyone! She's one FIT PIECE!
"We have explicit expectations of ourselves in specific situations - beyond expectations; they are requirements. Some of these are small: If we are given a surprise party, we will be delighted. Others are sizeable: If a parents dies, we will be grief-stricken. But perhaps in tandem with these expectations is the private fear that we will fail convention in the crunch. That we will receive the fateful phone call and our mother is dead and we feel nothing. I wonder if this quiet, unutterable little fear is even keener than the fear of the bad news itself: that we will discover ourselves to be monstrous...
The fact that this 'underfear' rarely becomes overweening proceeds from a crude trust. You have to keep faith that if the unthinkable does come to pass, despair will come crashing in of its own accord; that grief, for example, is not an experience you need summon or a skill you need practice, and the same goes for prescriptive joy.
Thus even tragedy can be accompanied by a trace of relief, The discovery that heartbreak is indeed heartbreaking consoles us about our humanity."
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net