So, there's this thing I've been writing for a while. I'm still wary of calling it a novel. It's a thing. A practice thing and one that will probably never see the light of day, not in its current version anyway. I thought I could start putting parts of it on here though for criticism (and also because I'm too much of a lazy fucker to put up actual posts as of late). So have this thing.
This dress is itchy. I acknowledge the fact that it’s pink and therefore frilly, girly, romantic and all of the other words from the Market magazines my Mum reads all the time. Therefore it’s probably perfect for meeting my future husband. All of this however, doesn’t change the fact that it’s itchy, that I feel like I’m going to tear the lace hem every time I take a step and that it would be ruined if I ran out in the pouring rain, which is exactly what I’d like to be doing. I can see vast expanses of overcast sky through the French windows, as if the weather is mocking me, while mother is crouching at my feet fixing up the lace.
After all, I’m not the only one who has to do some browsing today. It’s Market day again in Hallowfield, and that means a busy day for the parents of teens above sixteen. Wife and husband selection takes place under the glass dome of Central Markets Hallowfield, a structure which eerily resembles a golf ball. Rather apt I’d say, since golf is pretty much the primary occupation of Hallowfield residents. That and tending the lawns, which don’t really need tending, since they’re made of plastic. It’s a fairly satisfactory lifestyle, I suppose, going into a marriage at twenty-one, that was arranged for you by your parents when you were sixteen, then, a year later thumbing through the catalogue of approved due-to-be-born infants to find your perfect little sunshine and finally spending the rest of your life serving this family unit. There’s comfort in knowing that everything will fit perfectly. But there’s also annoyance, like in this moment when all I want is to put on my rainboots and go splashing around in the mud.
Instead I slip into the car and look out the window for half an hour. Not the most cheering of sights, a Hallowfield market morning. Everyone’s probably already at the Dome – everyone that matters anyway. All teenagers with potential, as the schools call it, their parents, and even their little brothers and sisters, who can’t be left at home by themselves. The young paired couples don’t live in the city. They get assigned houses in the suburbs to help them get on their feet, away from everybody else – away from the stress and anxiety of “modern-day high pressure living” That comes after, when they’re considered a well-adjusted and stable family unit. There’s a test for that as well, naturally. But you can see it at first glance – all two-story houses, with small, water efficient vegetable patches in front of them, looking almost identical with their minute details concealed by the morning fog.
Finally, we arrive. Market Day. All of the eligible under-16s gathered under the immense dome of the Hallowfield Market, clamoring overtop each other, most with their parents buzzing around them, but some alone, forming solitary units among the crowd – the orphans. The sad fact was, they are the likely candidates for last to be picked.
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
I'm going to become wonderful!
Wow, blog, just wow. I haven’t written anything here for how long? I don’t even know. It’s been missing and missed in my life. I’ve given up on daily diary entries, because those just get depressing when your life isn’t a constant blur of motion, change and work and mine definitely isn’t. But honestly, without some sort of regularly scheduled egocentric monologues, I kind of… lose my center. See what I did there? Let me try to explain this to myself as much as anyone else.
Basically, the thing that I find most benefitial for motivation, for work, for life in general is awareness. As in, being aware of myself, of my goals, of others’ perception of me. Also awareness of other people, what they want and need (I’m not a complete ego maniac, see?) And without stopping to think about these things every once in a while, I lose track and spiral down to a life of sofa lounging, back-to-back DW episodes and raw cookie dough. I mean I’m keeping in line with my video project, but that’s pretty much it. Nicht gut, meine freunde, nicht gut. So, consider this my monthly awareness campaign. Let’s see if every self help guru out there is right, and writing down my goals actually helps me achieve them.
1. First of all, as always (because I’m that unoriginal), I would like to get fit. Not Jennifer Lawrence type fit, I’m being realistic here, but, like, not-feel-like-my-soul-is-departing-my-body-after-three-flights-of-stairs kind of fit. Hmmm, I should probably put down the cookie now.
2. Get on track with ze Big Writing Career. I’m pleased to say that there is actually some progress on this front. Not that I’ve figured out a plan or anything, remember who you’re talking to. However, I did recently win a place as one of Safe World for Women’s student writers. Writing! Women’s issues! Yeah! Still, fiction-wise, things could be going better.
3. Figure out if the teaching in India is happening this summer. No further comments on this.
4. Clear out and homefy my room in halls… has been on the list since January. Never fear though! New and improved Victoria will get to it right after Easter break.
5. Possibly invest some time in essays and presentations and all those glorious metaphorical piles of uni work. Do you like how I put that in last place? Yep. Priorities.
So there it is. A list. I’m printing this out by the way. In the words of one Liz Lemon, I’m going to become wonderful. Ever in search of support though, I wanna ask you, what are your major goals this month/uni term/ spring/ whatever the hell measurement you use to manage your life? I figure, if we kick eachother’s butts on the road to productivity, it might actually work out. So happy Easter, humans! Blog you later this month.
PS. Y U NO LET PEOPLE IN POTTERMORE? *whinge*
Basically, the thing that I find most benefitial for motivation, for work, for life in general is awareness. As in, being aware of myself, of my goals, of others’ perception of me. Also awareness of other people, what they want and need (I’m not a complete ego maniac, see?) And without stopping to think about these things every once in a while, I lose track and spiral down to a life of sofa lounging, back-to-back DW episodes and raw cookie dough. I mean I’m keeping in line with my video project, but that’s pretty much it. Nicht gut, meine freunde, nicht gut. So, consider this my monthly awareness campaign. Let’s see if every self help guru out there is right, and writing down my goals actually helps me achieve them.
1. First of all, as always (because I’m that unoriginal), I would like to get fit. Not Jennifer Lawrence type fit, I’m being realistic here, but, like, not-feel-like-my-soul-is-departing-my-body-after-three-flights-of-stairs kind of fit. Hmmm, I should probably put down the cookie now.
2. Get on track with ze Big Writing Career. I’m pleased to say that there is actually some progress on this front. Not that I’ve figured out a plan or anything, remember who you’re talking to. However, I did recently win a place as one of Safe World for Women’s student writers. Writing! Women’s issues! Yeah! Still, fiction-wise, things could be going better.
3. Figure out if the teaching in India is happening this summer. No further comments on this.
4. Clear out and homefy my room in halls… has been on the list since January. Never fear though! New and improved Victoria will get to it right after Easter break.
5. Possibly invest some time in essays and presentations and all those glorious metaphorical piles of uni work. Do you like how I put that in last place? Yep. Priorities.
So there it is. A list. I’m printing this out by the way. In the words of one Liz Lemon, I’m going to become wonderful. Ever in search of support though, I wanna ask you, what are your major goals this month/uni term/ spring/ whatever the hell measurement you use to manage your life? I figure, if we kick eachother’s butts on the road to productivity, it might actually work out. So happy Easter, humans! Blog you later this month.
PS. Y U NO LET PEOPLE IN POTTERMORE? *whinge*
Monday, 27 February 2012
tl;dr
This is the short story that I originally intended to submit to the project announced by Hayley Hoover and Kristina Horner, but well... poor organisational skills kicked in and I didn't finish it on time. However, I still wanted to share it and noone can stop me from posting random crap on my own blog right? So there you go.
This was the day. After six months of email-ing, skype-ing, facebook-ing, and other things that shouldn’t really be used as verbs, today I was finally going to meet the publicly agreed upon girl of my dreams. Gretta was, to the best of my knowledge, perfect. Well, you know, as perfect as possible. A reader, writer, liker of most of my favourite bands who had long and complex textual arguments involving Star Trek references with me. And she had a plane ticket. AND I had my mom’s car (and approval), as well as enough gas to go pick her up at the airport. And that was too many “and”s. And I was excited. I’d never really noticed how long the drive to the airport is. Long and stressful. And all those people! People on the street, in cars on the road, fumbling with suitcases in front of the terminal, inside of the terminal, flocking to the airport cafes, standing in line at airport control, going, one by one, excruciatingly slowly through the massive gates, blocking my vision. Why did everyone decide to travel on that one day? I don’t need to see you, lady with the admittedly cute twin boys, who seem far too young to travel by plane without being a nuisance. Nor you, confused older gentleman, who looks like he would be discussing appropriate hunting weather next to a fireplace with a glass of brandy in hand. Nor you, little girl with pigtails so high, they could probably pick up signals from the mother ship. Maybe that’s the point. Distract the humans with cuteness, whilst secretly beaming information to our future alien overlords. I can absolutely see that. This is what I do. Stand back. Watch people. Make up stories. I admit, it might be walking the creepy line, but hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?
But no. I wasn't interested in people on this day. Just in one person. In just a few minutes, Gretta would walk through that arch, we’d hug and it’d be more than amazing. The culmination of months of skyping, super expensive international texts and enough mail to fill my entire wardrobe.
And there she was! A small, jumper-clad blonde, stumbling over an oversized suitcase, was coming out of the archway. Instinctively, I raised up the sign with her name, even though she wasn't looking in my direction yet. The girl could pass for English, I thought to myself, if it wasn’t for the layers upon layers of clothing. No self-respecting English girl would ever wear that jacket, unless it was the beginning of a new Ice Age. Probably not even then. Still, it looked kind of cute on her – made her resemble a clumsy walking snowman. I laughed under my breath. Then she looked up. It wasn’t Gretta. I felt a wave of disappointment coming on, but as I ke looking at what was now quite obvptiously not Gretta, I realized why I must have gotten confused. Not Gretta looks almost exactly like the one I’m waiting for. It’s as if someone had drawn a picture of her, but with a few deliberate mistakes; like in some bizarre real-life game of Find the Differences. Non-Gretta was slightly shorter, with lighter skin and, unlike my dreamgirl, had freckles. The biggest difference, however, were the eyes. In the pictures I’d seen Gretta has oval, deeply green eyes. I’d told her once, in a fit of poetic sappiness, that they reminded me of the colour of moss in the early morning, to which she responded with several laughing smileys and my poetic efforts were crushed in infancy. This girl’s eyes were huge and so stunningly light blue, that they were obvious even from across the crowd as her gaze landed on me. I realized I’d been staring at her for a couple of minutes, but what was even more embarrassing was that she’d apparently noticed and was now coming my way. Shit. Think of something to say. I’m not a creep, I was just staring because… you look exactly like the love of my life? Yeah, if there’s a statement that’s guaranteed to get you pepper sprayed, I think it’s that one. Quick! She’s coming this way and she’s… smiling?
“Hey, you waiting for your cyber-honey? Well, I’m the sub. Ingrid.” She stretched out a hand and, unsure of what exactly is going on, I shook it.
“Hi? I’m Marc?” not the most suave of introductions, but hey, at least they were actual human words.”Um…Not to be rude or anything, but… what?”
“Oh, well. Gretta, how you say, chicken out” she magnified her accent for comedic effect. I didn’t see the comedy. “I’m her sister. I’m coming to study abroad anyway, so she gave me this to give to you. Apparently it explains everything”
Good. Explaining was a thing I needed. Questions. Lots of them. They were buzzing around my head but failed to translate into words, apparently. Being a socially awkward nerd has its downsides.
“So, are you going to take my bags to the car or what? I was hoping to stay at yours for a couple of days. I know you have the space and all.”
Ok, there was one question that had formed alright.
“Well, can I at least see some proof that you really are Gretta’s sister and not, you know, an axe murderer?”
“Sure. Makes sense.” She started fumbling with her bags until it almost made me feel like a terrible person for asking. But whatever, of the two of us, I was the one whose dreams had just been crushed. Finally non-Gretta (I should probably take to calling her Ingrid at this point) produced a huge folder full of various official-looking papers, the kind that over-stressed border-crossers tend to carry, and started paging through it. Finally she handed it to me, opened on the page of a letter from Exeter University, confirming that Ingrid Hochhauser had indeed been offered a place. As I was reading through it, still slightly suspicious, she handed me a photograph of two very sunburnt blond girls hugging on a beach. It was her and Gretta.
“Enough?” She asked, raising one eyebrow.
“I think. I still wanna talk to Gretta, though” I was right to be at least nervous about the whole affair, wasn’t I?
The walk to the car (she asked me to carry her handbag but pulled her own suitcase behind her) and the ride home were spent in less than comfortable silence. Maybe that was just me though, because apparently she was one tall German social butterfly.
***
I would learn just how right I’d been about her later that night. Not that being right made me feel particularly better, while she was dropping funnier jokes than I could ever come up with in the other room and my friends were drooling over her continental hotness. The two people close enough to friends to come to my lame party, anyway. Meanwhile, I was spending the night sitting on the staircase, contemplating the exact point in my life when my fate as a social retard was sealed. Sometime in primary school, probably.
That’s how she found me.
“Are you just going to sit here and sulk all night?”
“It’s not like I have anything else to do. Especially after all of the mildly interesting people in my life are busy drooling after... all that” I gave a little wave in her general direction.
“Well, that’s just pathetic. You’re not even going to try to get your friends’ interest?”
“What for? Plus I don’t really have any leverage here. What can I offer them? Every conversation we have is more pointless than the last one” It really was. How was I just realizing this?
“This whole friendship thing doesn’t really have a point. Nothing does, really” Man, how intoxicated was I?
“Wow, someone’s being hormonal. But you’re right. You can’t really compete against all this.” God, that self-satisfied grin annoyed me to no end. But also, it was seriously hot in a way. “Look, the plain and simple truth is that every single human has a deep, innsurmountable instinctive desire to get fucked. If you want it in the literal sense, you’re one of the normal ones. The rest of us (and there are a lot) are just twisted little humans, desperately clawing for some shred of peace, which doesn’t even exist.”
“Well that’s a bit bleak, isn’t it?”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
She lifted her intense but slightly out-of-focus gaze up to me – a practiced move, if I ever did see one. It was quite clear what she wanted. I pulled closer and wrapped my hands around her.
“Why does everything have to be so physical with you?”
“Because it is. All your grand concepts of purpose and meaning, everything comes down to life and death if you look deep enough. Sex and death.”
Her hand was drawing electrical circles on the back of my neck. It was getting increasingly hard to keep away. Maybe I shouldn’t. We were both adults after all. And definitely concenting. I drew closer. A pleasant feeling of heat was spreading all over my body. But as we were getting closer, her hand moving down my chest, my brain function slowing down accordingly. But then something happened. As we were nearing in on the kiss, her head just drooped to the side ever so slightly, but it made me realize what was happening.
I felt like a creep of Dateline proportions. This could not end well in any way. For either of us.
Fuck it. Live once and all.
So I leaned in and she leaned in and it was this perfect moment of synchronized awkwardness until she tilted her head and whispered in my ear.
“You know, Gretta would probably smack me upside the head for doing this, but I’m going to give you that letter now.
Shit. Gretta. The girl I was meant to be in love with. Ok, don’t freeze up, keep it casual, we’ll fix this. Brain, now’s your time to shine.
“Smack you upside the head?” I raised an eyebrow at Ingrid.
“Oh shut up! I’ve learnt my English from American movies. There’s bound to be some cynical-but-wise police chief in there.”
“Well, my dear wizened chief, lay unto me your next ultimatum, coupled with some stern advice.”
God, was I flirting? Was this actual proper flirting? Whaddya know, I might turn out to be an real human being after all!
Our faces were already so close that the kiss seemed bound to happen. But this kind of thing never happens to me. What if she pulled away? And what about Gretta? What the hell was I doing?
Oh, look, female lips right on mine, how curious.
***
I had no idea how long we’d been stuck together like that, but there was an unfamiliar flush of heat rushing down from my face. Ingrid was tangling her hand in my hair and breathing on my neck and although I certainly didn’t mind any of those things, it was certainly making it difficult to tell time. Actually, any kind of brain activity was barely manageable, apart from the this-is-wonderful-let’s-not-stop-ever bit. There was maybe a little voice in there that still repeated Gretta’s voice like an annoying alarm clock. But Gretta hadn’t come. Instead this beautiful girl, who smelled vaguely of violets was here and I was certainly not going to object to that. Shut up, brain.
It was Ingrid who pulled away first. She looked the way I felt. Guilty. She pulled out a crumpled plain envelope out of her pocket and handed it to me without looking up.
“The letter. In case you still want it.”
Then the first girl I’d ever kissed got up and walked away.
Is this what being friendzoned feels like? Ugh, for a smart person, I could really be a massive idiot sometimes. She probably had a boyfriend as well. A beefy German boyfriend with a ponytail, who was coming to kick the shit out of me. Idiot. Moron. Twat. I was disappointed with myself as a member of the human species
Everything was falling apart. And it had all started with Gretta deciding not to come. Damn ut girls always complicate things. And still, she was the only person I felt happy with. The skype calls and the texts… I just missed her words. I missed her. Sweet, funny, nerdy, not loaded with confusing sexual messages. Why couldn’t everything be that simple? She had to go and drive this whole train wreck into my life. I mean, not that it was all that spectacular before, but at least I had it sort of figured out. I knew where I stood with people. And I had Gretta… Gretta. I knew everything would be alright if I could just talk to her. Or hear her talk to me. I just missed her words so much…
The letter!
How did I not think of that before! It was just sitting there in my lap, rather unremarkable, but it might as well have been glowing and singing “Hallelujah”. I tried to open it gently, but quickly gave up and went all barbarian on the blue paper. TARDIS blue. Man, I loved that girl.
For missing her words so much, I didn’t get very many.
“I’m here. Tomorrow, 12PM, Camden Town Station.”
I didn’t even try to sleep that night. She was here. They had lied to me. Did she know? Did I want her to know? Did Ingrid? Was I missing something? A bunch of questions were buzzing around in my head, some of them not even fully formed, just misshapen anxiety, drowning out any coherent thought. The sheets were warm. The ticking of the SpiderMan clock was annoying me. 4AM. Was Ingrid awake? Could I go check? Probably not. But I had to drown out the buzzing somehow. Neutral Milk Hotel it is then. I hope everyone in the house really loves 90s American indie bands. Especially that walking question mark in the other room.
***
And there I was, in front of the station, 12.10, roses in hand (yellow and red, Griffindor colours) and feeling increasingly stupid. She could have lied, or ditched me. Or she could come. Really, the scenarios ending with me feeling like an idiot were endless.
God, why do there always have to be so many people around here? I mean, ok, confused tourist lady, you need to stand around examining your tube map for ten minutes. But does it have to be where you’ll be obscuring my view of my sort-of-girlfriend? I moved to look behind her and there it was! A flash of white-blond hair, just coming out of the station. I tried to get to her without any awkward human interaction and didn’t even look up at anyone until I reached the grey boots I was sure belonged to Gretta. Only then I looked up.
It was Ingrid.
In typical Ingrid fashion (as far as I knew), she took my hand and dragged me into the nearest Starbucks without saying anything. A Starbucks. This city can drain the mystery out of everything, one overpriced latte at a time. We defeated the queue for our milky drinks (mine was less milky and therefore more manly) and sat down by the window. She was the first to break the awkward silence.
“So, I bet you want to know why I’m here?”
“Um…”
Pull it together man!
“Not really. I’d actually prefer to know why Gretta isn’t.”
Much better.
“Well… she kind of is. I mean, I am. Gretta. Gretta is me.”
She laughed nervously.
“Luke, I am your… girlfriend?”
…
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
WHAT!?
“I… you… WHAT?...Explain.”
“Which part?”
“ALL OF THEM.”
Now was her turn to avoid looking at me.
“Well, for security purposes, the photos I sent you on skype, they were actually of Ingrid. Who is my sister. And is really studying here. But I thought, since you weren’t likely to ever meet her on the street, it was ok.”
“But then you wanted to meet. I mean, I did too, but I was still a bit nervous. I knew you weren’t a creep. But what if I didn’t really like you? Or you me? So I just took her uni letter and that picture and said I was the other girl. It was really easy actually.”
“Wow, I’m so glad lying to me was easy!”
“No! Not in that way! After last night I didn’t want to anymore! I do like you so much! And you like me too! In both versions! Isn’t this great!”
“It’s not that easy, Ingrid. Or Gretta. I can’t just get used to this being you now. It’s so complicated.”
“But that’s what I am! Complicated! No one is just one person, how can you not see that!” she raised her voice.
“I know! I’m trying to see that in you. The girl who collects TARDIS blue things and the girl who talks about sex and death to me on the stairs. But do you know what’s also there? The girl who lied to me! And that’s a weird middle person, that I don’t even have a name for…”
…and whom I don’t love, I realized.
“Is this what this is about? Don’t you get why I had to do it? We met online! I had to be sure!”
“I didn’t. I trusted both of you. Now I don’t really trust either.”
Her eyes watered and I didn’t have anything more to say. I knew I’d end up feeling like an idiot.
“Look… you can still stay at my place until your flight…”
She sniffled and mumbled something that sounded like
“That’ll be tomorrow, I guess.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I could show you around London?” There. Less of a knob. “But maybe we could skip the parties from now on and stick to Doctor Who and Cluedo.”
Gretta almost managed a grin.
“Cluedo.”
“It’s the best I can do.” I shrugged. “But you’ll have to buy the crisps.”
She looked up at me, finally with an actual smile.
“Deal.”
This was the day. After six months of email-ing, skype-ing, facebook-ing, and other things that shouldn’t really be used as verbs, today I was finally going to meet the publicly agreed upon girl of my dreams. Gretta was, to the best of my knowledge, perfect. Well, you know, as perfect as possible. A reader, writer, liker of most of my favourite bands who had long and complex textual arguments involving Star Trek references with me. And she had a plane ticket. AND I had my mom’s car (and approval), as well as enough gas to go pick her up at the airport. And that was too many “and”s. And I was excited. I’d never really noticed how long the drive to the airport is. Long and stressful. And all those people! People on the street, in cars on the road, fumbling with suitcases in front of the terminal, inside of the terminal, flocking to the airport cafes, standing in line at airport control, going, one by one, excruciatingly slowly through the massive gates, blocking my vision. Why did everyone decide to travel on that one day? I don’t need to see you, lady with the admittedly cute twin boys, who seem far too young to travel by plane without being a nuisance. Nor you, confused older gentleman, who looks like he would be discussing appropriate hunting weather next to a fireplace with a glass of brandy in hand. Nor you, little girl with pigtails so high, they could probably pick up signals from the mother ship. Maybe that’s the point. Distract the humans with cuteness, whilst secretly beaming information to our future alien overlords. I can absolutely see that. This is what I do. Stand back. Watch people. Make up stories. I admit, it might be walking the creepy line, but hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?
But no. I wasn't interested in people on this day. Just in one person. In just a few minutes, Gretta would walk through that arch, we’d hug and it’d be more than amazing. The culmination of months of skyping, super expensive international texts and enough mail to fill my entire wardrobe.
And there she was! A small, jumper-clad blonde, stumbling over an oversized suitcase, was coming out of the archway. Instinctively, I raised up the sign with her name, even though she wasn't looking in my direction yet. The girl could pass for English, I thought to myself, if it wasn’t for the layers upon layers of clothing. No self-respecting English girl would ever wear that jacket, unless it was the beginning of a new Ice Age. Probably not even then. Still, it looked kind of cute on her – made her resemble a clumsy walking snowman. I laughed under my breath. Then she looked up. It wasn’t Gretta. I felt a wave of disappointment coming on, but as I ke looking at what was now quite obvptiously not Gretta, I realized why I must have gotten confused. Not Gretta looks almost exactly like the one I’m waiting for. It’s as if someone had drawn a picture of her, but with a few deliberate mistakes; like in some bizarre real-life game of Find the Differences. Non-Gretta was slightly shorter, with lighter skin and, unlike my dreamgirl, had freckles. The biggest difference, however, were the eyes. In the pictures I’d seen Gretta has oval, deeply green eyes. I’d told her once, in a fit of poetic sappiness, that they reminded me of the colour of moss in the early morning, to which she responded with several laughing smileys and my poetic efforts were crushed in infancy. This girl’s eyes were huge and so stunningly light blue, that they were obvious even from across the crowd as her gaze landed on me. I realized I’d been staring at her for a couple of minutes, but what was even more embarrassing was that she’d apparently noticed and was now coming my way. Shit. Think of something to say. I’m not a creep, I was just staring because… you look exactly like the love of my life? Yeah, if there’s a statement that’s guaranteed to get you pepper sprayed, I think it’s that one. Quick! She’s coming this way and she’s… smiling?
“Hey, you waiting for your cyber-honey? Well, I’m the sub. Ingrid.” She stretched out a hand and, unsure of what exactly is going on, I shook it.
“Hi? I’m Marc?” not the most suave of introductions, but hey, at least they were actual human words.”Um…Not to be rude or anything, but… what?”
“Oh, well. Gretta, how you say, chicken out” she magnified her accent for comedic effect. I didn’t see the comedy. “I’m her sister. I’m coming to study abroad anyway, so she gave me this to give to you. Apparently it explains everything”
Good. Explaining was a thing I needed. Questions. Lots of them. They were buzzing around my head but failed to translate into words, apparently. Being a socially awkward nerd has its downsides.
“So, are you going to take my bags to the car or what? I was hoping to stay at yours for a couple of days. I know you have the space and all.”
Ok, there was one question that had formed alright.
“Well, can I at least see some proof that you really are Gretta’s sister and not, you know, an axe murderer?”
“Sure. Makes sense.” She started fumbling with her bags until it almost made me feel like a terrible person for asking. But whatever, of the two of us, I was the one whose dreams had just been crushed. Finally non-Gretta (I should probably take to calling her Ingrid at this point) produced a huge folder full of various official-looking papers, the kind that over-stressed border-crossers tend to carry, and started paging through it. Finally she handed it to me, opened on the page of a letter from Exeter University, confirming that Ingrid Hochhauser had indeed been offered a place. As I was reading through it, still slightly suspicious, she handed me a photograph of two very sunburnt blond girls hugging on a beach. It was her and Gretta.
“Enough?” She asked, raising one eyebrow.
“I think. I still wanna talk to Gretta, though” I was right to be at least nervous about the whole affair, wasn’t I?
The walk to the car (she asked me to carry her handbag but pulled her own suitcase behind her) and the ride home were spent in less than comfortable silence. Maybe that was just me though, because apparently she was one tall German social butterfly.
***
I would learn just how right I’d been about her later that night. Not that being right made me feel particularly better, while she was dropping funnier jokes than I could ever come up with in the other room and my friends were drooling over her continental hotness. The two people close enough to friends to come to my lame party, anyway. Meanwhile, I was spending the night sitting on the staircase, contemplating the exact point in my life when my fate as a social retard was sealed. Sometime in primary school, probably.
That’s how she found me.
“Are you just going to sit here and sulk all night?”
“It’s not like I have anything else to do. Especially after all of the mildly interesting people in my life are busy drooling after... all that” I gave a little wave in her general direction.
“Well, that’s just pathetic. You’re not even going to try to get your friends’ interest?”
“What for? Plus I don’t really have any leverage here. What can I offer them? Every conversation we have is more pointless than the last one” It really was. How was I just realizing this?
“This whole friendship thing doesn’t really have a point. Nothing does, really” Man, how intoxicated was I?
“Wow, someone’s being hormonal. But you’re right. You can’t really compete against all this.” God, that self-satisfied grin annoyed me to no end. But also, it was seriously hot in a way. “Look, the plain and simple truth is that every single human has a deep, innsurmountable instinctive desire to get fucked. If you want it in the literal sense, you’re one of the normal ones. The rest of us (and there are a lot) are just twisted little humans, desperately clawing for some shred of peace, which doesn’t even exist.”
“Well that’s a bit bleak, isn’t it?”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
She lifted her intense but slightly out-of-focus gaze up to me – a practiced move, if I ever did see one. It was quite clear what she wanted. I pulled closer and wrapped my hands around her.
“Why does everything have to be so physical with you?”
“Because it is. All your grand concepts of purpose and meaning, everything comes down to life and death if you look deep enough. Sex and death.”
Her hand was drawing electrical circles on the back of my neck. It was getting increasingly hard to keep away. Maybe I shouldn’t. We were both adults after all. And definitely concenting. I drew closer. A pleasant feeling of heat was spreading all over my body. But as we were getting closer, her hand moving down my chest, my brain function slowing down accordingly. But then something happened. As we were nearing in on the kiss, her head just drooped to the side ever so slightly, but it made me realize what was happening.
I felt like a creep of Dateline proportions. This could not end well in any way. For either of us.
Fuck it. Live once and all.
So I leaned in and she leaned in and it was this perfect moment of synchronized awkwardness until she tilted her head and whispered in my ear.
“You know, Gretta would probably smack me upside the head for doing this, but I’m going to give you that letter now.
Shit. Gretta. The girl I was meant to be in love with. Ok, don’t freeze up, keep it casual, we’ll fix this. Brain, now’s your time to shine.
“Smack you upside the head?” I raised an eyebrow at Ingrid.
“Oh shut up! I’ve learnt my English from American movies. There’s bound to be some cynical-but-wise police chief in there.”
“Well, my dear wizened chief, lay unto me your next ultimatum, coupled with some stern advice.”
God, was I flirting? Was this actual proper flirting? Whaddya know, I might turn out to be an real human being after all!
Our faces were already so close that the kiss seemed bound to happen. But this kind of thing never happens to me. What if she pulled away? And what about Gretta? What the hell was I doing?
Oh, look, female lips right on mine, how curious.
***
I had no idea how long we’d been stuck together like that, but there was an unfamiliar flush of heat rushing down from my face. Ingrid was tangling her hand in my hair and breathing on my neck and although I certainly didn’t mind any of those things, it was certainly making it difficult to tell time. Actually, any kind of brain activity was barely manageable, apart from the this-is-wonderful-let’s-not-stop-ever bit. There was maybe a little voice in there that still repeated Gretta’s voice like an annoying alarm clock. But Gretta hadn’t come. Instead this beautiful girl, who smelled vaguely of violets was here and I was certainly not going to object to that. Shut up, brain.
It was Ingrid who pulled away first. She looked the way I felt. Guilty. She pulled out a crumpled plain envelope out of her pocket and handed it to me without looking up.
“The letter. In case you still want it.”
Then the first girl I’d ever kissed got up and walked away.
Is this what being friendzoned feels like? Ugh, for a smart person, I could really be a massive idiot sometimes. She probably had a boyfriend as well. A beefy German boyfriend with a ponytail, who was coming to kick the shit out of me. Idiot. Moron. Twat. I was disappointed with myself as a member of the human species
Everything was falling apart. And it had all started with Gretta deciding not to come. Damn ut girls always complicate things. And still, she was the only person I felt happy with. The skype calls and the texts… I just missed her words. I missed her. Sweet, funny, nerdy, not loaded with confusing sexual messages. Why couldn’t everything be that simple? She had to go and drive this whole train wreck into my life. I mean, not that it was all that spectacular before, but at least I had it sort of figured out. I knew where I stood with people. And I had Gretta… Gretta. I knew everything would be alright if I could just talk to her. Or hear her talk to me. I just missed her words so much…
The letter!
How did I not think of that before! It was just sitting there in my lap, rather unremarkable, but it might as well have been glowing and singing “Hallelujah”. I tried to open it gently, but quickly gave up and went all barbarian on the blue paper. TARDIS blue. Man, I loved that girl.
For missing her words so much, I didn’t get very many.
“I’m here. Tomorrow, 12PM, Camden Town Station.”
I didn’t even try to sleep that night. She was here. They had lied to me. Did she know? Did I want her to know? Did Ingrid? Was I missing something? A bunch of questions were buzzing around in my head, some of them not even fully formed, just misshapen anxiety, drowning out any coherent thought. The sheets were warm. The ticking of the SpiderMan clock was annoying me. 4AM. Was Ingrid awake? Could I go check? Probably not. But I had to drown out the buzzing somehow. Neutral Milk Hotel it is then. I hope everyone in the house really loves 90s American indie bands. Especially that walking question mark in the other room.
***
And there I was, in front of the station, 12.10, roses in hand (yellow and red, Griffindor colours) and feeling increasingly stupid. She could have lied, or ditched me. Or she could come. Really, the scenarios ending with me feeling like an idiot were endless.
God, why do there always have to be so many people around here? I mean, ok, confused tourist lady, you need to stand around examining your tube map for ten minutes. But does it have to be where you’ll be obscuring my view of my sort-of-girlfriend? I moved to look behind her and there it was! A flash of white-blond hair, just coming out of the station. I tried to get to her without any awkward human interaction and didn’t even look up at anyone until I reached the grey boots I was sure belonged to Gretta. Only then I looked up.
It was Ingrid.
In typical Ingrid fashion (as far as I knew), she took my hand and dragged me into the nearest Starbucks without saying anything. A Starbucks. This city can drain the mystery out of everything, one overpriced latte at a time. We defeated the queue for our milky drinks (mine was less milky and therefore more manly) and sat down by the window. She was the first to break the awkward silence.
“So, I bet you want to know why I’m here?”
“Um…”
Pull it together man!
“Not really. I’d actually prefer to know why Gretta isn’t.”
Much better.
“Well… she kind of is. I mean, I am. Gretta. Gretta is me.”
She laughed nervously.
“Luke, I am your… girlfriend?”
…
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
WHAT!?
“I… you… WHAT?...Explain.”
“Which part?”
“ALL OF THEM.”
Now was her turn to avoid looking at me.
“Well, for security purposes, the photos I sent you on skype, they were actually of Ingrid. Who is my sister. And is really studying here. But I thought, since you weren’t likely to ever meet her on the street, it was ok.”
“But then you wanted to meet. I mean, I did too, but I was still a bit nervous. I knew you weren’t a creep. But what if I didn’t really like you? Or you me? So I just took her uni letter and that picture and said I was the other girl. It was really easy actually.”
“Wow, I’m so glad lying to me was easy!”
“No! Not in that way! After last night I didn’t want to anymore! I do like you so much! And you like me too! In both versions! Isn’t this great!”
“It’s not that easy, Ingrid. Or Gretta. I can’t just get used to this being you now. It’s so complicated.”
“But that’s what I am! Complicated! No one is just one person, how can you not see that!” she raised her voice.
“I know! I’m trying to see that in you. The girl who collects TARDIS blue things and the girl who talks about sex and death to me on the stairs. But do you know what’s also there? The girl who lied to me! And that’s a weird middle person, that I don’t even have a name for…”
…and whom I don’t love, I realized.
“Is this what this is about? Don’t you get why I had to do it? We met online! I had to be sure!”
“I didn’t. I trusted both of you. Now I don’t really trust either.”
Her eyes watered and I didn’t have anything more to say. I knew I’d end up feeling like an idiot.
“Look… you can still stay at my place until your flight…”
She sniffled and mumbled something that sounded like
“That’ll be tomorrow, I guess.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I could show you around London?” There. Less of a knob. “But maybe we could skip the parties from now on and stick to Doctor Who and Cluedo.”
Gretta almost managed a grin.
“Cluedo.”
“It’s the best I can do.” I shrugged. “But you’ll have to buy the crisps.”
She looked up at me, finally with an actual smile.
“Deal.”
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children
This is a book review that I originally wrote for a potential collab project with Stevie, but as that didn’t work out (due to scheduling conflicts and general procrastination, typical of the Lazy Bums Clan), the thing never got posted. I found it buried in my blog folder tonight and thought it deserved the light of day (ha!), so yes. This is is. Miss Peregrine’s Home for Extraordinary Children. Read it. I mean, if you like. Or don’t. It’s not like I care (I do, actually.)
First thing’s first: How COOL IS THAT COVER? I know about not judging books, etc., but this one simply makes me happy. It fulfils its purpose of making you want to look inside. This is what covers should look like. Ransom Riggs is a very talented video maker, so it should come as no surprise that his work is very visually-oriented. The whole aesthetic of the book is so, SO well-done. It tries for the feel of an old photo album and it totally works! Strangely, the photos (actual antique snapshots, collected by several people over decades) don’t interrupt the narrative. Normally breaking up the text every few pages and making me look through pictures would give off a children’s book vibe, but what’s really nifty about this is that it’s obvious how the pictures were used as prompts. Sometimes it feels thrown together for the sake of the photos, but to be honest, I kind of dig that, too. It gives Miss Peregrine’s the feel of one of those stories you make up, lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, when you’re trying to escape reality. Isn’t that what reading’s all about?
I’m sure this isn’t random. Escapism is definitely a running theme throughout the novel. For a third of the book we’re lead to believe the main characters are figments, invented by an old man’s imagination to replace the horrors of a war. As the narrative unfolds, it starts to look like reality is stranger and more spectacular than fiction, but also much harder to deal with. Miss Peregrine’s deals with the conflicts of fiction versus reality and of ordinary versus extraordinary and they don’t always overlap. As the epic opening sentence states: “I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen.” I’m trying very hard not to give any major spoilers, give me props here.
One thing that is peculiar (ha!) about Miss Peregrine’s is the way it deals with the motif of war and the inevitable havoc it wreaks not just in the lives of survivors, but generations thereafter. The characters – Abe, the survivor, his son and his grandson – are affected by the war in an irreversible way. They’re alienated and barely capable of emotional attachment, because the fear of losing a loved one is always present, long after the danger has passed. A father passes his detachment to his son, and the son doesn’t have anything else to give to his own offspring. And so on, until the vicious cycle is broken and the characters learn how to be close to one another again. Love conquers all yet again! Hurray!
So, yes, while you could say that the book glosses over the more graphic horrors of a war in a fable-like way, it doesn’t shy away from describing what war does to people’s minds and relationships. And it does so in an accessible way. It’s written for young people and while it won’t leave children and preteens unaffected, the novel is readable. More than that, it stays with you long after the last sentence
First thing’s first: How COOL IS THAT COVER? I know about not judging books, etc., but this one simply makes me happy. It fulfils its purpose of making you want to look inside. This is what covers should look like. Ransom Riggs is a very talented video maker, so it should come as no surprise that his work is very visually-oriented. The whole aesthetic of the book is so, SO well-done. It tries for the feel of an old photo album and it totally works! Strangely, the photos (actual antique snapshots, collected by several people over decades) don’t interrupt the narrative. Normally breaking up the text every few pages and making me look through pictures would give off a children’s book vibe, but what’s really nifty about this is that it’s obvious how the pictures were used as prompts. Sometimes it feels thrown together for the sake of the photos, but to be honest, I kind of dig that, too. It gives Miss Peregrine’s the feel of one of those stories you make up, lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, when you’re trying to escape reality. Isn’t that what reading’s all about?
I’m sure this isn’t random. Escapism is definitely a running theme throughout the novel. For a third of the book we’re lead to believe the main characters are figments, invented by an old man’s imagination to replace the horrors of a war. As the narrative unfolds, it starts to look like reality is stranger and more spectacular than fiction, but also much harder to deal with. Miss Peregrine’s deals with the conflicts of fiction versus reality and of ordinary versus extraordinary and they don’t always overlap. As the epic opening sentence states: “I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen.” I’m trying very hard not to give any major spoilers, give me props here.
One thing that is peculiar (ha!) about Miss Peregrine’s is the way it deals with the motif of war and the inevitable havoc it wreaks not just in the lives of survivors, but generations thereafter. The characters – Abe, the survivor, his son and his grandson – are affected by the war in an irreversible way. They’re alienated and barely capable of emotional attachment, because the fear of losing a loved one is always present, long after the danger has passed. A father passes his detachment to his son, and the son doesn’t have anything else to give to his own offspring. And so on, until the vicious cycle is broken and the characters learn how to be close to one another again. Love conquers all yet again! Hurray!
So, yes, while you could say that the book glosses over the more graphic horrors of a war in a fable-like way, it doesn’t shy away from describing what war does to people’s minds and relationships. And it does so in an accessible way. It’s written for young people and while it won’t leave children and preteens unaffected, the novel is readable. More than that, it stays with you long after the last sentence
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Inspiration, Motivation, ESSAYS!
Happy belated 2012! It’s 1AM and I’m feeling inspired. That sounds like a good thing, but it isn’t necessarily. Inspiration doesn’t always translate into motivation for me. I assume it’s this way for most of us trying-hard-to-be-creative folk, as we can’t all be SableCaught, or missxrojas, or italktosnakes (please refrain from following the links to the land of creative inspiration until after this post?) and be constantly on the go. I want to be, I really do, but sometimes one just needs to switch off the neurons and watch some Garfield (or something).
However, it does feel like a magical time right now. It’s only been two days into the new year and it still feels like I haven’t really crossed that vital threshold between healthy reflection and hopeful anticipation. I suppose this blog post is helping in a way, as is the 3000-word essay I’m currently struggling with. Studying sociology can feel a bit like intellectual wankery (as I’m sure I’ve mentioned somewhere else around the good old internetz), but it does bring about some of that all-so-necessary at times reflection. Anyone for defending the concept of individuality? No? Too bad, I still have about a third to go.
All that said, I am feeling full of both inspiration and motivation, as (hopefully) evidenced by tomorrow’s video. Oddly enough, I don’t have any grievances with 2011. Despite all the changes or, probably because of them, this is one of the first years of my (admittedly short) life, at the end of which I don’t regret things I haven’t done and other such clichés. I am incredibly excited for the possibilities and certainties that this year brings. I can see how it is just a number in a way, but I choose to place value on it, and in the end, isn’t that all that matters? This isn’t a rhetorical question by the way, I am actually curious to know your thoughts.
It is easy to hit the ground running with these things, though, and easier still to lose the momentum. I have a folder on my laptop, full of countless possible story arcs, character profiles, endings without a middle, middles without a beginning and variations thereupon, which haven’t made it into a completed story at this point. These pursuits might seem a bit more worthwhile than a resolution to lose 10 kilos (to me, people do place value in different things), but that doesn’t mean that they’ll prove easier to follow. As with all self-indulgent monologues with arbitrary assumptions, we shall see is the conclusion. The biggest stimulus for creativity is hearing about others’ successes, though. And so I ask. What do you choose to place value in this year? How’s it going so far? Long-winded comments, rescuing me from writing a horrendous paragraph about Marx will be appreciated.
However, it does feel like a magical time right now. It’s only been two days into the new year and it still feels like I haven’t really crossed that vital threshold between healthy reflection and hopeful anticipation. I suppose this blog post is helping in a way, as is the 3000-word essay I’m currently struggling with. Studying sociology can feel a bit like intellectual wankery (as I’m sure I’ve mentioned somewhere else around the good old internetz), but it does bring about some of that all-so-necessary at times reflection. Anyone for defending the concept of individuality? No? Too bad, I still have about a third to go.
All that said, I am feeling full of both inspiration and motivation, as (hopefully) evidenced by tomorrow’s video. Oddly enough, I don’t have any grievances with 2011. Despite all the changes or, probably because of them, this is one of the first years of my (admittedly short) life, at the end of which I don’t regret things I haven’t done and other such clichés. I am incredibly excited for the possibilities and certainties that this year brings. I can see how it is just a number in a way, but I choose to place value on it, and in the end, isn’t that all that matters? This isn’t a rhetorical question by the way, I am actually curious to know your thoughts.
It is easy to hit the ground running with these things, though, and easier still to lose the momentum. I have a folder on my laptop, full of countless possible story arcs, character profiles, endings without a middle, middles without a beginning and variations thereupon, which haven’t made it into a completed story at this point. These pursuits might seem a bit more worthwhile than a resolution to lose 10 kilos (to me, people do place value in different things), but that doesn’t mean that they’ll prove easier to follow. As with all self-indulgent monologues with arbitrary assumptions, we shall see is the conclusion. The biggest stimulus for creativity is hearing about others’ successes, though. And so I ask. What do you choose to place value in this year? How’s it going so far? Long-winded comments, rescuing me from writing a horrendous paragraph about Marx will be appreciated.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
I'm back!
Hello! What? A blog post? I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t your birthday. What on earth did you do to deserve such a treat? You’re looking around in confusion, your whole world overturned, wondering if this is some kind of bait to lure you into an ingenious trap. Before you start listening for the echo of an evil laugh, calm yourself. I have time, ok? Something which has been, let’s say, less than abundant in the last three months. By which I mean I’ve been, unlike any other time in my life, swamped. Let me explain how this came to be.
Now, having been born in the lucky position of an only child in a middle class family (i.e. a spoiled brat) I’d never had to provide for myself. I have worked, but the money you earn at 16 usually goes towards movies and new clothes and heaps of books, you know, IMPORTANT STUFF. This is all to preface the fact that I’ve been bored. A lot. And to a teenager, boredom is one of the most horrid sensations. Lik OMG I’m soooo bored whinge whinge whinge bitch moan whinge. And since I’ve never been a huge fan of recreational drinking and/or other self destructive behaviours, I took to doing a shitload of other stuff. Literally. I developed the habit of seeking out any activities that were even vaguely related to writing, art, music, science, projects of any kind and generally just bossing people around. Not sports. I will always and forever loathe anything that requires hand-eye coordination.
Anyway, I’ve grown up in a city where things to do, other than hanging out in cafes by day and clubs by night, are few and far between. I’ve always had time for everything and still time to be bored. I thought being a fresher couldn’t be worse, right? Be at uni 5 to 9, come home, churn out a video/blog post/ essay, go out, have some fun, then watch Family Guy before bed and all is well. Ha. Oh, the delusion of someone who’s never had to do their own laundry! You know, laundry, that thing that used to magically appear on your bed, neatly folded and smelling of detergent? Yeah, someone has to do that. And the hoovering. And the dishes. OH GOD THE NEVERENDING DISHES. Also, there’s that little matter of staying afloat with uni work, so that one gets to maybe have a degree to show at the end of all this. Also, having some sort of a social life would be nice, no? Also, youtube. Also, newspaper. Also, going to the bank/working/all kinds of administrative garbage. Yeah, we’re getting to hardcore adult stuff here.
Basically this is my way of saying a whiny, complainerface “sorry” for not being around much lately. I’ll try to get my ass in gear and actually remember this blog at least twice a month from now on. With that said, happy holidays everybody! I hope everyone is home and with people they love over Christmas! If not, have this to cheer you up. Or completely depress the shit out of you. Whichever. See you in 2012! Last New Years before the Apocalypse (lol). Make it count!
Now, having been born in the lucky position of an only child in a middle class family (i.e. a spoiled brat) I’d never had to provide for myself. I have worked, but the money you earn at 16 usually goes towards movies and new clothes and heaps of books, you know, IMPORTANT STUFF. This is all to preface the fact that I’ve been bored. A lot. And to a teenager, boredom is one of the most horrid sensations. Lik OMG I’m soooo bored whinge whinge whinge bitch moan whinge. And since I’ve never been a huge fan of recreational drinking and/or other self destructive behaviours, I took to doing a shitload of other stuff. Literally. I developed the habit of seeking out any activities that were even vaguely related to writing, art, music, science, projects of any kind and generally just bossing people around. Not sports. I will always and forever loathe anything that requires hand-eye coordination.
Anyway, I’ve grown up in a city where things to do, other than hanging out in cafes by day and clubs by night, are few and far between. I’ve always had time for everything and still time to be bored. I thought being a fresher couldn’t be worse, right? Be at uni 5 to 9, come home, churn out a video/blog post/ essay, go out, have some fun, then watch Family Guy before bed and all is well. Ha. Oh, the delusion of someone who’s never had to do their own laundry! You know, laundry, that thing that used to magically appear on your bed, neatly folded and smelling of detergent? Yeah, someone has to do that. And the hoovering. And the dishes. OH GOD THE NEVERENDING DISHES. Also, there’s that little matter of staying afloat with uni work, so that one gets to maybe have a degree to show at the end of all this. Also, having some sort of a social life would be nice, no? Also, youtube. Also, newspaper. Also, going to the bank/working/all kinds of administrative garbage. Yeah, we’re getting to hardcore adult stuff here.
Basically this is my way of saying a whiny, complainerface “sorry” for not being around much lately. I’ll try to get my ass in gear and actually remember this blog at least twice a month from now on. With that said, happy holidays everybody! I hope everyone is home and with people they love over Christmas! If not, have this to cheer you up. Or completely depress the shit out of you. Whichever. See you in 2012! Last New Years before the Apocalypse (lol). Make it count!
Friday, 14 October 2011
An Education: Things You Learn Outside of Lectures
IT’S ALIVE! And by “it” I of course mean a frazzled, tired, Morrisons-Italian-blend-guzzling*, bunny-pajama-wearing version of me. And yes, you’ll be happy to know that like the great European societies of the 18th century, this blog will see a revival. An Enlightenment! What? Yeah, ok, that might have made less sense than I intended. My mind is doing strange things right now, alright? So much information has entered my noggin recently, and it’s all battling it out for my undivided attention. It’s not just uni work either. Actually it’s mostly not uni work. So, since I need to clear my head, you dearest blog readers, get to read the thrilling list of THINGS YOU ACTUALLY LEARN AT UNIVERSITY. Go.
1. Sleep is good. It’s good at 11PM, it’s good at 10AM, it is amazing at 3 in the afternoon after a 24-hour marathon of things & stuff (which may or may not have involved a midnight beer run and a morning after spent in the library). Get sleep and get it anytime you can.
2. People will help you, even if they think you’re an idiot. Especially people, who are paid to do so. Ask for help.
3. A slice of bread, a banana and a bag of peanut M&Ms totally constitute a balanced meal.
4. Yes, you’ll be in debt for the rest of your life anyway, so buy stuff while you can. Books, books, dress, coat, shoes, junk food, junk food, more junk food. Consumption is the best alleviator of stress.**
5. Yeah, whether you go to that 9AM lecture or not, you are NOT going to feel like you’ve learnt anything.
6. God is Skype.
7. No matter what you brought, you’ll still have a panic attack at least once during your first week, because you’ve forgotten your fuzzy slippers.
8. A couch makes a home.
9. Life is what happens in between washing the dishes.
10. Your personality will start to disintegrate into a sea of new information. This is completely normal, so whine about it on the internet!
11. 80% of the people you meet during Freshers, you will never speak to again. But meeting them will make life a happy place.
12. Work is important. 30 Rock is important. There’s a time and place for both.
13. God is grilled cheese sandwiches.
I’m sure I’ll add to this as the year progresses, so stay tuned… logged on… asomething to that effect. Now I’ll go wash the dishes. And you will go eat a cookie. Yes, you will, this is non-negotiable. See you soon (no promises, but firm resolve so far).
*Also, you learn that Morrisons is the heavenly home of cheap Cheerios! And apples, I guess, if you're into that sort of thing.
**Not really though.
1. Sleep is good. It’s good at 11PM, it’s good at 10AM, it is amazing at 3 in the afternoon after a 24-hour marathon of things & stuff (which may or may not have involved a midnight beer run and a morning after spent in the library). Get sleep and get it anytime you can.
2. People will help you, even if they think you’re an idiot. Especially people, who are paid to do so. Ask for help.
3. A slice of bread, a banana and a bag of peanut M&Ms totally constitute a balanced meal.
4. Yes, you’ll be in debt for the rest of your life anyway, so buy stuff while you can. Books, books, dress, coat, shoes, junk food, junk food, more junk food. Consumption is the best alleviator of stress.**
5. Yeah, whether you go to that 9AM lecture or not, you are NOT going to feel like you’ve learnt anything.
6. God is Skype.
7. No matter what you brought, you’ll still have a panic attack at least once during your first week, because you’ve forgotten your fuzzy slippers.
8. A couch makes a home.
9. Life is what happens in between washing the dishes.
10. Your personality will start to disintegrate into a sea of new information. This is completely normal, so whine about it on the internet!
11. 80% of the people you meet during Freshers, you will never speak to again. But meeting them will make life a happy place.
12. Work is important. 30 Rock is important. There’s a time and place for both.
13. God is grilled cheese sandwiches.
I’m sure I’ll add to this as the year progresses, so stay tuned… logged on… asomething to that effect. Now I’ll go wash the dishes. And you will go eat a cookie. Yes, you will, this is non-negotiable. See you soon (no promises, but firm resolve so far).
*Also, you learn that Morrisons is the heavenly home of cheap Cheerios! And apples, I guess, if you're into that sort of thing.
**Not really though.
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