Archive for November, 2009

So…reality. Yeah.

In my surprisingly stale life these days, I find I have little of amusement to report. My day-to-day life is still great, and I still have my fun, but I feel like I’ve entered that plateau-ish bit of uni (and adulthood?) where constantly working and constantly being skint prevent any sort of social life. Or fun spending. Both of which I could definitely do with.

I’ve recently made a list of jobs I’d be interested in post-uni. While I know that it’s highly unlikely that I’ll get any of them, or that I’ll get any high-paying job for that matter, I’ve acknowledged that I’m still stuck in the part of my youth that insists I will one day be rich. I had a discussion with two of my house mates about this and how money really shouldn’t be the point of working, but really, I don’t quite care. Of course it would be amazing to do something I love, and an even more extinct sort of amazing to get paid well to do it – but when it comes down to it, as unethical as it sounds, I don’t think I’ve really drawn the line for myself in terms of how much job enjoyment I would sacrifice in order to make good money. Right now I’m just telling myself I’m amazing as fuck and will find someone to pay me to simply be that way and write books. Little chance, I know, but if I can’t believe it at twenty, then when can I?

Then again, we have the fallback of marrying rich. Wouldn’t complain.

On a less financially-minded note: I got a first – and on a paper I wrote in one evening, the day before it was due, no less! It was a 75, which I am most proud of, it was my first first. This will make little-to-no sense to my American readers (unless they’re Laura Stricker or Maggie McBride) so I shall explain. The English university grading system works as follows: Anything above a 70 is a first, anything between 60-69 is a 2:1, anything between 50-59 is a 2:2, anything between 40-49 is a third, and anything below 40 is a fail. Firsts are really an achievement, especially in your second and third years, when they actually count towards your final degree. What am I talking about, do you ask? Well, when you graduate from an English university, your overall degree comes with an attached score – a First, a 2:1, a 2:2, or a Third. So basically, when you get your degree and then go to apply for jobs, everyone knows whether you slacked at uni or if you worked your ass off. Kinda cool, if you work your ass off. Granted that I’m now in possession of a second-year first, it’s looking pretty good. Here’s hoping my other coursework will go just a smoothly.

That coursework, by the way, is more than likely not going to be typed up on Konsuke. Nope, even as I write, it is on the foreign Apple-y laptop of Laura Wells. Why is that, you ask? It is because Konsuke has up an DIED. Yeah, DIED. Possibly in a resurrectable fashion, but even his temporary death is something to be mourned, especially considering I have around 6,000 words of writing that need doing sometime in the next twenty days. Fuck, writing that down makes it sound far, far more daunting.

On a better note, though, I still love having short hair. I’m promising myself right now that I’ll never go back to long hair, because honestly, every time I think of myself with it, I cringe a little. Generally speaking that means you shouldn’t go back. Having my hair this way makes me feel much more stylish as when you only have a few inches of hair it is about one-million times easier to do stuff with it and to make it look nice. Unfortunately, it also makes me want to go out and buy the entirety of River Island, specifically this bag, which I am in motherfucking love with:

Yeah. You might call it ugly, but I call it heaven. Along with every single piece of makeup produced by Urban Decay (all of which, coincidentally, I would also like to possess) and most every other item in stock at River Island. Essentially, I have realized something very strange about myself: if I had the money (which I most definitely do not, so I’m not even going to try) I would dress exactly like a younger, slightly edgier Cruella Deville (minus the crazy and the animal slaughter). Ridiculous, I know, but DEAR GOD HOW AMAZING WOULD THAT BE. I love animal prints, black, white, and red. I’m pretty sure the only thing I would miss would bet he color blue…but then I’d look at something leopard print and I would feel okay again. If I ever do get rich, that is seriously how I’m going to dress. As a matter of fact, I’m going to go see if I can find a copy of 101 Dalmatians and have myself a movie-tastic Friday night.

Thanksgiving was yesterday, and while it wasn’t anywhere nearly as epic as last year, it was still festive. There was pseudo-turkey (i.e. chicken) and there was pie, and there was an attempt at American biscuits. Sadly, the attempt was a failed one, as my ace recipe straight from my grandmother was thwarted by a small confusion involving teaspoons, tablespoons, and baking soda. Excepting that, though, and the fact that I wasn’t exactly at home in California with my family, it was pretty awesome.

So now, basically, it’s the wait for Christmas. I’m still not quite sure how basically this entire term has escaped this blog and my general attention, but hey, nobody is perfect, and time flies. Wish me luck on my 6,000 words – knowing me, you’ll be hearing from me soon on here. Nothing makes me hit up my transatlantic like the fever of procrastination.

We call it neglect.

Neglect. Ignoring important things – people that matter, bills, coursework, maintaining a semblance of organization in my room…the month of October in general.

You could call it fail, too, but that’s a bit rough, and would be a bad way to try and catch up on over a month of not writing. Over a month! Fuck it. We call that failure.

The Month of October:

1. The Death of Reggie. This is a recent occurrence…I believe he died a whole three days ago. I was on my way home from glorious Esme’s with a certain Miss Clements in tow when I decided that a particular gorgeous tree, wrapped in fog and splashed with streetside lamplight, would make an awesome photo. Sans camera, out came Reggie, and what do you know…that was the last I saw of him. Did I put him back in my purse? Did I accidentally slip him past my purse and not hear him hit the ground? Did he jump out a few minutes later when Laura and I decided to run for all of fifty feet? God only knows, but the end is the same. Reggie is dead, and now I have Horatio – a modular downgrade, but we’re hoping an inability-to-get-lost upgrade – and life is good again.

2. A Slew of LCR’s That, Though Thematically Similar to Those of Last Year, Were Definitely Not As Good. Now, this event is pretty self-explanatory. I’m not saying I haven’t had any fun this year – far from it – but it’s definitely not going down the way shit flew this time last year. I didn’t really expect a repeat of the awesomeness of Action Man, School Daze, and the like…but I won’t lie: the LCR, when not packed with three essential Australians, one Maggie McBride, and the entirety of D5 in one orgy of awesomeness, is just not the same. Still fun, and chock full of double vodka Redbulls and the folks that have had one too many – but not the same. Rave on!

3. The Gradual Digression of My Room Into a State of Chaos. Towards the end of September, my room still maintained a shred of identifiable dignity. No longer. Total, we’re looking at one square foot of uncovered floorspace, and my drying laundry hanging on shelves, doors, and desktop until it gets worn and tossed groundward. The three guys I live with are quickly learning that communal spaces can’t really exist without some part of my wardrobe inhabiting them.

4. Classes With One Of My Favorite Teachers Ever. (That would be Joad Raymond.) Legend! I don’t really understand what goes on in 17th Century Writing a lot of the time, but Joad is nice enough to smile and nod when I say things that make absolutely no sense. Like, I don’t know, when I relate the Pastoral movement of Fantasia to a stanza in a John Milton poem. Me and Milton, we don’t really jive. At least thus far in my life, seeing as every time I try and talk about him or something he’s written in a seminar, I end up looking like a complete idiot (i.e. using the word “dude” while paraphrasing Paradise Lost).  So yeah, Joad is amazing.

5. The Ludicrously Beautiful Transformation of Summeresque Norwich into Norwich in the Fall. Maybe it’s because I lived on campus last year and didn’t constantly see so much of the city…but I swear, I never noticed how incredibly beautiful this city is in the fall. Every single leaf is in the gorgeous process of death. That sounds morbid, but maybe slightly poetic? It’s true either way. The trees here are on fire and it’s amazing. Most every time I walk home from work I’m inspired to photograph some part of the journey. That is, when I’m not wearing the Boots of Death and falling on my ass while crossing cross-walks in front of loads of cars. But Norwich in the fall – or autumn, as I’m regularly corrected on this side of the Atlantic – makes me wish that life was a constant Renaissance Faire. I know that sounds like the most random feeling ever, but it’s true. The amazing costumes and drunkeness and endless amount of character that is a ren faire PLUS the gorgeous goldenosity of autumn in this city? I can’t really think of much that would be more amazing.

Speaking of not really being able to think, I’m at a loss mentioning anything interesting that’s happened over the past neglected month. How sad is that? I really should learn my lesson and just not not write for absolute ages at a time. Hardly does anything for my readership, I’m sure.

Completely off topic, but hopefully the kind of interesting something that will keep you clicking back for more, the online game Winterbells (http://www.ferryhalim.com/orisinal/g3/bells.htm) is amazing. Seriously. I have spent more time than I like to acknowledge playing that game, studiously ignoring mounds of coursework. I’m even struggling as I type this to not to hit ctrl + t and open it up in a new tab for a few rounds. I am so lame. Give it a whirl though – in the Christmas spirit! (As somebody who lives in a country that doesn’t wait till the day after Thanksgiving to slather the mall in Christmas decorations, I’m allowed to encourage this).

I am officially coming home for Christmas break! Which is only 47 days away. HOLY SHIT, where does the time go. At this rate I will be violently hurled into the real world and all of the bill-y and career-y and debt-y stuff thus included in about, oh, two days. That is most definitely what it feels like…meaning I should probably get going on that manuscript I’ve promised myself I’ll have finished by the time I graduate. Ah, having the will power to work on the same story for more than twenty pages. I bet that feels awesome. I certainly wouldn’t know.

One thing I do know, once again, completely unrelated, is that I never thought I would drink beer by choice. My whole drinking life it has been disgusting and people have insisted that eventually I will acquire the taste and I have insisted right back at them that no, I will never enjoy the taste of carbonated urine. And then you have me now. Me, who, thanks to a weekly soup-and-beer-centered meeting with Esme and Laura, randomly has the urge to have a beer with dinner. WHAT HAPPENED. I blame Esme and Laura. And living with boys.

Boys who, up until about two weeks ago, loved to do nothing more than complain about how much I shed (to be fair, it was a rather beastly amount). Why don’t they complain anymore, you ask? Because I chopped all of my hair off and am, once again, a pixie! This time, I carry it off a whole lot better and look more stylish than boyish, which was the unfortunate result of the last pixie-esque cut back in my junior year of high school. So yay for whims (Eleanor, that’s you!) and Callum the amazing hairdresser and basically life in general, because no matter how much I procrastinate or neglect or whine or do anything, life is awesome.

Yeah. Top five things I need to remember: Life is awesome.

(And yes, I know that’s not five things.)

 


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photo cred to myself and Maggie J. Moxie