Well, I hope you're cosy.

Remember when I was all warm and fuzzy about the thought of university? I wish I had any sense of fucking warmth right now. To type I have to hammer my purple fingers into the keys just to get enough power to type. I can see my own breath and in the morning, I fear that my toothbrush will freeze to my gums and rip out my costly nashers.
Anyway, I'm having a whale of a time, really. 9am tomorrow though. Must dash, I have organs to revive.

My dear huns...

I am now 20. This is not said to you in a jovial or whimsical tone. It is said in a sorrow filled life hating way that makes me have 'November in my soul' - Herman Melville said this and I thought I would borrow it to describe my ageing process.
For one, how the balls did I age this much without even realising? One of my high school friends who is actually a footballer posted today that he had found a grey hair.  A GREY HAIR! You know what's next don't you? Marriage and babies and veracious veins, all of which I link together as a threesome of horror. What a hideous reality.
My birthday was fun, actually. Not as amazing as scuba diving in the great barrier reef but as amazing as trudging through mud at a Manchester festival watching Annie Mac and singing 'I'mma ruin you kunt' - This is from a song not some type of attempt to gain attention from Annie. I did spend my night however sleeping on the dirtiest floor I have ever seen. I even tried to sweep it with a jeweled hand brush but to no avail. It was minging.
On the 11th I returned home and was sat in my bedroom awaiting my boyfriend to come on Skype. There was a knock at my bedroom door; 'What?' I answered in a less than friendly tone. Another knock 'Come in then, Christ.' To my joyous horror there stand my blonde bombshell. 'What the BALLS are you doing here?' Not the most lady like of phrases but it was all I could muster giving the true surprise. We are currently not speaking so, swings and roundabouts.

It appears that I have still not quite mastered the rules of these 'games' men play in their crazy little minds. Yes I said little and no, I am not taking it back.

Sincerely,

Bitter and stuff.

Red wine, pale student carpet

 

It’s 2 o’clock in the morning and I find myself aimlessly wandering around my 2 metre long and 2 metre wide bedroom. I’ve cleaned the dust off a lamp and I’ve read all of the books on my shelf. These books are in no way related to my course but, they’re interesting. Which is more than I can say for the drivel on my reading list.

I’m pyjama’d up, about to give in and go to bed when the worst happens. I must have tripped over thin air in a last attempt of excitement and rebellion against bedtime which causes the only bottle of red wine that I’ve ever owned to fall to the floor from the smallest table in the world and obliterate into a million pieces, throwing it’s dark venom all over my overly priced, rented carpet.

Panic sets in. ‘MY DEPOSIT!’ Is my first thought and Google is my next. I smash the words ‘how to get red wine out of a pale carpet’ into the search box and wait impatiently as I see the stained circle darkening. Whilst my internet has the speed of an over fed slug I bound for help. ‘Jon! Jon! Quick something really bad has happened!’ I hammer on my flatmates door and he comes out sleepy eyed and in his dressing gown. ‘I might have accidentally spilt a whole bottle of red wine on my carpet, please help me!’ Jon seems to be more womanly minded and stays calm, twirls backwards into his dark cave of a bedroom and returns with vanish and a damp cloth. I on the other hand am armed with surf and vinegar.

I’m thrown into a state of hysteria, giggling and yet almost in tears as I drown the carpet in vinegar and then coat it in a sheet of surf. This is what Google suggested and this, this is what I am trusting. Jon’s voice seems to have acquired a higher pitch as he stares at me whilst I stamp on the surf hoping it will help soak up the damage. ‘Is it working?!’ I yell. I get the hoover and suck up the powder which is now a dark shade of purple… This does not look good. The hoover is now clogged and now I not only have a giant stain on my carpet, I have surf all over my room and the entire place smells like alcoholic soapy vinegar.

I scrub with soapy water in hope that cleanlisness will resume and the previously grim patterned carpet will be saved from the giant stain invading its fabric. The night is long. I send Jon to bed after I feel we have done all that we can do to recover the carpet. I toss and turn in my sleep, wishing for a miracle. Not a miracle from God but, a miracle from Vanish, Surf and maybe even Johnsons.

It’s morning. I spring from my bed. There’s a stain. But the stain is no longer red wine, the stain is now from the brown vinegar I used in a state of mindless panic. 

A level day

The car park morphed into a grey unfriendly landscape as I made my way unwillingly towards what felt like the end of the world. Yes, this was results day, or rather judgement day. A day when eighteen year olds everywhere can either achieve a place in a university of prestige and beauty and thrive on their excitement, relief and pride, or descend into a pit of irrevocable despair to which all Jeremy Kyle contestants are condemned.

Okay, okay, that is not what happens to people who don’t get a place in university, but it is definitely what it feels like when they hand you that brightly coloured piece of paper with black bold lettering (I assume this is a technique used to pacify the already dishevelled, sleep deprived, mentally fragile kids that are teetering on the edge of adulthood).

So now you’ve got your grades. You walk through crowds of tears, sighs, laughter, sounds of high pitched joy and deep groans of disappointment. Teachers are frantically running from student to student, congratulating, commiserating, and ensuring no nooses are being knotted. There’s that little lamb of a student in the corner, staring into those angry, angular letters he never expected to see. But it’s not the end; he can be brought back from the brink and ushered towards that life-saver named clearing.

So now the future is bright, a life of poverty awaits the beautiful characters of the future and it is now time for me to revel in a night of flowers and Moet. (I am betting that I am highly disappointed as I don’t even like champagne) but celebrations are celebrations and mine, and others’ months of sheer hard work has led up to those bold, beautiful letters on that brightly coloured paper and that alone deserves some form of glass clinking.