Same deal as this. Here’s my article for the second issue of this year’s TCD Miscellany.
Ah. Back to college. The old grind again. Like we never left.
I was surprised at just how enthusiastic I was during Freshers’ week. I was genuinely looking forward to being back. Mainly because college gives me a reason to get up and get dressed. A reason to shave other than getting rid of the itchiness. A bit of structure to my days. I was beginning to hope and dream again.
I’m gonna go to every lecture! I’m gonna study during the year instead of just cramming before exams! I’m gonna go to the gym all the time! Hell, may as well give Schols a go!
Thing is, lectures start early and are shit. Studying seems unnecessary and shit. The gym would require me bringing in changes of clothes and stuff. And then being sweaty. And it’s also shit. Schols? Where’s the lolz in Scholz?
I was soon reminded of my laziness. I’m also convinced that I have regressed socially. Over the summer I built an image of myself going back to college, seeing everyone I know, being all cool. I saw myself strutting through front square like The Fonz, giving an “eeey!” and a thumbs up to all those cool cats I’m friends with. I’m just a man about town, baby.
The reality was me sheepishly dragging myself through front square and panicking upon seeing one of those people you sort of know, but not enough to comfortably say hello to. If they try do a stop-and-chat, you’re right up shit creek. Nah, just wait until you’re both out drinking some night. That’s when that sort of stuff should be done.
I’m already behind in my classes. I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at the people who seem to know what’s going on in everything. How dare they be on top of things? Knowing when essays are due, having stuff done for tutorials. They’re often the sort of people that adapt to new acronyms too quickly. For example, people calling History of Political Thought, “HPT” from the first day. It’s just too soon. Stick your HPT up your GEE.
To worsen matters, my lecturers have decided to go all ‘interactive’ this year. Asking questions to the class. What happened to the days when I could sit in silence in a lecture and take in the cleavage on show instead of paying attention? I now have to pay attention lest I get asked a question I haven’t heard, and then get mocked by the failed stand-up comic lecturer. There was a bit of an incident with this recently.
The woman lecturing us had been asking questions the whole time. Ever single question she asked, I sat there slyly grinning at the inappropriate responses my little ol’ brain was thinking up. While talking about the misery JK Rowling suffered while writing her books in Edinburgh cafés, she asked “I mean, if you want to go somewhere to write and be miserable, where would you go?”. Obviously hoping for an “Edinburgh” response. I sat there thinking “Auschwitz Auschwitz Auschwitz”. Alas, I wasn’t asked.
Then we had to all write down an answer to her question “What is Marketing?”. She asked someone at the back. Then another. Then she points to me and asks what I wrote. Christ. I look down at my page and see the three words I’ve written – “What is Marketing?”. Why did I even bother writing the fucking question? I then did the biggest cop out imaginable and garbled out some jibberish about having the same answer as the last. The shame.
I planned to go in and see Jack White when he was in. I’m not a major fan or anything, but it’s pretty cool that he was there. Then I found out it was on a Sunday. This was a problem for the simple reason that I rarely have plans for Sundays, so it unnerves me a little bit when I do. I can barely remember the last time I did something on a Sunday aside from eating dinner.
And then my mam clinched it when she told me what we were having for Sunday dinner. Chicken and ham. Chicken AND ham. That’s two meats. TWO. That’s twice the amount of meats I normally have with dinner. Soz Jack, it’s nothing personal, but it’s gotta be something really special to outdo a double meater.
I’m way out of the loop with nights out too. Where are all these new night clubs coming from? And all these themed nights? I feel like a pensioner baffled and bemused by technology. People ask me if I’m going to things and I don’t know if they’re saying the name of the night’s theme, or the venue. ‘War’, ‘Break for the Border’ – what is this shit?
No, I shan’t be going to Piss Flaps in The Granny Hub on Harcourt Street tonight. I don’t care if you get in for free if you’re wearing soiled wellies and eating a pube. I don’t care if they’re selling Mojitos for two euro and a Tayto crisp. I’m going to go home and have a glass of orange juice and scratch myself. However, if it’s any consolation, I will silently browse through the Facebook photos of your night, so if you could upload them sharpish, I’d be grateful. I’m planning a day of bitter scowling tomorrow so that’d really fit in with my schedule.
Oh well. It’s Christmas soon. And we all know what that means!
The inevitable disappointment of New Year’s.
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Tidbits is a weird little word isn’t it?
Tidbit.
Tid.
Bit.
Bidtit.
Anyway, I haven’t posted in quite a while. Soz. I’ve been awfully busy dealing with all the women queuing up outside my house. Many of them are merely hopin’ for a gropin’, but most are lingerin’ for a fingerin’.
So here’s a few tidbits.
1. Whenever I get an idea for something to write about, I save it as a draft message on my phone. My drafts folder is now way too full of half-formed ideas, some of which I can no longer make head nor tail of. This is yet another reason why, when I broke my phone (well documented here and here), I was distraught.
My ideas, my precious ideas! All my carefully works plans of genius! Whatever will I do? How can I go on when all my hard work has been undone?
In reality, I reckon all I lost was something shit like “Do a blog about sandwiches or titz lol”.
2. I take an absurd amount of pride in my ability to judge how much squash to put in when making orange or blackcurrant squash. Honestly, I get it perfect. If anyone was ever to criticise my squash-making, they would simply be wrong. There’d be something wrong with their taste buds. Because I’m so used to perfection, I’ll never have someone else at home fix me up a glass of squash - it’ll only be shit. The worst is when you can tell just by looking at it, that it’s all wrong. Lately we’re using “double concentrate” stuff, meaning you have to put less squash in. I assure you all that I adapted to this change absolutely seamlessly.
So if you want a good glass of squash, I’m your man.
3. While we’re on the subject of pride, I’ve become very smug about my road-crossing abilities. There’s a couple of roads I have to cross every morning for college, in the city centre. I’m now the leader of the road-crossing pack.
Out of my way you fools! Let me show you how it’s done. Pah, waiting for the green man to show up are you? Why wait for that nerd when you’ve a maverick like me on hand to show you the way. Follow my lead you pathetic pack of sheep!
I will admit though, that I get beeped at, the odd time. Honest to christ, I get so irritated when someone beeps at me unnecessarily. It’s one of those things that really annoys me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’d like to stand there and shake my fist at the culprit, beeping me, offending my ears and my road-crossing skillz, but no, I can’t. I have to keep walking and hope that anyone else around the scene is on my side. I always feel embarrassed when it happens too.
4. Contrarily, I get ludicrously pleased whenever I meet a polite bus driver. Whenever I’m getting off a bus, I ensure I thank the driver. I take out one of my earphones to do it. I even do a little lean in their direction and look at them. It’s a genuine thanks. Now and again they’ll respond with a “cheers” or even just some shitty little grunt, but for some reason it puts a real spring in my step for the next little while. I urge you to imagine me jumping off the bus with a “WEEEEE!” and clicking my heels.
However, I’ve noticed lately that I never speak properly when thanking the driver. Something happens to me, and I get some awful speech impediment. I think it’s the pressure of the whole bus full of passengers looking at me, judging me with their vicious little public transport passenger eyes.
My attempt at saying “Thanks very much” turns into “TALVELMUHL”
“Cheers” can go to either “EARS” or “CHUZ”
“Thanks a lot” will come out as “TAZLOT”.
I then worry if the rest of the bus heard me garble out that jibberish.
5. I’m beginning to think that my whole mood, esteem, and general persona, is determined by how many “likes” I get on facebook when I post a status update. So if you’re reading this as a facebook note, you know what to do.
6. My mother has to be the least efficient person when it comes to getting ready to go out. This irks me. When I’m going out, I get ready quickly and efficiently. For example, when I go to the bathroom, I’ll do everything I need to do in there. Shit, Shower, Shave. One take. BAM. I’m done with the bathroom. Need the bathroom do ya? That’s grand, because I’m done with it for the night. Go right ahead.
My mother would switch on the shower, then nip down to the kitchen and stick some toast in the toaster. Back up for the shower. Run out half way through to butter the toast. Place the now soggy and shower gel-covered toast on the radiator to dry. Back up to the shower. Finish showering. Eat toast. Put shoes on. Run back upstairs to get dressed. Run back downstairs to remove shoes. Run back upstairs to get dressed. Get dressed. Pop into my bedroom to ask me a question. Run downstairs to put shoes on. Back upstairs to get the answer to the question. And on it goes.
But sure how do you tell someone that?
How can you tell someone they’re inefficient at getting ready? It’d take too long to explain. Then they’d tell me I’m an inefficient explainer.
That’ll do for now I think. There may be a follow-up to this post sometime. So that’s something to look forward to eh?
(Also, “hopin’ for a gropin’ and lingerin’ for a fingerin’ ” - confirmation that I’m a modern day Shakespeare there)
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