Wow. Livejournal seems so…lame now that I have a fantastic new life. My personality has changed overnight: I can't believe I used to be so sad and negative. Uni is amazing! In the whole week I’ve been here, I’ve made the best friends I’ve ever had. Seriously, everyone else I know is so boring and sucks ass compared to them. Hey, I’m just being honest! I got so wasted on Apple Sourz last night and had lots of unprotected sex with complete strangers, it was really awesome. I woke up feeling like a pig shat in my head. Hehe. Y’know, my life is so full of wild party fun these days that I totally forgot what movie that quote was from.
Wait, so you're saying that I use sarcasm to disguise my vulnerability? Aye right.
Angst now. The thing that alarms me most about my (somewhat minimal) Freshers' Week interaction is the similarity it bears to the way I tried to integrate myself when I started at a new school in Primary Six. After all that adolescence and all that education, I'm still the same funny little girl with the same funny little hangups. I'm still no more than an annotation in the margin of the powerful play. Twenty minutes ago, I sat in the kitchen nibbling Dorito fragments, watching the other girls bonding over their sunny tequila whatevers. They decide to name Kate's car "Bubbles". This, apparently, is outrageously funny. Flashback to 1996. Hockey changing rooms, knee-high woollen socks, studded boots caked with mud. I look on soberly as Moira and Rachel fall about laughing at some joke centred around the word "moustache". I don't get it. I won't get it.
I never push, I never shout, I never lead. I observe from the sidelines, pointing out the things that nobody else notices and making the jokes that nobody else gets. I exclude myself. It's what I do. Wherever I go, I'll be stuck with it. Amiable people might sit by me and listen to my mutterings for a while, but ultimately they have bigger parts to play and better friends to make. I'm not even enough of a person to be hated. *plays with petals*
On a more positive note, I'm starting Italian this year, in order to come closer to completing the Romance set. Whee!
Disgusting juice and "SpongeBob NudiePants". This, by the way, is also Outrageously Funny.
I have eleven flatmates. I'm going to write about them one at a time because I'm too lazy to do them all at once, and you lot are most likely too lazy to read about them. First up, Sheelagh.
Degree: Law & French.
Alliance: GUU. (It's a sticky-floored piss-house)
I know little to nothing about Sheelagh’s approach to her academic pursuits, but the geometrical precision of the drizzle-pattern of balsamic vinegar on her salad tells me that her folders will be colour-coded, her lecture notes borrowably legible, her titles underlined, her pencilcase fluffy on the outside and empty of pencil shavings on the inside, and her highlighters sagely used for their intended purpose.
She has a similarly assiduous way with people, expertly tying up the ends of conversations and making airtight excuses before she leaves a room: "okay you guys, I know I’m going to seem like such a loser for going to bed at just four am, but I’ve been playing hockey all day you guys, and I have to get up to see my gran tomorrow morning, so I really need my sleep. Craig, I’ll get you that CD. Sam, you aked me to remind you to buy more vodka. Okay you guys, I’m off to bed, I hope you don't mind." (I, on the other hand, have the gruffly masculine habit of lurching up and stalking out of the room without a word. Well, if I were to bother explaining my departure, I’d have to say "I'm bored with you now, and I haven’t checked my e-mail in about half an hour. I’m actually starting to twitch. Bye.")
Her freckled, ferretish prettiness and quick, fragile way of speaking make her very pleasant to live with. Like me, she has found herself dithering on the outside of the giggling girly clique that has sprouted from the dewy social fecundity of consecutive Freshers’ Week club nights. Sheelagh, nevertheless, is a different sort of outsider from me. All of her best friends from back home live in nearby flats. Yesterday, the easy flow of late-night conversation brought out in her a ten-minute speech about "What Has Given Me The Confidence I Have". (A combination of band camp and natural arrogance, it turned out.) She frilled her talk with a constant wrist-dance, but it seemed more like arbitrary hand-flapping than illustrative gesticulation. "The big thing about being really confident”, she declaimed, "is to always just like, be yourself, I mean, just chill." At my quiet dissent, friendly debate ensued.
Now I'm going to curl up in bed with my earplugs and a good book.