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Mouse Problem

So, we have a bit of a mouse problem in my student house. It’s been around for ages, but I thought we’d caught them all a while ago with Captain RiffRaff’s very own homemade humane mouse traps. Plus, having a cat should act as a pretty good deterrent to any rodent bandits.

But, about two weeks ago, I found a cheesy bastard in my potatoes.

Naturally, the spuds went in the bin and I went on the hunt. I made another mouse trap, set the bait and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No mice were taking the bait. Either I wasn’t making it accessible enough or mice don’t like peanut butter. I sure do.

So, when I nipped into town today to get some bits and bobs, I picked up a couple of cheap mouse traps. Just the simple snap ones that break their necks nice and clean, so the mouse doesn’t suffer.

After a little while and some bruised fingers, I set the traps with the bait, popped them in the cupboard and settled down with some revision.

Not two hours later, I heard a loud snap and a clatter. I’d got one!

I quickly scooped up the little body that was still twitching, taking a moment to say sorry and appreciate how soft it was. I am seriously considering some mouse fur gloves. I scooted outside to find my cat, who was overjoyed at the prospect of hunting a just-dead mouse.

So after I dangled it in front of her nose and she almost peed her little kitty pants, she grabbed it and ran off to the middle of the garden, where she proceeded to bat it about and chase it before settling down to a tasty snack.

Even though I technically caught the mouse, I’m still proud of her for playing her hunting games and gobbling it up. I guess that makes me her kitty mum.

Hopefully she’ll catch some herself soon.

Things That Annoy Me: Poor Animal Control

It is with a depressing frequency that I see in the news stories of dog attacks on people and children, the most recent and currently famous video about being of a dog attacking a boy on a bike outside of his home in California, who was then chased off by a rather heroic cat.

The dog either has been or will soon be put to sleep. I agree with this course of action, a dog who attacks a human should be destroyed.

BUT

What I want to know is exactly WHY this dog attacked this boy. Did the boy accidentally frighten the dog? Not likely, as the dog is seen trotting calmly up and then going for his leg. So why was he bitten? Did the dog have a mental issue (Yes, retards of the internet, animals can get those too)? Or was it a simple matter or poor training and discipline?

You see, with animals, especially man’s best friend, they have to be trained. A dog who is not trained does not know his or her place in the family, or to him, the “pack”. A dog’s natural instinct is to attempt to move up the pack and become alpha, a position that should be held by a human in the family. With correct training, the dog learns his place at the bottom of the “pack” and accepts this and becomes a wonderful, loyal, loving pet.

What is apparent in the majority of dog attacks is that the animal is not properly trained. They do not know their place and as such, may become aggressive towards a human they see as the weakest, in an attempt to move upwards. Also, with poor training, and no control over the animal, the dog learns he or she can get away with all sorts, without too strict of a “punishment”. Often, with poor training, the dog does not know why they are being punished. During training, you have a second’s window to administer praise or *punishment.

Another big issue is abuse.

A dog who is hit, kicked, smacked and all sorts of other horrible things like that is given the notion that humans are mean and nasty, and will attack you without provocation. Even if you think your pooch deserves a smack for widdling in the hall, he probably doesn’t know that. He just thinks you’ve lashed out at him. As such, the dog becomes defensive and frightened all the time, because he doesn’t know when he’s going to be hit next.

When you are afraid, your natural response is to fight or flee. What happens when flight is not an option? You fight. And what happens if something, say, a wasp, comes near you? You want to run away or whap it. Wasps sting and are nasty. Kill the bugger before it hurts you. So, an abused dog who thinks a human is going to hurt it will lash out if he can’t run away.

The majority of stories concerning dog attacks generally come from a dog who is either not trained, or abused. You know those moronic chavvy cunts who get a pitbull, staffie or rottie to look “cool” or “hard”? The dog is often untrained, and because it doesn’t do what it’s told (because it doesn’t know what the words mean) it is hit or kicked out of frustration. Hence a frightened, defensive woofer. Also, this is part of the reason why lovely, loyal, gentle dogs like the aforementioned three get bad reputations.

Even the gentlest of dogs can attack if they’re frightened enough. There’s a video floating around on the internet of a news reporter interviewing a police guy with his police dog. The news reporter ignored all the signals that the dog was not enjoying being touched and was getting defensive. The reporter then leaned over the dog, and the dog bit him. The police guy was also at fault for not indicating to the reporter that the dog was not enjoying the fuss.

Stories in the news where an unfortunate child has been bitten and the owners claim “he’s never done this before, he was so gentle” are sadly frequent. The problem here lies with people not watching their kids around a strange, or even a familiar dog.

Because let’s face it. Kids are a bit daft sometimes. You can’t be expected to know something you’ve not been told, but the responsibility lies with the owners and the parents to educate the child on how to approach and fuss a dog. It’s not difficult.

Here, if you don’t know how, follow these steps.

1: If the dog is calm, ears and tail relaxed or tail wagging, you can approach (ask owner’s permission first!)

2: Hold out your hand for the dog to sniff or lick

3: Stroke the dog on the side of his neck or shoulder, moving to rub his ears and the top of his head

4: NEVER lean over the dog or bring your hand straight down to pat his head, this may frighten them, and don’t put your face too close to theirs

5: Don’t let the child hug the dog; as much as this is a sign of affection for us, dogs see it as a means of asserting dominance and don’t like it very much

6: Don’t stare the dog in the eyes, this is seen as a challenge in the dog world and it may unnerve them

7: Always watch the child with the dog. If the dog puts his ears back, widens his eyes and glares or curls his lip, or leans away, move the child away. That’s a scared dog who doesn’t want to be touched.

 

So many dog attacks could be avoided if people are able to properly train their dogs and not abuse them. Indeed, many, many attacks could be avoided if parents and owners took a bit more responsibility. The way I see it, if your child is so precious to you that you would see a neighbour’s dog destroyed because your child frightened it and was bitten, then you can take the time to educate them and yourself and avoid your child being hurt, and a dog losing its life due to the stupidity of humans.

My strongest sympathies go out to people who have been attacked by dogs or even killed, but it can be avoided.

 

*When I say punishment, I mean a way of telling the dog that what he was doing is not allowed. I do not condone the hitting of animals at all; this should be avoided at all costs. A simple short, sharp “Aa-ah!” should be sufficient to let them know they’ve done wrong. Then as soon as they have ceased with the behaviour, praise.

I Don’t Get Ballet

Now, before the toffs out there get their silver spoons in a twist, hear me out. I can appreciate ballet is an artform, and it takes a hell of a lot of skill to do it. but I just don’t get it. The only thing I like about it is the music.

All it seems to be is a load of leaping about with pointy feet and spinning around, standing on your tip toes (resulting in some rather horrible feet problems) and sticking one leg out at a time, with the occasional ungainly kick thrown in. I’ve got Swan Lake on at the moment, mainly for the music, but every now and again I’ll flick to the other tab to see what’s going on. And it’s jumping, spinning and pointing. Every time. Is this all ballet is? Ooh now I’m holding a woman so she can bend a bit more than she could under her own steam. This princey guy and one of the girls have just repeated the same five moves over and over for about five minutes. I kinda prefer variety.

If I didn’t know the story of Swan Lake as it is, even watching the whole thing closely, I’d likely have no idea what’s going on. People prancing about, one looks like a prince, the other’s a jester, now there’s a guy dressed up like a flamboyant black devil. What?

People say it’s beautiful… And I guess if you like generic pretty looking women who all look like they were gotten out of a box from the same shelf at Toys R Us then cool, I can dig that. Yeah it’s graceful in places, but raising and lowering your arms together and skipping about with feet that stick out in odd directions isn’t what I’d call grace.

Spinning at various speeds, pointing and bending a lot. Impressive, but it’s something you could see at a circus. I’d rather go to a circus actually, so long as they were nice to their animals.

Things That Annoy Me: Liars

I’ve never liked liars. People who make things up that never happened, be it for attention or to get out of trouble. The attention whores are the worst because, let’s face it, every kid has lied about one thing or another to avoid getting into trouble. “Did you eat that cake?” “No…” and suchlike.

But people who make shit up for attention, and the compulsive liars are the absolute worst.

Compulsive liars, there’s not even any point to half the shit they lie about. If you’ve been to Disney Land, they’ve got a season ticket. “Oh have you seen that new film that’s out?” “Yeah, I really enjoyed it.”

“My favourite food is chicken.” “Oh mine too!”

“I fell off a mountain once” (Actually happened to a friend of mine). “Oh yeah, I did too!” (The same moron who said that also claimed that, because I studied psychology, he had a degree level knowledge because his nan had taught him. It gave me great pleasure to frequently correct his knowledge and embarrass him for lying.)

 “Oh yeah, I’ve been stabbed before.”

Wait, what?

This is where compulsive liars and attention whores cross over a bit, although I recognise that compulsive liars have quite an issue and attention whores are just cunts.

Why do I hate attention whores so much? The short answer would be I hate the way they pretend they’ve been through some pretty horrendous shit just for a pat on the back or a bit of sympathy. They generally pick up on something that’s happened to someone they know, a bad break up perhaps, or an abusive partner. They then go around, telling anyone who’ll listen about this horrid thing that happened to them. And to make matters worse, they have a bunch of sycophantic “friends” who go along with everything that these numpties say.

Let me give you a few examples.

The ex-girlfriend of one of my flatmates is a pretty sad person. She’s one of those fat, unfortunate-faced, insecure people who love to think they have a unique, special opinion. She’s a radical feminazi and pro-gay rights prat. (nothing wrong with gay rights, let me clarify, but she goes about claiming she hates straight people when she herself, is straight). She’s one of those tumblrfags who goes about claiming people have “thin privilege” and if you don’t accept every single thing about feminazis and the LGBT community, you’re a bigot and should be killed. Funnily enough, she can’t back her arguments up and resorts to screaming that you’re bigoted/homophobic/sexist/racist as applicable to her argument. I can’t stand the cow.

 She’s got huge daddy issues and because of this, likes to pretend she’s got every mental disorder under the sun, her favourite being bipolar. As with a lot of people who pretend they’ve got a mental disorder, they only act out the most common “symptoms” and often, common misconceptions. She also feels the need to post about her “disorders” on facebook and other such social networking sites.

The fact is, someone who has a mental disorder never boasts about it. They never use it to get special treatment. They just do their best to get on with it all. On a personal level, people who make up disorders that people genuinely suffer is pretty disgusting, simply because they are so boring and insecure they have to pretend they’re ill. Some people claim that is a disorder in itself, but it is not. It is simply a lie created to garner attention.

Some girl I know from back at home isn’t as bad as some of the other examples. At least, she doesn’t piss me off quite as much as the others. But, she infuriates a couple of friends of mine, and I’ll explain why it is for their benefit I’m including her.

The three friends I’m talking about are all LGBT. Two are lesbians and dating, and one is a trans FTM. All of them are lovely, kind people I value as friends, so this girl’s behaviour does upset me, if only on behalf of people I care about.

This girl is pretending she’s an FTM Trans.

Let me put this into context. A lot of, if not most, trans people have a really hard time of it, coming to terms with what they feel, how they feel, and dealing with ridicule from all sides, not to mention the trauma of the surgeries and hormone treatments. This girl just wanders round, claiming she identifies as a man, but making no effort to change the way she dresses or looks. She looks very feminine for a “bloke”. She wears make up, has girly hair, wears girl’s clothes. And she’s done this for months. Naturally, my actual trans friend is upset, because she has no idea how hard it is to be a trans person. Indeed it’s the letter in LGBT that is least understood and has the least awareness. But this girl will just go around happily spouting that she’s a boy and should be treated like a boy but refuses to make any attempt to transition. It makes me sick.

One final example that gets my blood boiling.

Another attention whore I know, this one an emo, likes to make up that she’d been raped on numerous occasions (conveniently after she’d had an argument with her then boyfriend) and had been abused by various men in the past. Oddly enough, she only started claiming this stuff happened to her after a dear friend of mine (who shall remain nameless for obvious reasons) got very drunk and accidentally let slip that she had been abused and raped by a previous partner. Poor thing was hysterical when she realised what she’d said.

But when that self-serving little cunt started proudly stating that she had been through the same thing, but WORSE, so much WORSE than my poor friend, and patronisingly trying to tell her she should be glad it wasn’t WORSE I have to say, I’m proud that my friend didn’t kill her.

It’s just so insulting, what these people do. they take something horrid that happened to another, or a struggle that someone’s going through and turn it all around to make it about them, when most of the time they lead a sheltered life, and the only bad thing to happen to them was their parents told them off when they found their cigarettes at 14. it’s just plain disgusting. There are more examples I could give you but I don’t think I can stand to write much more about it all.

The worst bit about all these vile people is they have idiots around them who agree with everything they’ve said, encouraging this pathetic behaviour just to be included. I have never understood why this sort of behaviour is encouraged. Do you want to avoid upsetting them in case you “trigger” something? In case they’re telling the truth? Let me tell you now, you can ALWAYS tell when someone is lying. Don’t call them out if you don’t want to but for the love of god, stop giving them attention. People who really need you to be there for them will often never ask you.

University: A review.

Four years ago, I came to university as a fresh faced, excited teenager who thought she knew a whole lot more about the world than she really did. It was quite something, to wander the campus as a place I was going to call “home” for the next year.

I was one of those “lucky” students who got one of the spanking new rooms that had just been built, with freshly painted walls and non-vomit stained carpets, costing me a whopping £120 a week for a room, bathroom and not-fully-equipped kitchen. I thought it was heaven. My own bathroom, the biggest bed I’d ever technically owned that no one had wanked in, AND I was going to be independent, have my own routine, get fit, meet new friends. And at the end of it all, after working hard and playing harder, I’d have a first class degree that would open up a whole new world for me… I couldn’t wait. Psychology hadn’t been what I really really wanted to do, but I was good at it and found it interesting. Plus I had better prospects with this degree.

So as I waved off my slightly tearful mother and waited for my dad (who was bringing more things that I couldn’t fit in Mum’s car) I sat in my sparkly new room with some neon green walls and some beige, smelling of carpet and admiring the view of the Millennium Point from my ground floor window. This was going to be great. I’d already said hello to a new flatmate, a British-born Chinese girl who seemed nice. Knowing my dad was going to be another half-hour at least and would phone me when he got to the car park, I decided to have a wander. The campus wasn’t big after all.

After chatting to a variety of people and trying to make friends, I picked up the rest of my stuff from Dad, had a chat and a cuppa and was suddenly left all on my own.

It was a bit daunting I admit.

I felt like a kid on my first day at school, alone, no one to really talk to, in a big, scary new world that I wasn’t used to… only I wouldn’t have my mum at the end of the day to pick me up with a smile, take me home for milk and a biscuit and give me a cuddle. I think I woke up calling for her one night in that first week (Christ, this has actually made me cry a bit).

After feeling sorry for myself I organised my room a little, sorted out my internet (50 quid per term when the other accommodation didn’t pay!) and made my first ever university food. By this time everyone else in my flat had either moved in or was in the process of moving in. There were two British-born Chinese girls, who became the best of friends before you could blink, one native Chinese girl who I never saw (but certainly heard when she had her boyfriend over) and a Bulgarian, who I got on best with but still didn’t chat much to.

I didn’t really see much of any of them though, the Bulgarian was always out, the Chinese girl always in, and the cliquey Britchinks not overly interested in making friends with myself. Cool, whatever, I can meet other people.

And meet them I did. During Fresher’s Week (most of which I do not remember, especially my 19^th birthday) I met new people, made new friends and joined a few clubs. For some reason I joined the LGBT society, despite being straight, but hell, I had fun for a while, and am an avid supporter of LGBT equality rights. But despite being exposed to some rather extreme (if hidden while I was about) heterophobia, the nights out were fun and some of the guys were lovely. The events were interesting, even if I did get invited to an orgy. I declined on that one.

But putting my social life aside (there was a lot of it, mostly surrounding booze and expensive student nights) I looked forward to when my lectures would start, hoping for an intense few hours a day and an essay at the end of every week to keep my mind active and a solid routine going.

What I got was a mockery of what I thought the university system would be.

I had four lectures a week. Four. One hour each. Four hours of learning a week. It was a complete joke. The lectures often consisted of 10 year old slides that hadn’t been updated with current events, bored and boring lecturers who would read from the slides in a monotone and students who were so hungover they never took anything in (I have to clarify, I never turned up hungover to an exam). Oh sure, we had background reading, but that barely took an hour an evening. And the actual work? Essays and such? We maybe got a couple a term, if we were lucky. And, surprise surprise, we didn’t get any feedback unless we specifically requested it. Even then it was pretty crappy. Sloppy and ill thought out, with little to no constructive criticism, just plain old criticism.

And one thing that really annoyed me, the form of essay writing we had been taught to use at sixth form (namely describe, study, critique) was not what lecturers wanted to see here for some reason. So my marks slipped and when I asked what kind of an essay they wanted from me, I was given such an obscure answer I couldn’t possibly recall it for you.

Then there were the exams. While the content was okay in my first year, whomsoever controlled the dates for exams seemed intent on squishing the exams as close together as is humanly possible without them overlapping each other. If there was conflict with other subjects (who also had squished-together exams) why not muddle them so everyone has more chance to revise each individual topic? this resulted in many a panicked student who had to balance revision with all their other commitments, and try to judge how early to revise without the information leaking out, or how late but still have time to revise it all. it was impossible.

As the years went by, the exam questions became more and more obscure. While I understand that reading around the subject is required, to put an exam question about something that was not covered at all in the lectures and barely mentioned in the required reading is taking the piss. Like students can remember 40 different topics in detail to recall during a two hour exam.

Anyway, I became very disheartened and demotivated by the pile of crap that was my course. Sure, there were some good lecturers who made the subjects interesting, there were some who didn’t care at all, and there were some who were so piss poor that I am still amazed at how they became a lecturer, let alone held their job.

Eventually, I stopped going to lectures. I saw no point in going somewhere that taught me nothing that I couldn’t teach myself. The lack of structure was disheartening, and the fact that most lecturers didn’t give a shit was quite upsetting.

I think halfway through my first year was when my depression really began to manifest itself. I knew there had been something wrong with me when I was younger, but I think the lack of structure, the piss-poor programme, the lack of lectures, work, and poor content all combined to make a pretty unhappy person. I stopped getting out of bed in the morning. I stopped cooking for myself, I gained weight. I drank too much, I smoked too much. I tried to work to take my mind off things but there just wasn’t the work there. Background reading was almost pointless for some topics and for weeks at a time I had virtually nothing to do.

So I threw myself into the only thing that I now enjoyed, spending time with friends. With no work to do, it was the only thing I could do to keep my brain going, aside from trying to find stimulating challenges on the internet. only they weren’t really my friends. Looking back on it, I can see now that the people I spent time with were just unpleasant bastards who took advantage of the kind person I was and bitched about me behind my back, no matter how nice I was, how funny, how whatever. Being myself got me nowhere with them. I just didn’t know it at the time.

So that was my first year really. I hoped my second year would be better, with more stimulating and challenging content and better friends.

Naturally, I was wrong (except on the friend front). Second year was just as bad as the first, with, if possible, even less work to do. Added to the fact we had even more incompetent lecturers than before, I gave up completely. I did the work that was required of me but lost all hope for a decent education. What on earth was I spending three grand a year on? Nothing. I was learning nothing. Everything in the slides I either already knew or could have easily have taught myself. I felt terrible. I never wanted to crawl out of bed, I slept until three in the afternoon. Laundry piled up and I sometimes forgot to shower. I kept drinking. I could smoke in my room so I stopped going outside for days at a time.

(I get the feeling some of you are wondering why I didn’t get a project, something to make my mind work at to get motivated again and feel better, why I didn’t man up and get on with it. I ask you to suffer depression with no clue at how to handle it or why you’re feeling like you can’t be fucked with life, that you can’t face the day, that you don’t care about anything at all and find a project. Go ahead, I’ll wait.)

So with no engagement, the depression remained, eating away at me like a bloody slug on a purple-haired lettuce. The LGBT group I was with had become even more heterophobic, going so far as to not allow me, a straight person, the right to have a voice in their committee meetings, despite the fact I was on the committee (their first and only straight member). Naturally, this was never said, but whenever I tried to say something it was discounted. I was discouraged from telling people I was straight. Now, before you bitch and cry that a straight person couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to be an “outcast”, go fuck yourself. 

But there was a shining light. I found the Rocksoc. All I can say about them is that they are an amazing bunch of people who got me through a tough time, even if they don’t know it. Looking after my own group of freshers was wonderful as well, I made some amazing friends, and could give them the support I never had from my fresher people. I loved them, the zany bunch of drunken bastards. What a wonderful bunch of wankers. 

After my second year, along came my placement year. All I have to say about that was it was appalling. Atrocious. Awful. And other terrible adjectives going through the alphabet. I thought it was great in the beginning but it put me off getting a job in psychology forever. Long story short, my boss was a lazy cunt who licked the arse of the other placement student but had no time for me as I didn’t have my own car (the funny thing is about being a student is not everyone can afford a car) of all things. I was given no work, and was left to rot in an office by myself no matter how much I asked for a workload. I ended up beginning a novel just to pass the time. Watch this space.

Now I’m in my final year. The year I looked forward to because of the dissertation. Finally, a piece of work that I can choose, that I can find the research for, that I can take the credit for, that I can design. Something that will stimulate my mind that I can throw myself into. Something I can be proud of. Plus, I’m living with people I know and like so this year’s going to be amazing.

Oh boy. I was wrong again.

My final year at university. Christ alive. I was able to choose subjects that I was interested in, but unfortunately for me, there was only about three out of however many there were to choose from that were interesting and that would have benefited me in the long run. So, I was stuck with five subjects I never wanted to do and only picked because I had to. Four of the exams I’m taking very soon are pretty crap. Two are about hearing and language, something that, while interesting, have been conducted with someone with such poor English she’d be better not ever speaking again, let alone try to teach a language-based psychology module. Oh the irony! One had nothing to do with psychology at all, just nursing and politics. Only one of them is about real psychology that would have any benefit for future work. My best and favourite subjects have been and gone (and I got really good marks! Yay!)

But I digress. My dissertation.

I really wanted to do something on autism, or maybe something on people’s perception of animals due to what animals they were exposed to as children (if any). I ended up focusing on autism because it is an area I have a lot of knowledge about, plus my piss-poor placement had a lot of autistic clients, so I had some hands on experience too (granted it wasn’t much but it was better than nothing). I really wanted to do something about how autistic people are perceived in society and why this was so, and what psychological reasoning is there behind perception and what psychological ways we could change this. Alternatively, I wanted to explore autism itself more deeply; to understand what it is an autistic person experiences, thinks, feels. I believe with better understanding, we can better help those who are in need of it, instead of just assuming what benefits them. Anyway.

I proposed these ideas to my tutor, describing what I would do in detail, how I would conduct the experiments or gather the data needed, waxing lyrical about my passion for such topics.

He pretty much poo-pooed my ideas, instead suggesting I do an experiment of his own design, one that he had been doing for a few years. It was about autism, sure. And it sort of looked at what autistic people perceive. But it was nothing like my studies, it was nothing that I was interested in. I knew what he was doing straight away; he wanted me to do research for him to further his own work. Arsehole. I knew I wasn’t going to win if I protested, and knowing this guy held my most important mark for my work in his hand, I swallowed my pride and agreed to this project.

And I tried. I tried very, very hard. I tried to understand his previous work, I tried to get my head around his poorly designed experiment. I tried to be enthusiastic and did so much research. I wrote a damned good literature review if I do say so myself. But ultimately, the experiment failed because he designed it wrong and refused to tell me how to work it out.

Every time I asked him a question I was met with glares or sarcastic comments. Some were downright rude. He even told me not to ask questions! I ask you. He refused to help me. I think that because I made a single mistake at the beginning, something trivial and easily corrected, he thought I wasn’t worth his time. Oh hello depression, you’re back. How long are you staying this time?

The only person who kept me sane this whole time through was my best friend. I don’t think he actually knows how much just being there has held me together (go away tears, you’re not welcome) but it has. I’m very grateful. Thanks for putting up with my bitching and awkward crap. Thanks for everything bro. I wouldn’t be here without you.

Eventually I got my dissertation handed in, and printed off. Mum was proud of me. Now I just have a few exams to go through and it’s all over. I’ll have a fancy bit of paper and that proves I wasted four years of my life. It’s scary.

Is there anything I regret about uni? Almost all of it. I regret choosing such a crap uni. I regret not looking after myself and getting fat. I regret not knowing how to deal with my depression. I regret all the times I hurt myself. I regret not doing more. I regret not following my heart and doing what I really wanted to do.

But if I could go back in time, I’d never change it.

Well, maybe I’d not get fat, but the people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made, and the experiences I’ve had have made it all worthwhile. Sure, there are people I know that I hate, those who have taken advantage of me, who’ve hurt me, but there have been those who’ve listened, who’ve picked me up when I was down, who’ve laughed with me, made fun of me and I them, drank with me, held me when I cried. It wasn’t often but I felt liked, I felt like I was part of a group. Sometimes I even felt loved. I slept with good looking men (and some ugly ones), had some amazing dates, I managed to get the majority of my favourite pub topless. I got good at pool, I made a room of people laugh. I threw darts like a javelin. The whole first floor of a club copied me when I danced. I sang Bohemian Rhapsody and got a standing ovation. I ran half naked around a snooker table. I went to Alton Towers with friends. I went on holiday to Centre Parcs. I sang karaoke, ate sushi, went to the cinema with my best friend and was nearly suffocated by his farts. I spent hours and hours and hours with him, just talking and drinking and smoking and ripping the shit out of each other. I learned how to cook, I learned how to handle my money (almost). I learned how to crochet and made a beard. I was recognised by my local shopkeepers. I was adopted by a cat. I started weightlifting, hula-hooping and skipping. I found an amazing cocktail bar and spent over £100 with my best friend. I bought my very own TV. I stood up for myself. I became an auntie.

So much has happened to me in the last four years. Some of it good, some of it bad, some of it horrible. But some of it was wonderful and that makes it all worthwhile.

So was it worth getting into about £15-20000’s worth of debt for a poor education when I could have gone to a much better university? Was it worth getting into debt I probably won’t pay off for years when I could have been working with animals? Getting a motorbike? Finding a job I love? Of course it was. I may not get a first degree with honours, but the experiences and adventures I’ve had have been worth every penny and more.

So to those of you I’ve briefly met, those of you I hate. To those of you I’ve shared a night with, those of you I’ve kissed. Those of you I love, those of you I laugh with. Those of you I can be crazy with, those of you who I can be myself with. To those of you who accept me for who I am, and those of you who don’t know what you’re missing. All of you. Thank you. For everything.

It’s Been Almost Two Years

I should be revising. I should be exercising. I should be eating some fruit.

I should be doing a lot of things but instead I’m sitting on the sofa reading over this blog that I accidentally forgot about. Reading over it made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy because some of my articles made me laugh like a motherfucker, knowing I can be funny and articulate (if rather stuck up) is good. But sad because I was so angry all the time.

I’m still angry all the time.

This seems to be a good way to vent some of my mounting frustration without severely injuring anyone, so, ignoring the upcoming exams because I no longer give a flying fuck about any of them, await the following posts with a mixture of anxiety and boyish joy.

 

In no particular order:

Things That Annoy Me: People Who Pretend They’re Something They’re Not

Things That Annoy Me: People Who Never Shut Up

Things That Annoy Me: Poor Animal Control

Things That Annoy Me: Living With Retards

 

Also I’ll be randomly updating general bollocks that happens during my average day/week etc

 

Enjoy!