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February 27, 2012 | by  | in Opinion |
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Mulled Whine with H. G. Beattie

Je Damn Well Regrette Quelque Chose.

Orient yourself: the mandatories being stamina, stupidity and a second-hand sheet.

In first year I took shit theriouthly. “Nah, I’ve got an 8am lecture tomorrow.” So? It wasn’t an exam. I should really have slutted up and gone out. Taken advantage of the pre-hostel waist to hip ratio. Done some horizontal folk dancing in continued pursuit of regular exercise and short term self-esteem. As it is, the point of no return has now passed. I am curmudgeonly and set in my ways. I buy my own drinks under the pretext of feminism and a finance degree. The harsh truth snaps at my cankles.

About now, people will be telling you that you’ll meet the person you’ll eventually marry at university. While probably statistically accurate, this is pretty conducive to a dumb decision regarding your RA/neighbour/tutor. These people will not marry you. If you are at university to meet someone to marry, good luck and God bless all who sail in you. Logic would have it that your boat, bach and BMW dreams are within closest reach down at Pipitea.

If you haven’t already, come up with a refreshing response to people who ask you what you’re studying. This is a token question. It’s asked by everyone from family friends to complete unknowns that infer poverty as you return individual pieces of sushi to cabinets after getting declined $6.50. There is no use in pretending that the seeds of your tertiary journey weren’t planted either by Boston Legal, overbearing parents or an all- consuming desire to get laid. My own responses to such questions centre on wishing that I were able to take pride in my heartless degree. As things stand the conversation generally moves rapidly in the direction of “fast-tracking it to the 1%, are you? Callous tosser,” (Got it in one! Fuck off, peasant). Essentially, the obligation of students to recite their subjects at what feels like five-minute intervals need not be a chore.

Another landmark orientation event is the departure of that person who misses their boyfriend/girlfriend. Come on Richard. Your hostel vacuum cleaner surely has a reverse suck function. If you, dear reader, are Richard, and you Fucked Up in coming to uni, devise a winning excuse that hides the truth while eliciting no further questioning. Maybe you just reckoned on a week of Scrumpy Hands, a free Weir House t-shirt and making forty new Facebook friends with zero effort? Can’t argue with it.

On an advisory note, you never know who your friends might sleep with or who might go postal, so judge sparingly. That said, foundation lines are cornerstones of first impressions. If you don’t blend in, you stand out. God speed.

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