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September 24, 2012 | by  | in Opinion |
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Mulled Whine With H.G. Beattie

Wherein the world is carmen sandiego

Time is a sneaky prawn. (Not racist, race- related.) I thought about self-indulgently giving you ‘a day in the life of’ but then realized that it went something like this: “6.40: Wake up in anxious sweat. 7.15: Burn porridge. 8.40: Compliment friend on haircut only to find out that friend has alopecia. 8.41 Extract self ungraciously from conversation. 9.30: Experience prolific hayfever throughout tutorial. Snot on neighbour. Ruin chances of getting their notes.” See? Reductive. Hardly indicative.

I waste a lot of time rationalising my time. This is probably because currently I do not feel as though I am making much of a difference to anything. I am not postulating that all students are in the same position. Frittering away what little ca$h I have down at Gales on chicken Gordon bleu (their spelling) is not really a use of my time that I am proud of. That said, maybe you are doing the same thing. More power to you. This has been a message from the specky girl in the corner with overactive eyebrows.

It boils down to me trying to convince myself that eventually, all this time spent doing reading and catching up where I told myself I’d do the reading but didn’t and writing essays and taking breaks from essay-writing to do VUWSA governance surveys will pay off. It’s not looking good. I get Bs and the sexy Academic VP is still no straighter.

Reading over what has hereto been “written”, my powers of self-diagnosis permit me the inference that I am, as it were, traipsing through the valley of the miffed. Perhaps it is because when I hope that my study will ‘pay off’ I expect more than that it ‘put me on the partner track with an understanding yet not-as-driven husband that picks our don’t-eat-foods- that-are-touching-each-other-on-the-plate kids up from school in a Porsche Cayenne’.

I also don’t require that it ‘send me to Paris where I can commence a series of destructive relationships with men ten years either side of my age, and end up forty five and crying alone in a bathroom brandishing a turkey baster at myself.’ I mean that it will pay off in a meek way. I am very afraid to say it, but I mean that it will put me in a position where I can coughbehappycough. Jesus. How embarrassment. Might start a new paragraph.

It is worth nothing that nothing entertaining ever came from anyone happy. So I had better get onto writing my memoirs now.
I can save you time with yours: don’t look to Memoirs of a Geisha. Or the fictitious but equally uninstructive memoirs of a gay Shah. (“They didn’t eject me, Iran!” – thank you and goodnight.) If you are having trouble formulating enough life themes to flesh out fifteen or so chapters, lower your standards of what is interesting. Begin your chapters with “wherein.” To wit, if you are a girl, “Wherein I wasn’t sure if he was interested so I went out a couple of times with this guy from work and then ended up pashing the first guy’s flatmate, and then I felt kind of stupid, but I don’t think dude number one wanted anything anyway but work is totes awkward now.” Or if you’re a boy: “Wherein the line between social lubrication and whiskey dick blurred.” In any case, memoirs in the future will have colour photo pages in the middle where the subject’s most memorable quotes will be placed in the relevant meme templates. Start mulling that one over. Be prepared.

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