Mulled Whine With H.G. Beattie

by / June 5, 2012

You have Overcommitted And I Feel Bad For you

Seven months out from the Rapture and I have achieved nothing but an eye twitch (It’s not a party trick if it’s involuntary). I owe library fines. I got caught out the other day in tutorial when I opened my laptop and a YouTube compilation of Jimmy Carr’s most offensive jokes started playing. When I last saw my mum, she offered me the 21st present of having my teeth whitened. If your problems are more private- schoolgirl than that, I’ll buy you a coffee. Black, obviously, given I don’t need to worry about staining my teeth anymore.

Enough about me. You’re more important. You’re on edge. Your fridge is full of questionable food, you don’t have time to shower, and you’re reading this as a citizenship application for the procrastination nation. (The reason for that sentence hitting like a brick lies in my interpretation of ‘doing God’s work’ as ‘proselytisation of the your/you’re distinction’, digression being the oldest word count tactic in the book.) The appropriate topic seems to be the inevitable ‘stress relief’. As an asexual cyborg, I have thought—please don’t excuse the pun—outside the box.

Exams in two weeks and/or excessive assessment this week would make now the appropriate time to find a television show with sufficient back-catalogue. This will provide solace between 11pm and 1am every night and set you on track to then wake up at seven the next day and begin your commendably masochistic self-castigation all over again. I am pleased to announce that this year The Thick of It has been my own such antidote (And, because my plea for space in the classifieds was inexplicably rejected: Involuntarily asexual cyborg desperately seeks angry Scot for pre-Rapture rapture. Anyone who comments on aforementioned description fitting my father need fuck off).

By some stroke of luck (or perhaps in anticipation of the breakdown that full-year papers will no doubt elicit) I have but one exam this trimester. I anticipate studying like a demon for it and receiving a C plus, in case your heart wasn’t already bleeding. I have decided to excuse this pre-destined grade with the tried and tested “You know, Dad, I really do love cigars and golf but I just lack the requisite passion for 300-level finance.” I think—and now for some post-ironic inverted commas—that ‘study tips’ would probably be stretching things given that I peaked academically when I was seventeen and continue to tell people about it, but here—have some study tips.

Go to the library for inordinate stretches of time that preclude you from any real productivity but allow you to claim nine hours’ worth of pseudo-academic absolution.

Violate the newspaper’s puzzle page: it’s a pseudo-coup (Yes, it is difficult being this punny). Measure the progression of your face shape as per your Faceborg photos. Make sure to inform people continually of your $15-a-day coffee expenditure: they will be impressed and feel sorry for you. Under no circumstances do any exercise or eat any fruit. Efficient bowel movements are not conducive to you-time. Fact.

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