Blogmas Day 10: I’m An Embarrassment

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Since coming to university, it seems as if the God of embarrassing moments has been following me around and unloading a lifetime’s supply onto my poor unsuspecting soul. Generally, I’m a dizzy person lacking in the thing people call ‘common sense’, but reflecting back over these last few months I have to hide my face in embarrassment at what a fool I’ve made myself out to be. Some things are unmentionable, some things are (I’m just going to interject and say just as I wrote those words, our fire alarm sounded… how dramatic! Not from my doing though unfortunately… it would have added to my list of embarrassing moment) mentionable, but i still-want-to-curl-up-into-a-ball-and-die-able.
Like today, when I went to the wrong lecture and only realised when I sat down and read the title ‘understanding Calculus’. It’s funny, because i thought i was meant to be studying Margaret Atwood. Or another time where I earned the nickname Sarah ‘Lambrini’ McGee, for bringing a bottle of Lambrini to a flat party… it’s a chavvy drink apparently.
Even the time where I sent an angry e-mail to Amazon to say my parcel hadn’t arrived… it turned out, i was just looking in the wrong mailbox.
I could go on but I think I’ll save those for another blog that I’m not writing at 1 am and not feeling guilty for writing something other than my essay. Until then, laugh at me… everyone else does 🙂

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Blogmas day 9: One of Those Lectures…

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Most days, lectures are interesting and filled with information I want and need to know. As it turns out, if the lecturer prepares slides for the wrong book, the lecture tends to be somewhat less productive.
In the end, we were read a story (yes, I kid you not) which was entirely irrelevant to the course, and what I could only describe as ‘soft-porn’. I thought about getting up and leaving several times… but didn’t want to be rude. But I sure did give him some evil looks, don’t you worry about that!
Oh well, at least I got to work on my doodling skills.Photo on 09-12-2014 at 20.10

Blogmas day 8: The Word Count

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Daunting, poweful, important, strict.
Wishing for a smaller word count.
2500 words between freedom and me. But 2000 is a mountain, another 500 is Everest.
Unsurpassable, unforgiving, unrelenting.
Start from the start.
Shave down the words.
Watch them dwindle, fill the space with ‘however’s’ and ‘furthermore’s’.
Get through the word count…
But this point is interesting.
I can expand on this.
Use another quote here.
Argue with the critic.
I’ve reached the summit and-
I’ve fallen off the edge.
3000 words- 500 too many.
Disaster, catastrophe, foolish, idiotic!
Wishing for a bigger word count.

Blogmas Day 7: Short Story- ‘Insomnia’

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I shuffle into my apartment with a hill where my back should be. This must be how Atlas felt when he carried the weight of the sky on his shoulders.
Somehow, my overworked feet carry me to my bathroom, even though they are fighting against me, trying to walk to the bed.
“Bed is the enemy feet”, I declare whilst reaching aimlessly for a light switch in the darkness.
Click. Flash. Light.
I feel my eyes squint in protest, as they attempt acclimatise to the bleak, artificial brightness that bounces off the bathroom walls. As soon as I greet my reflection, I immediately wish the light would shatter. What I look at (and what indeed looks back) is the result of 5 consecutive nights without sleep. The eyes are no more than bloodshot piss-holes in the snow, with inverted half-rainbows of purple and grey underneath them. The skin- like undercooked pastry covered with angry bursts of spots.
“You’ve gotta quit the third job Aislinn”
My reflection stares back with a blank expression, knowing as well as I do that quitting is not an option. I can barely pay rent as it is. I pick up a bottle from the side (let’s hope it isn’t bleach) and drink. My reflection drinks too- and I’m sure we can both taste the bitter dregs of a €5 bottle of wine.
The clock is mocking me. His twitching moustache turns uncaringly onwards, and the minutes pass by.
It’s 3am already.
I can see the bed in my peripheral vision- perfectly made, like it has never been slept in; I feel myself swallow down an overwhelming sense of fear and revulsion.
“Tonight is the night”, I say as I strip to my underwear- hating myself for the shake in my voice. From the window, I catch vision of the moon, half of his cratered face peeking out from behind a cloud.
“How are you Moonie? I didn’t see much of you last night- were you not in Ireland?”
The moon hovers silently- although I swear I could see him wink in confirmation.
We understand each other. Many dark hours we have spent sharing our troubles, and slagging off the sun. He doesn’t get much sleep either, as to why I’m not quite sure- he doesn’t talk much.
I’m about to procrastinate further- avoid the unavoidable process of ‘sleep’ and suggest the moon and I play a game, but he has fully disappeared behind a grey cloud.
I sigh and turn back to the dreaded bed. I reach out with my hands- heart thumping with anticipation- as a try to find the crisp, cold linen of the bed sheet. It feels unfriendly beneath my hands- even more so as I lie on top of it.
“Just close your eyes. Think about nothing.”
Exhaustion presses on me like sheet of lead, yet my brain won’t be quiet and let me drift off to sleep. I feel the familiar barrage of suppressed thoughts rise from the pit of my stomach like acidic bile that invades my brain.
I hear the clock ticking- imagine the moustache hands- throwing seconds of time away.
You- Will- Ne- ver- sleep- a- gain. You- Will- Ne- ver- sleep- a- gain.
Who would have thought that regret would feel so bitter and gut wrenching? It’s your soul’s way of saying “You’ve fucked up”. I close my eyes tighter- clench my teeth so hard they squeak.
What have I done with my life? I’m 32 and I’m stuck waiting tables, and serving pints to the drunkards of Belfast. If I’d have just studied that extra bit harder at school- paid attention instead of making an infamous name for myself as ‘the dumb hussy’.
I could have been a lawyer- I could have been something more to my parents than a disappointment.
I wouldn’t be so alone- only living to work, or to drown my sorrows in a cheap bottle of rosé.
“Sleep why are you avoiding me!?” I scream ripping open my eyes and searching for the clock- the hands tell me it’s 5:20 am.
I have to be up in less than 2 hours…
I feel the perspiration of panic line my body like another layer of skin, and I wonder why our worst thoughts and nightmares come to haunt us in the darkness of night.
Why does my brain betray me when I need it to shut up and sleep?
Think of nothing and sleep.
Think of nothing and sleep.
Think of nothing and…
‘Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.’
I open one eye with trepidation- I’m hallucinating. I must be, otherwise the blinking ‘07.00’ on my alarm clock would mean that I actually got an hour of sleep last night.
That’s progress at least!
I notice the sun has replaced the moon in the sky and his beams are pouring in through the window. He looks refreshed, and annoyingly jolly- like he’s happy to embrace the day, and does so with enthusiasm.
“Smug bastard” I mutter with a thick, heavy voice.

Blogmas day 6: I’ve Been Robbed!

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Something terrible has happened… My university dorm room has been broken into and ransacked. That’s the only possible explanation for the culmination of mess that has exploded in my room!
Sure, nothing was taken which may lead one to assume that no robbery occurred. One may then suggest that little Curlysblog is not the most organised person and would much rather throw her clothes onto the floor than into the washing basket which is 2 feet away- but this truth lie is clearly a vicious rumour developed by the very imaginary real robber’s that broke into my room.
After all, how can one person make such a mess in the space of 2 days?
While we’re at it, those hooligans had the nerve to eat food from my plates and didn’t even clean them up afterward. They look like the’ve been there for weeks! They even have the magical ability to make milk curdle in a cereal bowl, and all in the space of a minute.
Therefore, I declare my room officially ransacked by looters, It’s the only logical explanation. Plus the flies that hover can back me up- they saw the whole thing and they have 4000 eye lenses each!

Blogmas day 5: Footnotes are Ruining My Life…

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I don’t know who invented footnotes, bibliographies and all of the ‘formality’ crap that accompanies essay writing, but whoever it was deserves to be burnt at the stake, with a fire fuelled by grammatically incorrect essays.
As if essays weren’t hard enough, students are overshadowed by the terrifying prospect of dropping a grade for forgetting to put a full stop at the end of a footnote. Who thinks of these things!? An expert in torture? I find that I spend more time checking if I used italics correctly, than actually writing the essay… you know- the thing that people actually care about- the thing I’m graded on? The endless list of how to present your essay goes on for 84 pages… 84 PAGES! I have to wade through all of them to find out where a bracket goes. It feels like I’m 4 years old and learning how to write again.
For now, this ridiculous essay formality will continue to destroy my sanity. I’ll put up with it, but I’m not happy.
On a more festive note, I go home for the holidays next week! Right after I hand in my next essay- footnotes and all!
Pure joy…

Blogmas day 4: The Sinister Side of Rudolph

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I was laying in bed at 3am this morning (AKA the hour of the most random and disturbing thoughts), when I began to replay the lyrics to ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ in my head. Suddenly, the jolly lyrics of my christmas childhood turned into a sinister song about some terrifying animals.
All of the other reindeer’s are Jerks! They bullied Rudolph (8 against 1) for all of his life! In fact, they probably gave him his red nose when they were beating him up behind the toy shop. And Santa, what kind of pet owner are you? Turning a blind eye to bullying… you should be ashamed of yourself!
And then I started to think about what all of those years of bullying could have done to Rudolph. He could be normal- but who knows the extent of their bullying? Reindeers can bite for Pete’s sake! He could be a psychological disaster, waiting to explode. What if he didn’t forgive the other reindeers, and was just waiting for the perfect time to exact his revenge where he goes on a mad killing spree… he saves Santa for last. When he is ruler of the North Pole, he orders the elves to only make presents for reindeers of the world, but first he orders elves to only give children satsumas… laced with poison!
It all fits together…
I’m never going to listen to ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ in the same way again. I’m also going to avoid dairy before bed- it makes my brain go a little weird…

Image from http://thedascrypt.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/and-santas-reinndeer.html

Blogmas Day 3: Spike Sickness

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I understand that this title is very misleading. I can assure you that this post is not about getting a dodgy drink in a club, that makes you see green gremlins. ‘Spike sickness’ is a verified condition which is exclusively made for me. It’s like being homesick, but more selfish and pathetic…
To understand, you’re going to have to meet Spike.
Spike 2

Put your autograph books away because believe it or not, this is not the real Harry Potter. This is my mixed breed (but mainly labrador) bundle of cuteness. What you see is also the primary reason for my ‘sickness’.
Now 10 weeks into my university experience, I am undoubtedly having the best time of my life. Yet admittedly, during the night when it’s dark and I’m alone with the prospect of another essay looming over my head, I start missing home. This is where I turn into a terrible person because I use the term ‘home’ very lightly. If I’m honest with myself, there is only one thing I truly miss and that’s dog who think’s he’s Harry Potter in the photo above.
I don’t know what it is! I haven’t seen my mum or sponged off my sister in weeks. When people ask me why I look down, I receive the strangest look from them when I reply “I’m just really missing my dog”.
Every call from home goes a little like this:
Mum: Hi Sarah, are you alright? How are you finding your lectures?
Me: Yeah fine. Have you been walking the dog?
Mum: Yes… everyday. Are you doing anything tonight?
Me: Probably. But how long do you walk him for? Is it more than 10 minutes?
Mum: Yes- at least half an hour. He’s gaining a lot of weight though i must admit. It’s ever since we had to put the cone on him. Have you got any plans for the week-
Me: Woah! Why does he need a cone!? How much weight? Can he still walk? Is he going to die?
Mum: No… it’s just to stop him biting his leg. He’s not going to die, and he’s just a little chubby.
Me: Oh right. Does he look cute then? Get Sinead to send me a photo.

And she did…
967836_10205193715027213_1857526856_n

I don’t know why I am like this- neither does anyone else (especially cat people) but I definitely have a serious case of ‘Spike sickness’. I don’t think it’s contagious but how can I know for sure? It’s a made up illness.
Sorry, family for not missing you, but it’s not my fault you aren’t cute and fluffy.

Blogmas Day 2: The Cake in the Cup.

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I felt like baking today. In other words, I felt like almost setting my kitchen on fire to make something that  resembles what you expel from your body when you have food poisoning.
I wouldn’t say I was a terrible cook… a better word would be ‘abysmal’. So I’m not sure what was going through my head when I thought me+baking= tasty food. Perhaps i had a mild stroke?
At 6pm today, I believed that I would actually be able to make this.
cake in a cup

I mean what can go wrong? All you have to do is whack some flour, butter and milk into a cup and put it in the microwave for one minute. It turns out, ladies and gentleman that a lot can go wrong. First came the smoke from the microwave- it turns out that my food can’t handle a whole minute in the microwave before it combusts. Then came the chocolate explosion in the microwave, which had to be cleaned (thanks cake in a mug). This, is the end result.
Photo on 02-12-2014 at 19.28
Yummy… It looks just like the pictures… sort of… not at all. The moral message from this tragic tale is the importance of perseverance. One day, with practice, I might create the cake in the picture without setting the fire alarms off! Then again, another message is to never let the incompetent try to bake a cake in a mug… In which caseF, I think I’ll stick to shop bought cakes for now.

Here is the recipe if you (dare) to try it for yourself!
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You

Blogmas: Day 1- I Hate Being A Grown-up

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It turns out that being a student is much more time consuming than one might think! I haven’t posted in a while and I’m sorry for that. 
But I give to you, my very own version of ‘Blogmas 2014’. This is a challenge where one writes everyday in the lead up to christmas. At the best of times, I have the will power of a sloth, so this will be an interesting experiment for me, as well as a fun way to take time out to do what I love and write!
 The topic for today: being a grown-up.

I’ve had a taste of independence and I have to admit… it’s pretty terrifying. Yet at age 18 independent is what every teenager is expected to be in England; If you’ve read any of my previous blogs (particularly the ones which document my mental breakdown the day before my birthday), You’ll realise that this societal ‘expectation’ is a touchy topic for me. At university, you’re on your own. Mummy isn’t there to cook your meals anymore! The worst part is realising how much money you spend on food. Throwing away a mouldy slice of bread feels like I’m throwing away my own child. You find yourself buying things you never even knew you had to buy… like cleaning products! I must have thought that magical faeries bought that stuff, and I never fully appreciate how much it cost my parents.
When the university give me my grant, I find myself asking ‘Why are you trusting me with all of this money?… fools! I’m going to Greece!!?’. Then I remember, that they think I’m a responsible grown-up, who understands that without this money, I will become an uneducated hobo. These are the nightmares that make me curl up into a ball of insanity and rock myself to sleep.
But then you step outside the terrifying box of adulthood, and you see how cool university is. It’s basically like summer camp with a lot more essays. You’re surrounded by people of the same age, who hate the concept of adulthood just as much as you do. No-one judges you for being tight (or when you seethe over that 20p you lost… grr!) because they are in the same expensive boat, slowly rocking up a life time debt, that will never be repaid (gotta love the government!).
As I ring my mother, and ask her how to poach an egg, can I truly be considered a ‘grown-up’?
When I have to consult google on how to separate clothing, does society really see me as a ‘grown-up’?.If university has taught me anything (apart from my degree of course), it is that grown up life begins when university ends. Only then can I begin to be terrified.
For a ‘Blogmas’ blog, this post isn’t too festive… On a more Christmassy note, I opened my advent calendar today. No joy is greater than tearing open that tin foil lining.

Photo on 01-12-2014 at 22.57

And they call me a grown up …