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Why My Life Is Currently Seventh Level Of Suckage, by Raven aged nineteen and a quarter.
1. EXAMS. Are horrendous and have not even started; whilst people at other universities seem to have not only finished theirs but had time to plan lazy jaunts to tropical climes in meantime, mine do not even begin for five days. I have spent ridiculous amounts of time in libraries, reading rooms, huddled away over books away from sun, and in true Socratic fashion have discovered that all I know is that I know nothing. Jesusgod. Nothing at all. Am faced with past papers of Doom. ("Do you know you are reading this question?", "Is morality demanding?", I don't know leave me alone ohmygod.) In fight between them and me, past papers winning by mile. (Have added link to them in LJ sidebar as concession to my rational self.)
2. REVISION CLASSES OMG. They are awful. First of all they are either at 9am or 7pm or else in the middle of the day so cannot do work before or after, and second of all they are always advertised as wonderful drop-in surgery-type-things where all your problems concerning exam technique will be solved in an instant, but in practice are two-hour sessions of boys talking over each other whilst hammering one tiny miniscule omg I don't care infimitesmal point into the ground. (Case in point: today's class, meant to be on political theory in general ended up as two hours on fucking conception of exercise concept self-realisation in republican freedom ohgod who cares.)
Also: BOYS. I hate them indiscriminately. Every revision class (or tutorial, recently) features boys, because they are not boys but MEN, omg, they are MEN, and they have TESTOSTERONE, and they have PENISES, and so are better than everyone else, and can talk over everyone else, and women we are as nothing shall we go and make you a cup of tea please master. Last tute-but-one, female-PPEist-who-is-not-me started to make excellent point about benefits of monopolies. Boy next to her interrupts, jumps in, says, "But isn't that...?" and proceeds to say the EXACT SAME THING.
She says, naturally, "Isn't that exactly what I said?"
He looks uncomfortable. Does not apologise.
The next tutorial, I had not said anything for forty-five minutes due to fact every time I opened my mouth, one of (five) tute-partners would talk over me. Finally, polical theory tutor said to me, "What were you going to say?"
I opened my mouth and said, "Well, I was-"
And was soundly talked over by lugubrious male Marxist on either side of the room. Aaargh I don't care what you think about historical class struggle I was talking - but I didn't say that, but sort of slumped down into couch and gave up.
Later conferred with other three female PPEists, who confirmed I am not imagining it. They are doing it, and yes, they only talk over women.
In addition: I am beginning to realise that despite doing stupid amounts of work, or at least what I thought was work, I don't know anything. I can't follow what the others are talking about most of the time. I am, I have concluded, quite stunningly mediocre. And omg when I hear people carping about how they can't get their marks of 75 up to 80 (my highest mark ever in one of these is 67) I think about killing people and then think that would be a bad idea as I would probably fail miserably as clearly am as inept at homicide as I am at everything else. I will not fail but only because these exams are so hard to fail. I have done this whole year all wrong and I have nothing to show for three terms of work.
(I had a dream last night that Pat shot me. I don't know what that was about.)
3. SUGAR. Well, not sugar exactly, but I am putting on weight and I hate that. Not something that usually worries me as I don't weigh much to begin with, but some calculation concerning rate of putting on weight has revealed will weigh half a metric tonne by time am thirty. This does not seem right but the numbers have it.
Also, Ben said I have the greatest liking for sugar of anyone he's ever met. It's strange how you don't notice things until someone else points them out, but this is true. I still eat pick 'n' mix and occasionally eat sugar straight out of the box, and yet am still continuously hungry.
4. CLAIRE CURTIS-THOMAS. Has not got back to me despite the fact I've rung and emailed once a week since March. I have reached the conclusion that while she was very nice in March, she was messing me about; I have no job, no internships, nothing at all for the summer except lounging around being useless. And it's not for lack of trying. I even went to see the university careers people. They said maybe I should get a job with my local council.
Wow. Other PPEists between them are a) moving to China b) riding Trans-Siberian railway or c) working in Daddy's investment bank or, indeed, d) doing all above plus directing opera.
Et moi? Licking envelopes for fucking Sefton Council. Joyous. Am not only useless and mediocre but laughably provincial, too. Complete with silly accent.
5. THE INDIAN HIGH COMMISSION. Who will not process my dual nationality application until I produce a 35mmx35mm passport photo. Such things do not exist, according to every photography shop in Oxford. The High Commission are not only horrendous bureaucrats but also magnificently incompetent - FAQs on their website include this gem:
Q. I need to apply for dual citizen. I am holding a British passport and i need your help on how to go about to get the citizen of India.
A. Pls visit our website for full details.
How do you reason with people like this?
ARGH. Must run. Revision class to go to. Ohgod.
1. EXAMS. Are horrendous and have not even started; whilst people at other universities seem to have not only finished theirs but had time to plan lazy jaunts to tropical climes in meantime, mine do not even begin for five days. I have spent ridiculous amounts of time in libraries, reading rooms, huddled away over books away from sun, and in true Socratic fashion have discovered that all I know is that I know nothing. Jesusgod. Nothing at all. Am faced with past papers of Doom. ("Do you know you are reading this question?", "Is morality demanding?", I don't know leave me alone ohmygod.) In fight between them and me, past papers winning by mile. (Have added link to them in LJ sidebar as concession to my rational self.)
2. REVISION CLASSES OMG. They are awful. First of all they are either at 9am or 7pm or else in the middle of the day so cannot do work before or after, and second of all they are always advertised as wonderful drop-in surgery-type-things where all your problems concerning exam technique will be solved in an instant, but in practice are two-hour sessions of boys talking over each other whilst hammering one tiny miniscule omg I don't care infimitesmal point into the ground. (Case in point: today's class, meant to be on political theory in general ended up as two hours on fucking conception of exercise concept self-realisation in republican freedom ohgod who cares.)
Also: BOYS. I hate them indiscriminately. Every revision class (or tutorial, recently) features boys, because they are not boys but MEN, omg, they are MEN, and they have TESTOSTERONE, and they have PENISES, and so are better than everyone else, and can talk over everyone else, and women we are as nothing shall we go and make you a cup of tea please master. Last tute-but-one, female-PPEist-who-is-not-me started to make excellent point about benefits of monopolies. Boy next to her interrupts, jumps in, says, "But isn't that...?" and proceeds to say the EXACT SAME THING.
She says, naturally, "Isn't that exactly what I said?"
He looks uncomfortable. Does not apologise.
The next tutorial, I had not said anything for forty-five minutes due to fact every time I opened my mouth, one of (five) tute-partners would talk over me. Finally, polical theory tutor said to me, "What were you going to say?"
I opened my mouth and said, "Well, I was-"
And was soundly talked over by lugubrious male Marxist on either side of the room. Aaargh I don't care what you think about historical class struggle I was talking - but I didn't say that, but sort of slumped down into couch and gave up.
Later conferred with other three female PPEists, who confirmed I am not imagining it. They are doing it, and yes, they only talk over women.
In addition: I am beginning to realise that despite doing stupid amounts of work, or at least what I thought was work, I don't know anything. I can't follow what the others are talking about most of the time. I am, I have concluded, quite stunningly mediocre. And omg when I hear people carping about how they can't get their marks of 75 up to 80 (my highest mark ever in one of these is 67) I think about killing people and then think that would be a bad idea as I would probably fail miserably as clearly am as inept at homicide as I am at everything else. I will not fail but only because these exams are so hard to fail. I have done this whole year all wrong and I have nothing to show for three terms of work.
(I had a dream last night that Pat shot me. I don't know what that was about.)
3. SUGAR. Well, not sugar exactly, but I am putting on weight and I hate that. Not something that usually worries me as I don't weigh much to begin with, but some calculation concerning rate of putting on weight has revealed will weigh half a metric tonne by time am thirty. This does not seem right but the numbers have it.
Also, Ben said I have the greatest liking for sugar of anyone he's ever met. It's strange how you don't notice things until someone else points them out, but this is true. I still eat pick 'n' mix and occasionally eat sugar straight out of the box, and yet am still continuously hungry.
4. CLAIRE CURTIS-THOMAS. Has not got back to me despite the fact I've rung and emailed once a week since March. I have reached the conclusion that while she was very nice in March, she was messing me about; I have no job, no internships, nothing at all for the summer except lounging around being useless. And it's not for lack of trying. I even went to see the university careers people. They said maybe I should get a job with my local council.
Wow. Other PPEists between them are a) moving to China b) riding Trans-Siberian railway or c) working in Daddy's investment bank or, indeed, d) doing all above plus directing opera.
Et moi? Licking envelopes for fucking Sefton Council. Joyous. Am not only useless and mediocre but laughably provincial, too. Complete with silly accent.
5. THE INDIAN HIGH COMMISSION. Who will not process my dual nationality application until I produce a 35mmx35mm passport photo. Such things do not exist, according to every photography shop in Oxford. The High Commission are not only horrendous bureaucrats but also magnificently incompetent - FAQs on their website include this gem:
Q. I need to apply for dual citizen. I am holding a British passport and i need your help on how to go about to get the citizen of India.
A. Pls visit our website for full details.
How do you reason with people like this?
ARGH. Must run. Revision class to go to. Ohgod.
