Posts Tagged ‘guinea pig’

a prosal guinea pig

October 4, 2009

I have survived! I have reached the end – the strained & tortuous boundary of the week. The very first, very earliest, very ugliest week of my final year as a sniveling undergraduate. Soon I shall be allowed to stride atop the heads of all those that will next year carry that nomenclature; treading down on their tufty, hopeful tufts with my triune boots; the triennial weathered footwear bearing my very soles. Or something.

As is customary of the first week of term, it’s been a tad unstructured (a polite way of referring to a lacksadaisical approach, I think): I haven’t quite known what piece of work I should focus my Superman-laser-beam-eyes at, what kind of groceries I ought to throw past the Lex-Luthor-laser-beam-eye of the self-service tills that now sit like catatonic employees at the entrance to Sainbury’s, & where exactly I should move that rotting pile of (sorry, I don’t know any other Superman characters) newspaper to. Except, something else happened too. I’ve been completely & utterly unable to write anything. That has never happened before – usually at the start of term I’m all aflutter with various ways in which I can procrastinate. But now, perhaps it’s because it’s my final year, I’m all horrible & focused. Wicked.

Bloody, pissing work ethic.

At least I’m managing to spend money on frivolous things, like any self-respecting student should. Headphones. Hoody. Vinyls. Pre-order CDs. Notebooks. Tins of 500 nails when you only need 1, but hey it’s only a quid. Bits of the Moon. Rusks. The very usual.

I wonder what it is that encourages students to spend so much money – those people with perhaps the least money out of anyone currently enrolled in the education system because of the various kinds of payment & fees quite closely equatable with both our collective orifices & the rape of the government. & I don’t even spend it in the right way! We’ve been back a week, fresher’s week, & I know I’m not a fresher but it is customary for the older kids to go around generally sneering & intimidating the littler ones. If this really were school (which it pretty much is, anyway) we’d be the snotty, spotty kind of shits that bully the little year 7s. Yeah, so good for me for not being a dick. Also, I get plenty of sneering in during the times I am actually on campus for lecture & library madness. & these older kids all gleeful subject themselves to the same ethylic excesses of the first years. Bless. I’ve never done that. I don’t intend to start this year, of all years. I’m less exciting than the mould that congregates at the dullest geography tutors elbow patches.

Naturally, I need to find another resting place for my hard-earned moolah. It must be hard-earned, for I have absolutely no recollection in my mind how it came to be earned. My mind is so very, very tired from it all. So I buy books & music, in the hope that my library will one day be bigger than yours. Yeah. Yours.

It’s an outlet, Jim, but not as I want it!

As a result, this is a sort of guinea pig blog. The scientific laboratory rodent that will cop it pretty early on. Short. Directionless. & Doomed.

Desperately I’ve found myself wanting just to roast stuff. Food stuff. Completely, utterly roast the fuck out of something I generally don’t even know what it is. Orange vegetables. Green vegetables. Rotund vegetables. Oblong vegetables. Wet ones. Dry ones. Foreign ones. Sedentary ones. Spot the filler material. Basically, if it’s a vegetable, I’ll fuckin’ roast it. Oh, & whilst we’re on this fleeting subject; as if it isn’t hard enough to be a vegetarian in the Midlands where the men are pretty much a walking chassis of steak, some enterprising young person goes & sets up a Japanese restaurant at the end of my road. Sushi! My squashy kryptonite.

Except, I’m pretty sure this new novelty of ‘cooking’ can’t compensate for a social life much longer. & then the real boredom-induced buying will begin, & I have to avoid that. Maybe this term I will actually have enough work to see me through those desperate, desperate times. Ironically now, I can see this content getting thin & pasty, & wasting away before our very eyes.

Perhaps I’ll go & sew an ear onto my next mammalian composition.


post-script; if you literally made it this far without cheating, firstly – ha! you maniac, you masochist. secondly, give yourself one gold star. only one, mind. they don’t grow on fucking trees.