I think my mind hates me. I decide to stew in my onesie with
Netflix on repeat and my hand firmly planted in the depths of a pop-tart box
instead of going to class. The result?
It guilt trips me harder than Robert Pattinson at couple’s
therapy.
You thought Kristin Stewart was miserable before? Just you
wait now Sir Smoulder-a-lot isn't slipping it to her any more.
So as an attempt to avoid the wave of bed induced guilt I've
decided to make my best attempt to grace the academic establishment with my
busty presence. Ginger ‘fro brushed and doused in Beyoncé's perfume – which I
assumed would smell more of squat sweat and Swarovski diamonds as opposed to
mandarin with a hint of vanilla – I've finally made it to class!
Oxford paper in hand, ready for a lecture of mind moulding
knowledge and enlightenment!
The Reality? Drawing pictures of muffins with faces while
periodically tilting my head to the side to appear deep in thought. Albeit that
it may be about bearded men and chicken nuggets... There has to be a website
for that somewhere.
Most likely a self help page.
Do you ever wonder how those people do it? You know the
individuals who can complete an assignment without doing a line of espresso at
3am with Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ on repeat.
A friend does that... I heard...
What the hell do they have for breakfast? Wheatabix and life
coaching?! It’s usually Shreddies and a sob in the shower for me.
And my housemates wonder why the plug is always clogged...
I once again thank you for joining me on my journey of self
indulgent scribbles and singleton in the big ‘shaft – keep your heart and vodka
strong. X
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