Merry Christmas!

I’m a 4 year old.

I actually woke my mum up this morning because I was so excited for Christmas (well to be honest I do this every year but hey).

I don’t know if its the fact that I’ve been away at Uni, or just purely the fact I’m a Christmas nut but I just can’t contain my excitement, I’m bouncing off the walls.

Its one of the only days of the year where its guaranteed that I’ll wake up feeling elated…you know when you feel like you could just burst from happiness?

Would you like some hamburger with that cheese, Laura?

photo(21)

Anyway, in the Christmas spirit, I would like to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read my blog this year, left me comments and been generally supportive. The other day I reached over 1000 views and I couldn’t be happier so THANK YOU.

I wish all of you health, happiness and prosperity, and the best Christmas Day (or whatever you may celebrate today) you could ask for.

Love,

Laura

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They see me tempin’ they hatin’…

I’ve been up all night, tryna get that rich I’ve been work, work, work, work working on my shit.

So, as it turns out, not only was I able to secure a little part time job at uni, but I’ve also been offered a Christmas temp position back at home (say what?).

Such fun!

(Not)

I hate it.

I’d envisioned spending the entirety of my Christmas holiday watching movies, seeing my friends, reading and soaking in a bubble bath.

Now I have to get up at 6am to catch a bus to the city.

The other day I was so tired I didn’t realise my watch was an hour fast so I accidentally waltzed out of the shop early, only to realise the actual time and have to awkwardly (and very stealthily I might add, I wasn’t voted most likely to work for Mi5 for nothing you know) creep back in and finish.

I ended this day spending five minutes trying to push open a pull door.

In front of a colleague.

Professionalism?

Nailed it.

It does have its perks though…

…like the other day I had a very funny conversation with an exasperated old man who was fed up following his wife around Christmas shopping.

I asked him if he was at least carrying her bags for her…his reply?

“No she likes carrying them…its a thing with you women isn’t it…the more bags you’ve got on your arms the better you feel”.

She wasn’t too impressed when she found him slacking off talking to me haha.

And…

And…

Ok I’m out of positives.

I spend the majority of my days manning the fitting rooms, which are empty 80% of the time so I’m insanely bored.

In fact I’ve been working on a little something something in my spare time.

“How to get Fired from your Retail Job” a self help book by Laura.

With highlights such as “have sex in the changing rooms” and “walk out before your shift ends”.

I’ll follow it up with the sequel “The Bus” an anecdotal book by Laura.

What was that?

You wouldn’t read either of them?

Well shit.

I guess I better stick at it then.

*Skulks off to changing rooms”

“Yanks curtains closed”

Workin’ 9 to 5…

So as it turns out, Overpacked may just be on her way to being paid.

Yes you did just read that right.

And yes, I am well aware that I sound like a pretentious twat when I refer to myself in the third person.

Such fun.

Not overpaid mind you, which is what I actually want…just nicely minimum waged up.

I’m actually a little bit chuffed…I thought I’d absolutely cocked up the interview.

In the first place I forgot that I even had it at all.

You know that memory wipe phenomenon you get when walking through doorways…yeah…well I had that in reverse.

There I go lah di dah di dah…walking into the kitchen at half twelve to warm up my soup for lunch then…

…BOOM.

Brain presents me with *interview at 1*.

*Hand flourish*

*Fanfare*

23 19, I repeat we have a 23 19.

Monsters Inc. reference….yes?

No?

I of course lose my shit and run flailing out the front door, calling a taxi and then cancelling the taxi when I realise it’s actually going to arrive too late.

I contemplated walking (power walking…running).

Fuck that.

Bus it was.

I arrive in the nick of time…but then of course my Google maps decides it’s going to lead me in the completely wrong direction.

YOU HAD ONE JOB.

By the time I’d reached the top end of the high street I realised how hopelessly lost I was, and had to call the interviewer and ask for directions.

Professionalism?

Nailed it.

Anyways, I must have done something right, in the New Year I should be settling into the position of Customer Service Assistance at a beautiful little high end espresso cafe.

She said they needed smiley people like me at the front of house.

I think she confused “smiley” with manic.

Personally I think I looked a little more like this:

And what do I have to do in that position you ask?

LITERALLY smile and wave boys.

Smile and wave.

…Oh and carry (smash) the crockery.

P.S. Keep your fingers crossed for me will you? Pretty please. Pretty please with a cherry on top?

The Illest MF Alive…

Oh yeah, the title of this post is totally a Kanye West reference…told you I was gangsta.

*Tumbleweed*

In all seriousness though, once again some sneaky bastard has infected me with their pathogens…I’ve only just managed to surface from the depths of my bed fort to write this.

Not only do I have a hacking cough, a fever, a sore throat and nausea, but I’m also sporting a fucking sexy nose whistle.

Thank god I’m a girl…the sheer amount of tissues overflowing my litter bin would have raised a few eyebrows by now.

Maybe I shouldn’t say “sneaky bastard” I do kind of know the reason I’m sick.

Ok fine, I know exactly why…

I went out with my friends the other day to my favourite club and had a bit of a “moment”.

There I was boogieing the night away when a cute guy came up to dance with me…

*Cue slow motion turn around, eyes meeting, seductive smile*

Pfft, yeah right.

Come on guys, this is me we’re talking about.

I, in fact, didn’t notice him and carried on dancing, flailing my arms around and by accident punched him on the nose.

TWICE.

Of course I turned around and apologised profusely, he lifted me off the ground in a hug and said it was all fine.

We danced together.

Ten minutes later, I look down and notice I have blood on my arm.

Turns out I hit him so hard he got a nosebleed.

…I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

…How much better do you feel about your life right now?

Uh huh.

Anyway he ran off to go and get cleaned up and I legged it to the bathroom and met back up with my friends, not expecting to see him again.

A little while later I turn around and there he was so we dance together for a while until the DJ says “in ten seconds I wanna see everyone jump”.

On one he picks me up in front of the whole club and kisses me.

THIS.

THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME.

I DIED.

Then he did it again.

We sat down for a bit and exchanged numbers, and I had to resist his advances with the whole ‘wrong time of the month’ excuse, which I can inform you, is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to say to another person in my entire life.

Praise the lord for vodka.

Don’t you just love mother nature?

When I got up to leave, instead of a sexy sashay away,¬† I managed to walk straight into a bar stool and almost stacked it in my heels…

FAIL, Laura, FAIL.

And yet for some unknown reason I arrived home to a goodnight text.

I handed to my more experienced flatmate to deal with.

Bad idea.

Rather than the mysterious allure I was going for, it resulted more in a bit too much obvious flirtation and way too many winky faces for my liking.

Then the alcohol buzz wore off and now everything is just very awkward.

In fact I walked past him on the way back from the Co-Op the other day and had to resist the urge to throw myself sideways into a hedge.

*Cringe-fest*

And I wonder why I’m still single.

Oh, did I mention he had a “cold”?

So now I’m both sick and sad.

All care packages to my bedroom please.

Stop it, minds out of gutters.

What am I going to do with you guys.

*Smh*

Having nun of it…

They’re dropping like flies…

I’ve just found out that a SECOND person from my school year has gotten engaged…at NINETEEN.

I, on the other hand, have decided to become a nun…

According to Wiki How all I need to do is be single (check), not be on my deathbed (check), lack any dependents (check) and be in good physical and financial standing (well if you ignore my overdraft and penchant for bacon sandwiches, check).

I then have to socialise with the “in group” of nuns, do research on the internet, attend a weekend at a Mother House and go through an initiation process…

…hang on a minute, this sounds suspiciously like rushing for a sorority.

Who would have thought…Wikipedia…unreliable?

Ok, so maybe I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in a convent…but you know you’ve got a problem when your fifty year old mother has a better sex life than you….

I spoke to her this morning on the phone…I was moaning about the fact I’m forever alone and she was all…

“Oh I’m so tired *yawns*, I was up all night with him”

“Oh we’re just popping over to Tenerife together for a few days to get a bit of sun”

*Throws up in plant pot*

If you can’t tell me and my best mate alcohol have been reunited over the past few days…

…well I had to do something to counteract the fact that I now own a Sainsbury’s Nectar card, spend my weeknights baking cookies and sometimes find the walk in heels to the club in town too much of an effort for it to be worth going out.

Hand me the Ovaltine and no one gets hurt.

Maybe its time to invest in that BOB.

He he.

What just happened?

If I could only use one word to sum up the past few weeks it would have to be bizarre.

To be honest, I’m surprised that I can even remember my own name…

Lets cut the crap.

*Life update klaxon*

One of my best friends from school came down from Essex for an insane night which started with a bottle of Belvedere…progressed to an out of character club snog (me), going back to another random fresher girl’s flat (it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds, she fell over in the road, we helped her up, she invited us over) and jacking a packet of smart price custard creams and a jam sandwich from the Christians (her…don’t ask)…and ended with a trip to a Catholic church (really, don’t ask).

My flatmate turned 20 so we had an amazing Mexican themed night complete with sombreros and fajitas and a whole bottle of tequila…or at least that’s what I can remember of it…turns out we went to a club afterwards…all I remember is waking up in my bed next to one of my flatmates having thrown up said bottle of alcohol and fajitas.

Note to self, medication and alcohol DO NOT mix…

I spent the majority of reading week barricaded in my room genuinely thinking I was going to die…

*Shudders*

I now have a second gold star on my flat’s chunder chart (a star being an exceptional chunder).

On that note, ever since I have been on a self imposed alcohol ban…it’s like being in the AA except I’m neither an alcoholic nor anonymous…

7 days sober…surely I deserve a prize by now?

Like maybe a bottle of champagne?

Actually scratch that…even the thought of anything stronger than orange juice sends chills down my spine…

I got the marks back for both of my first assignments (English and History). As it turns out procrastination is the key to the entirety of life, anyone that says otherwise may let themselves out…

Seriously, now.

Go.

Halloween rolled around and thanks to the general YOLO-ness and IDGAF-ness of my flat, we had no tickets to any events, and so we found ourselves queuing up for two and a half hours outside our student union club in the rain. I dressed as a flesh eating zombie and spent the whole night trying to ignore the fact that I was stone cold sober. The only guy we danced with was one who came up to us and creepily stood there “seductively” flapping the fake hand stuck to his forehead for ten minutes while we tried to escape. UV paint was blasted from canons…by the end of the evening my reflection gave me nightmares.

I somehow managed to procure my first ever job interview and then had to call to postpone it because of my flu *cough* alcohol poisoning *cough*. How I even managed to pass the online assessment is beyond me…no I can’t identify the “most likely” and “least likely” course of action if all your answers are bloody the same! It was more of a case of click one with your eyes closed and hope for the best…

I, the queen of all social awkwardness, went to a history social at a small local cocktail bar and…well…socialised. I finally managed to meet some people on my history course, all of whom were lovely and none of whom I remember their names. I have also developed a massive crush on almost every guy on my history course…and my friends said I didn’t have a “type”…

I’ve somehow found myself on the competition team for the wrong dance society, and now am going to be off to Southampton this weekend to compete. I came to practice one day to find I’d been paired up with a random guy by the captains and so I have to wake up at 4am and spend 6 hours on a coach after a late night out…

..why?

…Just why?

Bonfire night celebrations have snuck up on me and I’ve spent the last few days feeling horribly homesick…I’m almost at the point where I’m watching firework displays and bonfires on YouTube…

…ok so it’s way past that point.

I’ve even downloaded my Christmas playlist onto my iPod to console myself…

…A good old sing along to Michael Bubl√©’s White Christmas never fails to put me in a good mood, if you know what I mean.

No?

*Ba dooby do do do do be do, ba dooby do do do dooby do*

Don’t even try to tell my my Santa Baby dance isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen…

…I even used a tin of soup for a microphone.

Two days ago I stayed up ALL NIGHT chatting to two of my third year flat mates and then got up to go to a group meeting and dance practice the next day…

…I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since secondary school.

I didn’t choose the thug life.

The thug life chose me.

Admittedly I did sleep for 12 hours the next day…

Shhhhh

Social Media’d…

This is not a drill!

I repeat, this is not a drill!

I clicked some buttons (don’t ask me which ones) and now Overpacked and Underpaid has a Facebook page.

*Canned cheers*

Push my buttons at: https://www.facebook.com/overpackedandunderpaid

(NOT).

And yes, I know I am crap at all this social media malarky…

…I’m trying ok!

Like/follow/comment/tweet/instagram/tumblr/carrier pigeon me and I’ll get back to you.

Promise.

Over and out.

Nineteen…

It’s happening….the teenagepocalypse.

I woke up the other day and realised that I have ONE more year of my entire life left as a teenager. One more year until I have no excuse not to be an independent, fully functional, self-sustaining adult.

I have exactly 330 days to do the stupidest shit possible before I turn 20 and I can no longer get away with it.

I CANT HANDLE THE PRESSURE!

To plunge me even further into crisis, I woke up the other day to the news that a girl in my year at school has just gotten engaged.

What?

WHAT?

I don’t even have a boyfriend.

…Or a job…

OR ANY FUCKING MONEY.

What is my life?

Quick someone send me a university bucket list…

…and a life coach…

…and some vodka.

*Curls up in foetal position*

*Cries*

P.S. Am I really the only one who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing with their life? Help me feel better, tell me about your life crisis in the comments below!

The only way is Essex…

I’m home!

I’m in complete bliss…I’ve seen my family, I’ve had a three hour soak in an actual bath, I’ve been cooked food and bought clothes and spent the entire morning curled up by the fire doing some reading.

What’s that? You want me to address the elephant in the room? AKA the title of this post?

Yes, believe it or not, I hail from the great and infamous county that is ESSEX.

I can honestly tell you though, the reality of Essex is a lot different to what you see on TV…

Do the OAPs at my bus stop wear Ugg boots, leggings and tracksuits?

Yes.

Have I ever owned a pink velour tracksuit, a Paul’s Boutique handbag, fake eyelashes and glitter heels?

Yes.

Despite the stereotypes…and I’m sorry be the one to tell you this…but in actual fact the majority of Essex is countryside. You’re more likely to bump into a loose cow than Amy Childs or Mark Wright (sadly), and yes, this has actually happened to me before; two cows escaped from the pen on the hill and were mooching about on the main road…THIS ISN’T INDIA. I’ve also been stuck on a train on my birthday that was held up by an AWOL ‘orse…oh to be in the country.

My hometown is surrounded by fields; we have one supermarket, a few restaurants, a marina and a farm and that’s about it. I associate home more with open fields, long walks by the river and the smell of horse manure than fake tan, fake tits and hair extensions.

Disappointed?

I thought so…

The people at uni sadly don’t seem to be as educated on the geographical reality of my home county…

I’ve had numerous reactions to telling people where I’m from, from the ever-so-lovely “that’s a shame” to “how comes you don’t have an accent?” to being given ‘the eye’ because they automatically assume I’m easy.

Le sigh.

Trust me I’ve heard all the jokes.

In fact I’ll just write some now to save you the trouble:

Q. What do Essex girls use for protection during sex?
A. Bus Shelters.

Q. Why does an Essex girl wear knickers?
A. To keep her ankles warm.

Q. What’s the difference between an Essex girl and an ironing board?
A. Occasionally you have trouble getting the legs apart on an ironingboard.

Q. Why are Essex girls only allowed 30 minute lunch breaks?
A. It takes too long to retrain them if they take an hour.

Q. How do you make an Essex girl laugh on a Saturday?
A. Tell her a joke on a Wednesday.

ARE YOU SATISFIED?

As a joke I’m considering going back down south in a pink velour tracksuit, my Paul’s Boutique Barbie bag, some fake Uggs and lashings of sparkly jewellery. It would be committing social suicide; people don’t even dress up to go out clubbing at uni (pffft), but it would be so worth the looks on my flatmates’ faces.

I’m sure I could get a hold of some white stilettos.

*Rubs hands together gleefully*

He he.

P.S. My friend may be coming down from Essex to visit next week, watch this space for the mischief we get up to…

P.P.S. If you’re from another country or just have no idea what the “Essex girl” stereotype is I’m referring to go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Essex_girl

IT’S NOT TRUE.

Swear.

Americanophile…

I’m not a 100% sure that this is a real word, but its on Urban Dictionary and that’s all that matters really isn’t it?

Being British is all the rage right now what with One Direction and….err…One Direction and although I’m extremely patriotic and I love my home country, I kinda have a thing for all things American.

I applied to four American colleges alongside my British ones. I love the idea of a well-rounded university experience, where extra-curriculars are just as important as academics. I love the teaching system, where it’s okay to not know exactly what you want to do, and to dabble in other subjects. I love the general grandness and beauty of the campuses…uugghhh FEELS.

Admittedly I did not put the required amount of work into my applications *couch* SATs *cough* but I still get a little stab of pain every time I think of what could have been.

Or see the Facebook photos of a girl who went to my school and is now happily settling in to NYU.

I’m not jealous.

I’M NOT!

I am.

A teensy bit.

A lot.

I can’t even pinpoint what it is exactly that draws me to it. In actual fact my trip to LA was a little disappointing…and downright terrifying at times…I’ll be writing a post about it soon…you shall see.

There’s been a few occasions at uni when I’ve walked past some US exchange students with American accents.

*Instant death*

Does anyone else have similar unaccountable, misplaced feelings about the states? I know that being an Anglophile is kind of a big thing in America but I’ve never heard of it in reverse.

I think we should call it “across the pond syndrome”.

Anyone have a spare ticket to New York?