Out on the Push…

Now you may have heard the turn of phrase “out on the pull” but sometimes when your milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, you kind of don’t want it to…

Bridget Jones

Being at university has been my first “proper” taste of the clubbing lifestyle, and can I just say, I’ve had my arse grabbed more in these last two weeks than I have in my entire life…but I digress…

As you may have picked up on my previous posts I’m a little more traditional *cough* boring *cough* when it comes to meeting guys, and I’d much rather meet them in a daytime setting and be able to have a proper conversation with them…mainly so I can find out sooner rather than later if they’re a complete weirdo, axe murderer or rapist.

Take for example the guy I met last night. Tall, good looking, third year, bad/awkward dancer…always a bad sign.

I danced with him because my flatmate was getting off with his friend. He asked me if I wanted to make out with him. I said no. He kept asking me whether I was sure I didn’t want to go and sit down. I said no. He asked me again. I finally relented.

We sat down and proceeded to have the most awkward shouty conversation (clubs aren’t meant for talking, I couldn’t hear a bloody word he was saying…*smile and wave boys smile and wave*). He told me he was a geography student and then proceeded to ask me a tonne of questions about the exact location of my halls.

*RUN AWAY* *RUN AWAY*

Now it probably was just the fact that he was into mapping, because we’d both made it extremely clear that nothing was going to happen but I still felt like something was off…

…who the hell wants to sit down and have a stilted conversation with a stranger at a club?

Not me…I’ll be the one breaking it down on the dance floor…

*Shakes it like Beyonce*

*Slut drops*

*Re-dislocates knee*

#freshersweekfail

I am a disgusting cliche of a human being.

I’m sorry, I tried guys, I really did.

Remember in my ‘starting uni post’ when I said that everyone around me was on a mission to get as drunk an uninhibited as possible, and it was kind of freaking me out? I’d been teetotal and didn’t want to get crazy drunk but it just felt so awkward being completely sober…

I started on the alcohol…

…le sigh…

At 2:03 on Saturday morning I was met by two lovely paramedics who poked and prodded me with various instruments as I threw up the contents of my stomach (which at this point there was none) into my ASDA smart price mixing bowl.

I woke up at 5 am lying on my dorm room floor…apparently my one male flat mate had to actually carry me there.

*Now I’m lying on the cold hard ground *goat* *goat* trouble! trouble trouble*

No?

Fine…

The next day I found out that I’d actually blacked out. Like there is a half an hour period of my life I actually can’t remember…the rest I remember a bit too acutely….don’t ask…

One thing I do remember is the paramedics talking about the unpredictability of alcohol…I didn’t drink any more than I did on my birthday night, yet I wound up with a 0.34% alcohol level and being violently sick.

The recovery the last few days has almost been worse…
As hilarious as this is looking back (I totally won the gold medal amongst my flat mates for the first – and biggest – drunk fail) if any of you reading this are going off to freshers and are not acclimatised to drinking, please take care.
Your esophagus will thank you, I promise…
*drinks orange juice*
P.S. Who in God’s name invented Jaegermeister? One evil son of a bitch…

P.P.S. I also wound up with a bruised ribcage…apparently an occupational hazard of throwing up over the kitchen sink for 3 hours (not exaggerating)

P.P.P.S. (Once again is this even a thing?) My flatmates are saints. End of.

Overpacked is jam packed…

Into a mini…

…with all her university stuff…

So I probably should have posted this before the “I’m at uni” post but you know #YOLO and all that…

Turns out actually getting to uni was going to be much harder than I originally thought.

I packed everything into boxes and suitcases and put them out into the hall ready to be put into the car and it was only then I realised I deserved to have my own segment on “Hoarders”.

I just have so much stuff.

My mum came home from work and blew her top when she saw how much we had to fit in the car, but that only fueled the burning fire in my stomach…I was determined that I’d fit it all in…mainly so she wouldn’t be right…*cough cough*

It was like a giant game of Tetris where I packed each box in with scientific precision based on volume and weight…

Yeah right…actually turns out that I’ve inherited a particularly potent version of the “bunger” gene, which runs through the female line of my family. (See below)

bunger1 [bun-ger] adjective, verb: to bung
Person with uncanny ability to shove lots of crap into a small space where it otherwise wouldn’t fit
Origin:
1830–2013;  origin uncertain

I managed to “bung” my entire life, plus kitchen essentials, into the back seat and boot of an ’03 Mini Cooper.

Like a boss.

Seriously though, I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable, it was the longest six hours of my life.

I’m still in the process of regaining sensation in my butt.

I’m at university…

I was absolutely bloody convinced I was not going to get into university this year. I’d filled my mum in with plans A, B, C, D, E and F and I’d prepared a note on my iPad with all the possible clearing vacancies and numbers.

Turns out I did get in.

Now I’m at university, like actually full on moved in at uni.

First impressions?

Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

I feel like I’ve been whipped up in a tornado and dropped into an Oz where people say “man” unironically like 70s hippies, have feminist debates over the dinner table, drink excessively (and I mean excessively) and have sex…like a lot…and publicly.

I’m guessing that my friendship group really was quite tame at secondary school as I never really felt particularly conservative until now. Especially as the people I’m living with are proper party animals.

My nineteenth birthday night consisted of mixer-less pre-drinks, dancing at clubs with themes of blackout, foam, cheesy music and UV, respectively, more alcohol, and carrying my flat mate home.

…Oh and feeling like shit the next morning.