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?

Do you have a plaster?

Based on recent estimates, I now believe that I spend around 90% of my free time (and 100% of my…err….non-free time) staring at pictures of men…

Hundreds of them, all on my phone.

No…I haven’t just gotten cozy with the university rugby team, or the football team, or the lacrosse team…

Le grande sigh.

And no I haven’t (more likely) discovered Porn in Your Pocket or Porn2Go or Porns ‘R’ Us or whatever those sites are called (please tell me none of these are actually real websites)…

In actual fact my flatmates persuaded (forced me pain of death) to get Tinder.

Now I’m addicted.

In the words of Howard from Fresh Meat…I’ve already completed it once.

Yes, you heard me right…when I first got it I was so interested on flicking everyone into the no pile, I actually exhausted all the men in my area (HAHAHA….hahaha ha..ha…no…I wish).

I’ve now had to make a new profile which I shall handle with more care.

Must….resist…the….X….button…

*Hand shakes*

Don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely no intention of actually talking to these people…

In fact I was actually quite pissed off when I found out that the whole purpose of the App was for it to be a dating tool…why can’t I just stalk people in peace? In the privacy of my own home…without them knowing about it….

Plus the majority of the guys on here are absolute twats.

No offence.

But seriously.

You don’t even want to know some of the chat up lines I’ve been sent.

The only one I could give credit to so far would have to be “I wish you were my big toe”….”so I can bang you on all the furniture in my house”.

I spat out my water.

I am in no way recommending you get this App.

For the sake of your own sanity and yes, physical health (The Illest MF Alive guy popped up on screen just after I logged on for the first time…I fell off the bed in shock…you know that weird feeling people are watching you…yeah…that) DO NOT DOWNLOAD IT.

In fact, your general sense of paranoia will be permanently increased…like what if you accidentally bump into one of these people in real life….what if they recognize you from your profile…what if Facebook decides that they’re going to suddenly post everyone’s dating preferences and subsequent conversations online…

You just downloaded it didn’t you.

Naughty.

I tried.

*Surreptitiously opens App*

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.

London…

As I type this I’m sat on a train at Paddington station, soon to be headed back to uni.

image

I’m already missing home.

I won’t lie, I’ve considered chaining myself to the gates and refusing to go…or just hurling myself out the window with my suitcase and three bags…

…it’s all good I’ll hitch a cow back to Essex.

Out of all the places I’ve visited in the world, I still think London is my favourite…I’m almost regretting my decision to refuse to go to uni there…almost.

So jealous of all you London students, you have the world at your feet!

Actually, don’t worry I just remembered how much I spent on that bloody disgusting Pret sandwich on Friday.

All in all this week has been very strange. It’s finally sunk in that for the next three years I will be calling two places “home” and I’ll have two families to go back to, which means that I will be in a perpetual state of homesickness.

*Mindfuck*

Oh an did I mention that I may possibly be moving to America next year?

Yeah, so that happened.

Turns out I have the opportunity to go and study at the wonderful college of William and Mary in Virginia. Everyone I’ve spoken to says I have to go….so I’m going…

…all I’ve got to do is write a stunning application, get two great academic references and total 65% in my first year.

*Bangs head against pull out tray*

I only spent three months of my life and £500 applying to American universities already.

S.O.S.

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?

Freshers Flu 2.0…

I was doing so, so well.

Everyone around me was dropping like flies but I was dodging those germs like a ninja in a laser maze.

*Does Kung Fu Panda pose*

I wasn’t ill for the whole of freshers week…or the week after that…or the week after that…

Until the dreaded superbug emerged: FRESHERS FLU 2.0.

No one is safe.

I’m convinced that the air in every lecture hall I’ve walked into this week has been 99.9% airborne virus and 1% oxygen.

I am now sick with fresher’s flu’s uglier, more contagious cousin, which apparently can’t be cured with antibiotics.

And apparently also impairs what was left of my GCSE maths skills.

When I went to the doctors he told me that I needed to get lots of rest and not overexert myself.

YEAH BECAUSE I’VE TOTALLY BEEN RUNNING AROUND AND IGNORING MY EXTREME LETHARGY, HACKING COUGH, SENSITIVITY TO LIGHT AND NOISE, ACHING MUSCLES AND GENERAL SENSE OF CORPSE-NESS.

When I asked my best friend who’s currently in medical school to cure me…she said she’s not qualified.

WHAT! YOU’RE BECOMING A DOCTOR!

I have a bit of a confession to make…

I’m one of the super annoying people who kind of wants the world to start revolving around them when they’re ill.

If you couldn’t already tell that…from the shouty capitals..

All activities must be suspended in favour of showering me with pity and get well soon soup!

…yup.

Sorry.

I may as well just walk around wearing this:

Patient : Tell me doctor, is this flu serious?
Doctor : Well I wouldn’t advise you to start watching any serials on TV.

I’ve watched all two-and-a-bit series of New girl over the last few days. I was going to start on Breaking Bad but I don’t think my brain fog will allow me to extend myself to such a mentally stimulating activity.

Valentines Day seems a more viable alternative..

…or maybe just Shrek.

Oh god, I’m starting to go cross eyed.

This post was supposed to be funny, this has very quickly descended into a insight into my flu-riddled brain. I’m so gonna regret posting this when I’m better.

*MUST SALVAGE POST*

Here have some e-cards…

Ha ha..

..this is funny…

Right?!

RIGHT?!

*Passes out*.

I’m a klutz…

Oh god, I looked up the word klutz to make sure I spelt it right  before writing this post and now its morphed into gibberish.  Go on, repeat it like 10 or 20 times and see what happens….

Anyway on to today’s topic, which is essentially a rant about how completely ditzy and stupid I am.

Now it’s not like I just woke up today and suddenly realised it; I’ve had 19 years of being completely clumsy and uncoordinated…what prompted me to write this post is something that happened the other day…

…I was walking back from my English lecture, quite happily chatting away to my flatmate, when all of a sudden…

*KAZAM*

…guys…

I SLIPPED ON A FUCKING BANANA PEEL!

…STRAIGHT ONTO MY ARSE.

…IN PUBLIC.

This is the kind of that would only ever happen to me…it’s not even supposed to happen in real life! It’s a comedic device used in old black and white films!

If there’s a door I will walk into it, if there’s wet paint I’ll touch it, if there’s a staircase I’ll fall up it (yes I broke my wrist falling up the bloody stairs).

Never, I repeat NEVER ask me to hold anything of any kind of value.

When I was younger my mum had to put huge orange stickers on the french doors because I’d literally run into them every day and smash my head.

Someone bubble wrap me, quick, before I do any more damage.

P.S. It’s become a running joke in my flat that if anything awful is going to happen, it will happen to me. I am the unluckiest person on the planet. In fact I think they should add “doing a Laura” to the dictionary…well if twerk can make it in there…

P.P.S. Bollocks, literally just as I finished typing the first post script I just tipped a bottle of water over my folder…le sigh…