Post from my days of “studenthood”
With the return of ITV’s Love Island and Netflix’s Sex Education, the fixation on people’s sexual history is more magnified than ever. In modern dating, it’s not uncommon to be asked the “dreaded” question in the first conversation with a new suitor: How many people have you slept with?
Dating in the 21st century is tough. Long gone are the days when you’d have meet cutes with attractive strangers in the middle of supermarkets, or fall victim to huge romantic gestures while on your lunch break (not that I’ve ever been subject to either but a gal can dream). However, dating at university is even tougher.
Mediated through dating apps, social media, and unavoidably intertwined social circles, it’s quite often you find yourself going out with someone that your best friend’s coursemate’s cousin’s friend went out with back in second year. Everyone knows everyone and it’s pretty rare that you find someone without an Instagram or Tinder profile.
In university, not having a social media presence is like the plague: you’ll be shunned faster than you can say “I used to have MSN”.
In our current political climate, it’s close to impossible to go a day without someone mentioning the T or B words – no, not the cusses your teachers told you off for using when you were younger, but the names of the men who have been voted into two of the biggest chairs in the world.
I know that, in my university at least, political debates have become more commonplace than the typical Is-it-dinner-or-tea? debate that so often infiltrates everyday conversations. And, despite my enjoyment talking about any sort of food, I can’t help but prick my ears when I hear anyone ask the dreaded question: What’s happened today in the world of politics?
Bloody hell, we’re only in the first week of the new year and there’s already been talk of WW3.
In my opinion, there’s absolutely zero excuse for being unaware, or just plain clueless, about simple things like what party are in power in the country you live in and what their general policies are (i.e., do they support those in poverty, in the LGBTQ community, the war?). This is basic information that you should know without having to google it.
I’ve never been one to have parents that, when back home for an occasional weekend or a holiday break from university, ask me whether I’ve found the person of my dreams. The one. It’s just not a thing that we do; the constant hounding about partners, significant others, “unlucky bachelors/ettes” that I’ve managed to ensnare with my quick wit and awkward ability to trip over flat ground.
My parents and I have an agreement: if there’s anything interesting to tell them, I’ll tell them, and that includes any interesting (read: worth writing home about) people that I meet while living many miles away from home.
I used to hate being vulnerable, I used to bloody hate it.
Most people hate being vulnerable – they’re scared of it. It’s because we’re conditioned to think that being vulnerable is synonymous with being weak – notice how I say ‘conditioned’. You see, most of us aren’t raised by our parents with the opinion that vulnerability is weakness, that vulnerability deserves being laughed at or frowned upon or, even worse, ignored. No, my parents encouraged being vulnerable; they wanted me to feel comfortable exposing myself (*my emotions and feelings, don’t worry, nothing “weird”) to others and feeling at ease when talking about how I felt.
My sister and I were lucky that we didn’t have parents who shushed us when we spoke of obstacles or bad days. They encouraged us to find success through our vulnerabilities and that was good.
Overwhelmed, underwhelmed, whelmed. Doesn’t quite sound right, does it?
We all know what being overwhelmed feels like: you can be overwhelmed with emotion, with university work, with a hatred for mushrooms. Everyone gets overwhelmed from time to time and it feels awful – kind of like a snowball of dread and, with that big white ball, comes the inability to control whatever it is and create a plan to conquer.
Motivation sucks balls. Like, really sucks.
Trying to find motivation – the motivation to do reading for a class you don’t like, to reply to emails you’ve had sitting in your inbox for nearly a week, to even wash your hair – is exhausting.
Dear whomever may be reading this,
Picture this: it’s a normal Sunday afternoon, Santander just emailed you your weekly bank balance; you’re in the red, and when I say “red”, I mean you’re -£1200 and rent comes out tomorrow. You’re pretty much fucked.
Dear whomever may be reading this,
It’s the 21st century and we’ve seen everything from 10-stone testicles to Donald Trump becoming the President, both scrotum-related issues, so why are people still ashamed to admit they have Tinder?
I, for one, am a proud Tinderer. I also support equal rights and sponsor a Guide dog. Fucking sue me.
We live in a world where it’s legal to marry your own cousin. No one bats an eyelash when you get your vagina decorated with glue and glitter. If you’re a fan of Pitbull, you’re not publicly shunned (even though you probably should be), yet being a member of this specific dating app receives a “plague-like” reaction.
Dear whomever may be reading this,
I’ve been without Wi-Fi for… what is it now… a fortnight?!?! Two whole, entire, devastatingly long-ass weeks. In these erstwhile weeks, I’ve faced challenge after challenge; Facebook wouldn’t load, Insta was unavailable, heck, even ITV Player wasn’t having it.
Wi-Fi not only stopped me from communicating with the outside world and its inhabitants, it also prevented me from catching up on Love Island.
Jen sait quoi 