Thursday, 10 November 2011

Ufficial UCAS university upplicant...uh dear

Well. There they are. Five universities. Sitting in all their university glory in the UCAS database, locked down behind bars of my future, all giggling with each other and staring at my paranoid face. You could generate enough energy to power the whole of London with the constant rapid refreshing of my emails. I only sent it off yesterday. "Sorry, there's a technical fault" now greets me when I refresh, i.e. my phone telling me "Bitch calm yo tits I'm getting dizzy"  I want 5 unconditional offers. I want universities I haven't even applied to to give me offers. I want THEM to apply to ME. Actually sending it off was like having an injection at the doctors. Four of us sat in a waiting room before being called in to our Head of Sixth Form's office, where he did a bit of typey typey while I shut my eyes so tightly that I'm sure they started rolling in on themselves, before he turned back around saying "All done!" offering me a "I've sent off my UCAS application!" sticker and ushering me out. And that was that. And it didn't hurt. And now I've applied for university.

Hahaha.

Oh.

I remember when this was my personal statement..

I also remember when I didn't even my choices, didn't know what I wanted to DO at university, and didn't know what I was doing with my life and doubted every aspect of it. Oh. Wait. That's EVERY BLOODY DAY. My brain man sits in my ear, throwing a tennis ball against my eardrum so my head pounds, and starts saying shit like "Are you sure you want to do this? Who even are you?WHAT'S YOUR PURPOSE IN LIFE LOUISE EMILY JONES, IF THAT'S EVEN YOUR REAL NAME, BECAUSE YOU COULD HAVE BEEN SWITCHED AT BIRTH OR EVEN JUST BE A FIGMENT OF SOMEONE'S IMAGINATATION, OR YOU COULD BE A SIM. EVER SEEN SOMETHING ON THE FLOOR AND THINK "I CAN'T MOVE!!!" THAT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE A SIM." No, that's because I'm a lazy sod. Calm yourself brain man, and stop shouting at me just because you're insecure and wish you'd lived a fuller life instead of being my brain man...

What the actual eff am I doing...

I'll tell you what I'm doing. I'm spending all my money on London travelcards. One day I'll walk out the house to find the train track literally on my door step, because it's easier if they just stop at my house. I was at Twight Night on Monday. It was basically a big posh tweet up in a posh club in a very tall posh building with a posh view, with me, not so posh, shoving hot dogs in my mouth and desperately attempting to look old and sophisticated and calm in the presence of people I LOVE SO MUCH AND STILL HAVEN'T GOTTEN OVER THE FANGIRL STAGE OF OMG omg breathe. I have no shame. I literally have NO shame. My shame upped and left, packing bags and leaving a goodbye letter stating "You obviously don't need me. You just ignore me now and it's not working out, so I'm leaving. You can clearly cope on your own. I've found someone else anyway. Someone who ACTUALLY needs me. Frankie Cocozza. Goodbye Louise." 


Being out on a Monday night (a SCHOOL night I know fear me I'm untouchable now I should have, like, asbos and shit) did feel immaturely ace. People I know have been out 'clubbing' or whatever teenage stuff you do since they were, I dunno, 10. But seeing as I'm quite happy sitting my dressing gown, with a plate of custard creams and a colouring book on a Friday night, this was MA-JOR. Had to do the whole sneaking in thing and everything. Even my house knew it was late, because it made everything deafening loud. Brushing my teeth sounded like Hiroshima in my mouth, and I'm sure my house set up everything like dominos. One knock over of hairspray sent everything tumbling to the floor like an avalanche. To be fair, my 'floor' always has the effect of an avalanche, but WHO CARES because I'll be moved out in 10 months anyway...LOOK THE POINT IS THAT I WAS OUT. LIKE OUT OUT. LIKE PEOPLE DO. BECAUSE I'M A LEGITIMATE BIG PERSON NOW who chose to yabber on to her fangirl victims about how she had school tomorrow and loved being out 'late' on a Monday like the easily pleased sadcase she is who has suddenly decided to talk about herself in the third person and not use commas and nowcan'tbreathebecauseofit.

...

*refreshes email, grabs colouring book, runs*