When I started this blog, I didn't think I'd be able to keep it up for this long. Usually I lose interest in such things within a matter of weeks. In fact, I'm pretty sure I have accounts scattered across the Internet where I've signed up to websites and promptly forgotten about them (including one personal blog from highschool that is so unbelievably cringey I would delete it in a second. If I could find the friggen' thing.)
But it has finally reached that time where I'm running out of things to post about. At first I thought that my creativity was dying, or that I just had intense writer's block. But instead, I think I've simply become too jaded as a Rhodes student; I've taken pretty much all this varsity can throw at me. I've seen punch drunk out of condoms, people passed out in random places, dogs in lecture theatres and people wandering the streets at all hours of the night. I've hooked up with random guys, fallen off tables and down stairs, and had conversations in the dining hall about resurrecting flies and how male cats have barbs on their penises (seriously, it's true. Google it). I've experienced brunch, Trivar, Oxbraai and multiple exams. I've learned that friends can fall out over a guy who wears tiny rugby shorts, and that going out in high heels is never a good idea.
So now I am in third year and no longer surprised by 3am fire drills, gay dogs and the horrors of braised steak. Which is somewhat depressing :( ideas, anyone?
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The art of camera-dodging
We all have that one friend who takes his/her camera EVERYWHERE. Going to a party? Let's take photos! Having predrinks? Here's the camera! Having a chilled movie night? OMG SMILE!
While it's always nice to have photographic memories from one's nights out, I think we should ban all cameras after 11 o' clock. Why? Because at that point we are all drunk and looking like total retards. Hair becomes messy, make-up goes everywhere, underwear is frequently on show and expressions are of the droopy-eye, double-chin, zombie-impersonation variety. And were it not for Facebook, I would not have to insist on this rule. Back in the day (when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and MySpace was popular) it was relatively safe to have friends take horrendous photos of you because they would travel no further than a folder on that friend's computer, probably labelled "The night we knocked over a lamp post" or "The night Fred puked on Friars' dance floor". Now these folders are uploaded onto Facebook and worse: we're actually tagged in them. Because hey, I really want my mom to see photos of me half passed out on my birthday. She'd be delighted.
Thankfully most of my friends are awesome enough to not upload the really really bad photos (Thank you Cayley!) However, while flicking through photos on Facebook last night, I had a horrifying revelation. Usually when a bad photo of me appears on Facebook, I think along the lines of "Wow I must've been drunk!", "Gee she's a bad photographer" or even "I am SO not photogenic". Then last night, for the first time, it occurred to me...maybe they're not bad photos. Maybe I have a bad mirror and I really am just that unattractive :O it was a sobering thought.
But then I decided to make myself feel better and Facebook-stalked a few people who I know to be very attractive in real life, and horribly un-photogenic in Facebook photos. It provided a much-needed ego-boost. So for those of you who are like me and get a shudder of foreboding when you see "[Insert name here] has uploaded 16 photos of you!", here's a tip: you're not ugly. Blame the camera. :P
(For the record, this does not apply to Journ students. They have an actual need to take photos, thus they are forgiven. Plus they usually take good ones).
While it's always nice to have photographic memories from one's nights out, I think we should ban all cameras after 11 o' clock. Why? Because at that point we are all drunk and looking like total retards. Hair becomes messy, make-up goes everywhere, underwear is frequently on show and expressions are of the droopy-eye, double-chin, zombie-impersonation variety. And were it not for Facebook, I would not have to insist on this rule. Back in the day (when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and MySpace was popular) it was relatively safe to have friends take horrendous photos of you because they would travel no further than a folder on that friend's computer, probably labelled "The night we knocked over a lamp post" or "The night Fred puked on Friars' dance floor". Now these folders are uploaded onto Facebook and worse: we're actually tagged in them. Because hey, I really want my mom to see photos of me half passed out on my birthday. She'd be delighted.
Thankfully most of my friends are awesome enough to not upload the really really bad photos (Thank you Cayley!) However, while flicking through photos on Facebook last night, I had a horrifying revelation. Usually when a bad photo of me appears on Facebook, I think along the lines of "Wow I must've been drunk!", "Gee she's a bad photographer" or even "I am SO not photogenic". Then last night, for the first time, it occurred to me...maybe they're not bad photos. Maybe I have a bad mirror and I really am just that unattractive :O it was a sobering thought.
But then I decided to make myself feel better and Facebook-stalked a few people who I know to be very attractive in real life, and horribly un-photogenic in Facebook photos. It provided a much-needed ego-boost. So for those of you who are like me and get a shudder of foreboding when you see "[Insert name here] has uploaded 16 photos of you!", here's a tip: you're not ugly. Blame the camera. :P
(For the record, this does not apply to Journ students. They have an actual need to take photos, thus they are forgiven. Plus they usually take good ones).
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Wanted: soulmate
"Wanted: snuggle buddy to watch movies with. Romantic interest not necessary. Body warmth and snuggling ability mandatory. Arriving with chocolate and popcorn will earn you bonus points."
This is a Gtalk status I used to post every now and then when I was single and the weather got cold. It popped into my mind while I was browsing Tumblr this evening (and trying to avoid studying for law). So many girls seem obsessed with finding their "one true love", falling in love, meeting the perfect guy, looking for love, relationships, boyfriends, and so on. While I do realise that the majority of Tumblr users are emo, boy-obsessed, hormone-ridden teenagers, it did set me thinking. So many girls between the ages of 13 and late twenties appear to have their main goal in life solely focused on finding the "perfect man/boy" (depending on age and personal preference). It's as if - as one friend recently put it - we're afraid of being alone. Or more, being single.
I know that this won't apply to every girl (and the strong/ feminist/ anti-relationship ones among you are no doubt shaking your fists at me :P ) but let's be honest: having someone to snuggle with on a cold and rainy night is awesome. And while snuggling close friends is an alternative, it's never quite as comfortable or cosy. And snuggling one's teddy is nowhere near as fun (speaking from past experiments :P).
There's a saying that claims if you chase happiness it'll elude you, but if you leave it alone it'll come to you when you least expect it. I believe the same thing about relationships. After my ex and I broke up I was determined to find someone else to snuggle on rainy nights. I went out, partied hard, met guys, hooked up. Every now and then I'd meet a guy and think "Hey, maybe he's the one!" And then the spark died, or he lost interest, or I simply didn't see him again. Then what I thought had the potential to be a great romance (or a romance, anyway) ended rather abruptly just before midyear exams, and I decided to give up. I felt offended; I hadn't even been entirely sure whether I was into this guy and he ditched me! In a fit of frustration I typed a message to a close friend, complaining that the now-ex-romantic-interest had rejected me when I wasn't even into him, and that I was giving up on relationships entirely. I blasted Avril Lavigne's "What the Hell" and sang along: "All I want is to mess around, and I don't really care about if you love me, if you hate me..."
I had decided that relationships weren't worth the effort.
Fast-forward through the vac to the first Saturday night of third term. I hit Friars with friends as usual; we got drunk, we met some guys that we knew, we jammed on the dancefloor. As I was getting into the song, I looked up and saw a cute blond guy standing opposite me. He caught my eye and smiled. I had no idea who he was but hey, I'd never hooked up with a complete random before and he was cute. We ended up dancing next to each other, and somehow hooked up. We chatted. Thunda Guy took a photo of us. He walked me home and did a drunken imitation of Superman halfway up the road. I refused to have naps with him. The next day, he invited me on Facebook.
Eight months later, we're still dating :)
I don't want to say any lame cliches like "It was Fate" or "God works in mysterious ways" because I don't really believe in that kind of thing. But maybe a relationship (or a boy who wants one, anyway) is like happiness, and comes to you just when you've given up on it. Or maybe the goddess of love is just sadistic and wanted to see how I would react to a cute, slightly odd boy hitting on me when I'd sworn off relationships for the foreseeable future.
Well played, Aphrodite. I'm impressed. :P
This is a Gtalk status I used to post every now and then when I was single and the weather got cold. It popped into my mind while I was browsing Tumblr this evening (and trying to avoid studying for law). So many girls seem obsessed with finding their "one true love", falling in love, meeting the perfect guy, looking for love, relationships, boyfriends, and so on. While I do realise that the majority of Tumblr users are emo, boy-obsessed, hormone-ridden teenagers, it did set me thinking. So many girls between the ages of 13 and late twenties appear to have their main goal in life solely focused on finding the "perfect man/boy" (depending on age and personal preference). It's as if - as one friend recently put it - we're afraid of being alone. Or more, being single.
I know that this won't apply to every girl (and the strong/ feminist/ anti-relationship ones among you are no doubt shaking your fists at me :P ) but let's be honest: having someone to snuggle with on a cold and rainy night is awesome. And while snuggling close friends is an alternative, it's never quite as comfortable or cosy. And snuggling one's teddy is nowhere near as fun (speaking from past experiments :P).
There's a saying that claims if you chase happiness it'll elude you, but if you leave it alone it'll come to you when you least expect it. I believe the same thing about relationships. After my ex and I broke up I was determined to find someone else to snuggle on rainy nights. I went out, partied hard, met guys, hooked up. Every now and then I'd meet a guy and think "Hey, maybe he's the one!" And then the spark died, or he lost interest, or I simply didn't see him again. Then what I thought had the potential to be a great romance (or a romance, anyway) ended rather abruptly just before midyear exams, and I decided to give up. I felt offended; I hadn't even been entirely sure whether I was into this guy and he ditched me! In a fit of frustration I typed a message to a close friend, complaining that the now-ex-romantic-interest had rejected me when I wasn't even into him, and that I was giving up on relationships entirely. I blasted Avril Lavigne's "What the Hell" and sang along: "All I want is to mess around, and I don't really care about if you love me, if you hate me..."
I had decided that relationships weren't worth the effort.
Fast-forward through the vac to the first Saturday night of third term. I hit Friars with friends as usual; we got drunk, we met some guys that we knew, we jammed on the dancefloor. As I was getting into the song, I looked up and saw a cute blond guy standing opposite me. He caught my eye and smiled. I had no idea who he was but hey, I'd never hooked up with a complete random before and he was cute. We ended up dancing next to each other, and somehow hooked up. We chatted. Thunda Guy took a photo of us. He walked me home and did a drunken imitation of Superman halfway up the road. I refused to have naps with him. The next day, he invited me on Facebook.
Eight months later, we're still dating :)
I don't want to say any lame cliches like "It was Fate" or "God works in mysterious ways" because I don't really believe in that kind of thing. But maybe a relationship (or a boy who wants one, anyway) is like happiness, and comes to you just when you've given up on it. Or maybe the goddess of love is just sadistic and wanted to see how I would react to a cute, slightly odd boy hitting on me when I'd sworn off relationships for the foreseeable future.
Well played, Aphrodite. I'm impressed. :P
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Morning-after woes
Punch all over the living room floor. Vomit on an armchair. A bra hanging on the back of a chair. A drunk Asian guy passed out at the front door. The distant sounds of students throwing up in bathrooms. It sounds like the opening scene to a really bad spoof of The Hangover.
Welcome to Saturday morning.
On Friday night I was invited to celebrate a friend's birthday at my boyfriend's digs. We were told there would be punch, but advised to bring our own drinks in case the punch ran out. We dressed pretty, bought some wine and headed over there. As I was sick with a cold and my boyfriend had to work the next day, we'd decided it would probably not be a wild night.When we arrived the boys (and one girl) were sitting in the living room, chattering, drinking, and generally enjoying some chilled-out vibes. A bucket of punch waited innocently on the table. We commandeered a couch, poured some drinks and settled in for what we thought would be a typical Friday night.
Fast-forward to the next morning, where the aforementioned scene exploded into my hungover brain when I dragged myself out of bed. The passed-out drunk guy had been shepherded home, but his vomit remained (all over most of the house. Including the room I'd been sleeping in). The living room floor was sticky with punch as I wandered through to the kitchen. My socks were on the couch where I'd slept for an hour after being kicked out of bed by a drunken boyfriend (I'm still not entirely sure why he kicked me out, but I managed to sneak back in after he passed out because I didn't have a blanket on the couch and it was f***ing cold). Glasses and empty bottles littered the tables and floor. I made myself some MedLemon (I have a cold) and wandered sleepily back up the corridor, where I could hear my boyfriend throwing up in the bathroom. His room smelled of vomit (to be fair, that wasn't his fault) and stale alcohol, and the bedside table was knocked over where he'd fallen out of bed at some point during the night. My bottle of wine sat unopened on the shelf.
Moral of the story? Well, I have a few.
Welcome to Saturday morning.
On Friday night I was invited to celebrate a friend's birthday at my boyfriend's digs. We were told there would be punch, but advised to bring our own drinks in case the punch ran out. We dressed pretty, bought some wine and headed over there. As I was sick with a cold and my boyfriend had to work the next day, we'd decided it would probably not be a wild night.When we arrived the boys (and one girl) were sitting in the living room, chattering, drinking, and generally enjoying some chilled-out vibes. A bucket of punch waited innocently on the table. We commandeered a couch, poured some drinks and settled in for what we thought would be a typical Friday night.
Fast-forward to the next morning, where the aforementioned scene exploded into my hungover brain when I dragged myself out of bed. The passed-out drunk guy had been shepherded home, but his vomit remained (all over most of the house. Including the room I'd been sleeping in). The living room floor was sticky with punch as I wandered through to the kitchen. My socks were on the couch where I'd slept for an hour after being kicked out of bed by a drunken boyfriend (I'm still not entirely sure why he kicked me out, but I managed to sneak back in after he passed out because I didn't have a blanket on the couch and it was f***ing cold). Glasses and empty bottles littered the tables and floor. I made myself some MedLemon (I have a cold) and wandered sleepily back up the corridor, where I could hear my boyfriend throwing up in the bathroom. His room smelled of vomit (to be fair, that wasn't his fault) and stale alcohol, and the bedside table was knocked over where he'd fallen out of bed at some point during the night. My bottle of wine sat unopened on the shelf.
Moral of the story? Well, I have a few.
- Comparing your girlfriend to your ex and then telling her to get out of your bed is never a good idea. Ever.
- If someone has already thrown up once from too much alcohol, letting him sit in your room is not recommended.
- Once people are drunk, punch buckets should be moved to a safer place. Alternatively, make sure that the bucket has a very tight-fitting, spill-proof lid.
- Always, always hire a maid for the morning after.
And the most important moral? (One I don't think I'll ever learn?)
IT'S NEVER JUST ONE DRINK.
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