thou shalt not drop out, or let there be death

I begin todays post with a revelation. In 222 days time I will be walking from my childhood and into my new life as a proper adult at university. And in preparation, in exactly one month’s time I will be attending the Open Day at my university of choice. I am most excited. 


But somewhere deep down inside of me, I am a little bit scared, and yes I am big enough to admit that. Not about moving away from home or being away from my family because, let’s be honest, that was never going to be a bad thing. No, but more importantly, what if university life doesn’t match up to the image I’ve been building up in my head over the last eight months?

I can’t speak for anybody else, but for me, my idea of university life is somewhat like Hogwarts, only without all the magic and Snape.


 University and the lifestyle that comes with it is a place of mystic and knowledge, of passion, lust, love, dusty old books and glitter.  A place of music and candles, neon lights and second hand tea-pots, because we couldn’t afford mugs for coffee like the rich students. And it would be a wonderful life. With the occasional hangover.

However, despite my ideals and conceptions about university, recently a friend of mine has just made the decision to drop out after just one semester. Which truly baffled me no end. I mean, this girl is smart and a hard worker. She toughed it out through our exams on a mixture of fifteen minute cat naps on the common room couch and many a no-doze washed down with a swig of espresso, and managed to get into the top university in the state to study law. 


And now has decided to pack it in and move back home. I mean, why? I just can’t fathom the idea that after all that hard work, after the exams and the applications just to get into said university, after six months of study, why someone would wake up one morning and think: ‘I’ve had enough of hangovers and toga parties. Time to move back home'.

And this, dear reader, is what makes my tummy go all queasy, and not that third serving on chocolate pudding I just ate. There are such high rates of students dropping out of university mid way through their studies in comparison to those students who stay there for the long haul. Perhaps I’m naive and simply disillusioned. Perhaps university life is not what I think it is. Maybe it’s not all friends and handsome professors. What if studying at university is actually about study?

I’ve made the decision to take twelve months off from university and work, rest and play. Which has proven to be a wonderful idea. Yet there is not a day that goes by in which I lay in my bed and dream of my future, in which I am successful and happy. I know that sounds horribly cliched and corny, but it’s true. 

But this dream is a long way off at the very end of of a very long tunnel. And I know deep down inside that to have the life I dream of, to have the career and the life style I crave, I need to get to university and work my butt off.  So personally, for me tertiary study is the only option; there’s no back-up plan. It’s not sink or swim. It’s go-and-jump-off-a-bridge or succeed. 


So am I the only one? Doesn’t every other VCE student dream of the day that they are handed that diploma in their funny little hat firmly in their hands and look out into the crowd of friends and family and say proudly ‘yes, I’ve done it. And I was only drunk for half the time!’

If people weren’t interested in going to university, then why would we all bother? Why do people even bother finishing high-school, let alone going on to further study? Is everyone else simply like me? Do we all sit at home dreaming up ridiculous notions of university where handsome professors roams the halls whilst I sit in the cafe with my friends going over notes with a latte, or is the truth simply much more boring? Is university just high school?

This is actually really frightening. Truthfully. Is it really as glorious and fantastic as I imagine? Or is it simply school all over again, except you can get away with sleeping through lectures without fear of a phone call home to your agitated mother. What if I hate it and want to come home? What if I never succeed and end up working in IGA forever?

I’ll let you know in a month’s time...

don't call me baby

There is something that you dear reader and I have in common. Ever though we may have never met before. Even if you are a boy and I am a girl, or if you live in Finland and I in a different hemisphere. We are all living and breathing creatures. We have all had to have been born. It doesn’t matter if you are an IVF child, or if you where born a la natural, we have all been expelled from some poor woman’s body at some stage. 

Any time there is any mention of the words ‘childbirth’ or ‘labour’ on the television, my Mother talks for hours and hours about all the pain and goo she went through to bring me into this world. Which makes me feel guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault. So, if all the pain, why did you go back for more? If the act of pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lime is so God damn awful, then why do we do it? And, more to the point, why do mothers go back for second, or third children?

I cannot tell you how this came about, but this afternoon at work my colleagues and I decided to watch on YouTube some footage of a woman giving birth. For purely educational purposes I assure you. Now wasn’t that an experience to behold. I felt achy and exhausted and this sudden inexplainable hatred towards all men, and I was simply watching. 

I always was under the impression that childbirth was much like that sketch from Monty Python. You’d be standing at your kitchen sink doing the dishes when all of a sudden a little brown slimy thing would plop out of you and slither to the floor, to be picked up by one of your 15 other children. Or maybe that was just in early 20th Yorkshire where that happens. 




Back at work, all of the mothers in the room went all misty-eyed and gasped in amazement at this new life being created right there on the screen. And I’m sure that it is beautiful and amazing ect. But both myself and the other childless woman in the room were too busy crossing our legs in sympathy and thinking of ways to avoid men for eternity. To quote: “That’s the cheapest form of contraception I know.” I’m sorry to all you mothers out there, but no matter how much you gush about the beauty of birth and giving life, it is just simple disgusting. I’d never have ever thought that there would be so much debris and blood. It looks every bit as bloody painful as you all keep harping on about.

But look around you. Unless you’ve unfortunately fallen down a mine shaft recently, chances are that there is a human being of some description in the vicinity of the room that you’re in. That other person has had to have been born, much like yourself. And me. I was born too. We’ve all caused some poor woman out there a world of pain.

This got me thinking. This whole ‘birthing’ thing was awful. I grew up on a farm and have seen calving from a young age. Let me explain for you the process involved. Cow + Farmer + an old piece of rope + a lot of tugging = a goopy looking calf laying in the hay.

Overall, the whole process is quite brutal and, coincidentally, animalistic. I always imagined that when it was my turn, it would be so much nicer. But after what I’ve seen today, I think not. 


To be honest, I think it’s worse for humans. For starters, I am a human being, thus I have emotions and feelings. I’m going to feel a wee bit embarrassed and exposed with my legs thrust into metallic stirrups with my lady garden on displayed for all to see.

I’m just simply amazed that after all that pain, after all the goo and muck, the swearing and punching, that women go back for seconds.Why? Is there some sort of prize at the end of it? Eternal glory? From what I can gather all that happens is you get fat and lumpy and are presented with a gooey thing which constantly cries.

Does this mean that I’ll never have children? No. Does it mean I will? No. Who know’s what will happen. But there is one thing I know. I will be sticking to viewing teenagers lighting their own farts on YouTube for a while I think....

all you need is love

It has been nearly one year exactly since I was last in a relationship. And, up until quite recently, I have been perfectly content with my newly acquired ‘singledom.’ I can go out with the lads and the girls on Friday nights whenever I please without having to check with anyone else (apart from mother, which is what you get when you decide to spend your year off from university living at home). I can go for a good week or two without shaving my legs or seeing to my eyebrows because, let’s be honest, who’s going to be looking at those. And that’s just one less present to buy at Christmas, Valentine’s Day, birthdays and anniversaries.  Which works well for me, because I am a bit tight when it comes to money. However, that’s a tale for another day.

I had not felt any need for another human being’s presence in my life apart from my boss, mainly because he pays me. I was perfectly happy with going to work, coming home, spending Friday and Saturday nights with my friends and family, and spending time with other blokes without having to think of a jealous other-half. It was fantastic. For the first time after schooling and exams had finished, I had the time to focus purely and simply on myself. But then, enter stage left: Mr X.

Mr X, as he shall be known, was simply an innocent young man whom I stumbled upon one Friday with the girls. He simply came into the cafe for whatever it was he was after, and after a bout of outrageous flirting between he and I, he quietly left. Exit stage right, Mr X, leaving a trail of excited women and one beaming girl in his wake. However, what may seem like innocent banter between two young individuals held so much more weight and poignancy than I could possibly fathom. Mr X’s presence in our little group drew attention to the other women whom I was with to the fact that I was the only person in sight who was not married, in a serious relationship or living in a de facto relationship. There is not a sign of a short fling or one-night stand; indeed I am the lone dating wolf. Which, I’ll say again, suited me just fine. However, they’ve all taken it upon themselves to ‘make myself available’ to any good looking man who is breathing in and out that walks in the door. Which is ok, I guess. But I wasn’t really looking for a boyfriend. Like I said earlier, I was oh-so-happy driving solo.

Also, another thing. I am by no means the most good looking girl in the world. Granted, I’m not a total troll, I hope, but I’m no Bridgette Bardot. So what on earth would Mr X, a quite attractive gentleman, be doing asking me what I am up to on the weekend and asking my name? 

However, in the time that has prolapsed since the arrival of said X boy in my life and now, I have changed my outlook quite a bit. Actually, rather a lot. For starters, I plucked my eyebrows for the first time in months on Saturday. I served a bloke who looked like he was carved from a cold, perfect piece of marble from the hands of God himself, and he smiled back at me. I feel as though I have been reborn, and for the first time am recognising the opposite sex not just as friends who have a bit more hair than I, but potential partners. And  it has been fun. 

 But something doesn’t feel right. I feel strange. I feel girly. I feel...quite pathetic, to be perfectly honest. Why have I all of a sudden decided to make such an effort to attract males who I don’t even know? Males who two weeks ago I wouldn’t have even batted an eye at? I wasn’t looking for anyone a week ago, so what makes me think that I should start?

And what about my freedom? My singledom? My right to purchase a bag of crispy M&M’s at the petrol station, rest them in my lap and devour the lot whilst I drive to Melbourne has been ruined because, rather than reveling in the wonder that is the chocolate confectionary melting in my lap, I have to worry about getting fat, having blue stained teeth and becoming unattractive to men. I have to worry about what I am doing each and every weekend and how I am going to spend that time with my man rather than plodding around home in my pajamas on a Friday night only to be spontaneously invited out to the pub for a night on the town. I can barely manage to organise my own life as it is, how in the world would I be able to juggle another human being, let alone a man, and all the strings attached? 

I’m not ruling out love and the possibility of potentially falling in love with another human being. I’m not totally against monogamy. But just for the moment, I’m just fine the way things are. Although, Mr X was quite good looking...

How does that song go? “Love is all you need....and a bag of M&M’s...”