Diary of a Final Year: Week Four.

Last night I decided that was it. I stubbed out my fine Columbian cigar, put down my glass of scotch, and rose from my leather throne. “That’s it, Tull-Miester” I proclaimed “No more beating yourself up. Year four, week four … four pounds worth of beans on toast… It doesn’t matter anymore, you’ve come further than you realise. Time to start concentrating on that”.

Okay, so it was a chocolate digestive, a cup of tea and the ripped leather couch in my student accommodation … but whatever, one thing was true – I have come a long way since first year… So what if I’m a final year Philosophy student who still hasn’t figured out the meaning of life? So what if I’ve studied Creative Writing and English and still haven’t attempted to read Ulysses? So what if I still don’t have a boyfriend, or an answer for that Aunt at family occasions who always asks what I’m going to be when I grow up? So what?

College is about learning and growing, and I’ve done just that.     tea
Right, so I’m still not sure where some of my English seminars are, but at least I’ve learnt to deal with that kind of thing a little better. In the past, my tactic for finding a room was … original, at best. I would stand like an animal in search of prey, until I could spot somebody strolling along the concourse who looked like they were going to a lecture on Renaissance English… and casually stroll behind/beside them with my fingers crossed.

Pray tell, what does somebody going to an English lecture look like? I hear you ask.
Well. I don’t know. It never really worked for me. But that’s mostly because I would get too distracted admiring peoples quirky outfits, and either end up in a complete state of panic, or (occasionally) end up congratulating myself for finding the room by not bothering to go into the lecture at all.

Okay … so I still (occasionally) do that. But at least it’s more of a dull panic now, and not “Ahh! All I wanted was a bit of garlic bread, and now here I am on the phone to Galway fire brigade!” level of panic. (Story for another day).

And, at least my tactic for searching for a boyfriend has changed little too. Actually, it used to be similar to the way I would find lectures. I’d basically just stand very close to a boy, or walk beside him until he said something to his friend and I could fake laugh, and flick my hair over my shoulders.

I don’t bother with that craic anymore. I’m moving up in the world – I’ve joined Tinder!  

                                                           tinder

Although, you probably already knew that. If you haven’t matched with me, (Come on, we all know how small Galway is. One time I accidentally matched with my cousin…) my Mammy has probably told you. She was absolutely over the moon to hear that I was “on the Tinder”. In fact, last Saturday night, we spent an hour swiping through my phone and giggling at messages from strangers. It was great! Great, until I was at Sunday Mass the next morning, and I found myself virtually swiping through the congregation of men.
“Come on Tull-Miester” I told myself “Don’t be so superficial”

When I got home, I was ready to delete the evil app. But then I had a message from a nice young fellow offering to bring me out for dinner this week. (“My treat” he says…) That quickly changed my tune. God knows I could do with the free meal. College can be so expensive! Isn’t it mad, the way we are conditioned to believe that college will be the light years of our lives? How come nobody ever warns you that by year four, if somebody even utters the word “pasta”, you will feel nauseous.

There’s another thing I have improved on. God, I’m really starting to feel like I have my life in order. I only eat pasta twice a week now. Back in the day, the bane of my existence was coming up with inventive ways to serve pasta. Pasta with pesto, pasta with Dolmio sauce, pasta with that gone off dip for the Pringles in the back of the fridge, pasta with butter … and then, by Friday: Pasta with Pasta. Sometimes I would even come home from a night of frolicking around the town and gobble down more pasta. (The amount of pasta would be in direct proportion to how much alcohol I had consumed. Disgusting)…
Anyway, I must go before my pasta boils over.
Will write soon x

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