chronicles

Ever since the legitimate journalist Samantha Brick published her not at all deluded article “‘There are downsides to looking this pretty’: Why women hate me for being beautiful” with the Daily Mail last month, I’ve been addicted to reading similarly terrible stories about an edible version of Princess Beatrice’s vagina-hat and Harry Styles parking his car. 

I know, it’s horrifying.

Some people are obsessed with watching Jersey Shore just so they can hate on fist-pumping oompa-loompas, and my recent time-wasting activity of choice is no different. I enjoy reading the articles not only because I love to loathe the ridiculous hijinks of the rich and famous, but because the articles are so badly written.

Fast forward to this morning. I woke up, my eyeliner still on my face (though a bit more smudged than the night before), and two ibuprofen tablets set next to a water bottle on my bedside stand. Yeah, I can totally anticipate a hangover. I’m an adult; I know how to take care of myself.  The reason I allowed myself to have a bit of fun yesterday also happened to be well-documented in a judgmental-yet-hilariously-titled story in the Daily Mail called “Passing out, peeling off and drinking port out of condoms: Shame of 2,000 drunken Cambridge students’ riotous party in park.” Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen. That’s my university.

The premise is simple: Caesarean Sunday is held at the beginning of exam term, when students blow off steam before dedicating their life to a studying and a revision schedule. Drinking societies have their initiation, and then rival societies participate in an annual fight (which is essentially a group of posh boys in blazers engaged in a cat fight). Students at Cambridge work hard and play hard, and I certainly had fun. Granted, I know my alcohol limit, particularly when I have class the next day, and I didn’t participate in some of the more creative drinking techniques (I refer you to the article for details).

What upset me was the moral high horse that the Mail decided to take—young people make mistakes, and maybe they’ll learn from these irresponsible decisions. Even having fun includes its trial and error. I didn’t learn to be a responsible drinker without a few mishaps of my own! Some of the comments that followed were equally aggravating. “And to think, these “fools” could be leading this country soon. It’s bad enough with the idiotts we already have!!!…” You’re totally right, anon. Too bad we’re stuck with “idiotts” and don’t have smart people like you to be tomorrow’s leaders! I prefer the following comment: “Students get drunk. I heard bears defecate in woods, want to run a story on that too? I bet it’ll be super insightful.”

I mean, my main issue with the article is that they didn’t include anything about the fact that yesterday was the one day of the year that my hair actually cooperated with my curling iron! They didn’t even include a photo. Bastards. I’ll give you this instead, from later that night in a taxi cab to the city centre before queuing for half an hour outside of the clubs. (…one of the three photos we took last night.)

Anyway, if you have ever wondered what life for a Cambridge student is like, it’s kind of like this. Intense studying of literature, Middle English, rhetoric, clause structure, and logic (well, for me), and then even more intense parties to forget the stress. Lots of hugging and tequila shots. Tons of “I love yous” and “You’re staying in England permanently after you graduate, right?”

Oh, I hope so. Maybe I can get a job at the Daily Mail.

I just reblogged Gomez and then became aware of the fact that the Internet has no idea that I am into sports. Seriously, I am. Sometimes. A crash course (if you’re bored enough) under the jump.

(My cousin Melanie in her pink scarf and I supporting Karlsruher SC in Germany earlier this month.)

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Captain Jack (Sparrow, not Harkness)

Marie Antoinette’s head

pints of STRONGBOW & pints of other things too

good weather (for about five minutes)
 

and then bad effing weather for the rest of the time

the Harrods bear (in an effort to escape the bad weather, of course)

smelly cats (this one’s for you, Phoebe Buffay)

an Oyster card for those trips on the Tube (though I really should have bought one back in September)

St. George’s Day festival on Trafalgar Square

set-up for the London Marathon

the actual London Marathon (and Waldo!)

but most importantly, my incredible cousins who are already back in Germany

kasiaintransit:

“Just got paid, Friday night
Party hoppin’, feelin right
Booties shakin’, all around
Pump that jam, while I’m gettin’ down”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the poetic chorus to “Just Got Paid” by the immortal boy band *NYSNC. What words of wisdom. How else would we know how to spend all of our hard-earned salary in the matter of hours? And on Friday night, too— way to keep the weekend sacred, boys. Particularly after a week of hard work and heavy thinking, Fridays and Saturdays are the perfect time for workers and students alike to blow off some steam and get rowdy, right?

Actually, Cambridge disagrees. As you’ll soon learn, Cambridge always has to be different, and nights out are no exception.

Before you assume that this is because Cambridge students are so studious that they never see beyond library walls, I will say this: Cambridge does know how to have fun. To a scary degree. Drinking could easily be a major here, along with dancing at clubs. From an outsider’s perspective, it’s actually quite impressive.

But, apparently Fridays and Saturdays are too mainstream for Cambridge. After all, several programs have labs or lectures on Saturdays, so it’s not as if a romp ‘round the town at 4:00 a.m. is the wisest life choice. Instead, everyone goes out on Sundays. And Tuesdays. And Wednesdays. And Thursdays. (And, hey- on occasion, Mondays.) Not only that, but certain days are reserved for certain clubs: Wednesdays are spent at Cindy’s, and Thursdays at Life.

For instance, last Sunday, I put on some lipstick and danced for a little while at a cocktail bar to celebrate my friend Liz’s birthday. And then I went back to my room to finish up my essay on Arthurian legend. (Don’t worry, Mama and Daddy. My supervisor praised the paper. I CAN do it all!)

Me, Sunday night. After a fair bit of dancing and before an even fair-er bit of writing.

“This warrants a tweet,” I thought. (Just kidding. I never think in terms of exciting words such as “warrant.”) So: “Cambridge is all about ‘work hard, play hard.’ Not necessarily in that order. And sometimes within the same night. Lesson learned.”

Lesson learned, indeed. I’m working on my essay tonight and tomorrow (yeah, Friday and Saturday) to avoid a self-inflicted curfew when we go out again on Sunday. 

Nice try, *NSYNC. At least you got it right with “Pop”!

“Sick and tired of hearing
All these people talk about,
What’s the deal with this pop life
And when is gonna fade out?
The thing you got to realize
What we doing is not a trend
We got the gift of melody
We gonna bring it till the end!”

Oh, wait…

Edit, 7:12 pm: I literally just heard outside my door: “You’re going out tonight? On a Friday night? …Why? Where?” Point proven.

Sometimes I write like that, especially on my study abroad blog (can I interest you in a follow?). Colloquial, with plenty of y’alls and I’mmas to spare.

And other times I write like this:

In this essay, I will engage in conversation with other critics, ultimately challenging them with my argument that Gawain’s character is neither inconsistent nor a trope for the Round Table itself, but instead is only human and thus powerless to uphold the ideals of Arthur’s chivalric code. Thus, honor and duty are rendered transcendent of human capability, even for the knights of the Round Table…

But it’s been much too long since I’ve written in AP style. Going to begin writing for a newspaper here, I think. It’s called The Cambridge Student. Who knows? Next month, I might shoot for a novel. A story about airports, Facebook profiles, and curbside prophets. A travelogue, and a history. A tale in which place becomes character. Not a philosophical statement- just a bit of vagabond fun. 

I’m not good yet, but I’ve enough love of words, words, words to spend hours reserved for sleep with pen and paper in hand.