today i thought to myself, “nice job handling eye contact with those mutual friends on that happenstance run-in. just enough discretion and good timing,” and then i remembered why i drink.
chronicles
life, in which Kasia is a total cray-cray party animal
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.
goddammit I’m really enjoying Girls
I’m really upset that I understand this show. I shouldn’t relate to these girls who come from parents who have enough money to support them in New York City, but apparently that’s what I’ve become and I kind of hate myself for it (I mean my parents still wouldn’t be able to support me, but that’s not by choice, like Hannah’s mom and dad). Plus they live in Greenpoint which is “Little Poland” and where I was so convinced that I would move when I was nineteen—they are actually living the life that I used to hope for, right down to the neighborhood. And now I’m going to be 24 in only three short years, which is actually terrifying. I can’t stand being so predictable. I need to, like, get married next year and move to suburbia, USA and just shock everyone.
But, I must admit, this program is actually hilarious. “You know what I’m going to do from now on? I’m going to ask people if they’re gay before I have sex with them.” Dialogue- so good, so much better than the cartoons like New Girl that are out there now.
Oh! and Jorma is in it, which alone makes it worth watching.
Okay, informal review, fin.
“Props for spotting that I mispelled ‘the silmarillion’. Haha. No one would have noticed, but nooo, you have to unleash the geek :-)”
For anyone who is still unconvinced at my boiling-over levels of nerdiness, this is a text message I just got from a friend whose dissertation I edited tonight. I could not be more pleased with myself.
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.)
other things I found on my last trip to London, just in case you’re interested:
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
Place des Vosges, Paris (by wakingphotolife:)
Place des Vosges is the oldest planned square in Paris. One of my favorite writers, Victor Hugo, lived in a flat here from 1832 to 1848, so I had to visit. If you go just beyond the square, you might see an old, mumbling beggar who is kneeling down and covering her face with a shawl, or a side garden with an initially terrifying sculpture of a giant mole digging up from underneath the Earth. When I visited Place des Vosges on my birthday (early March), it looked like this:
1. Love upon Parliament Hill, London, on a cold but deliciously crisp Saturday in January 2012.
2. Self-Portrait, that same London, that same Saturday.
I had flown into the UK that morning after spending my Christmas in Germany and Poland. I arrived at the airport a whole two hours before my 6:55 a.m. flight, and was running on two hours of sleep. I planned on spending the night on my friend’s floor in London before moving back into Cambridge the next day. She was busy finishing two papers, so I set out to visit London on my own. I didn’t mind. I’m at my best when I’m alone and not lonely.
Due to the hazy mental mix of sleepiness and adrenaline, I couldn’t tell you how I ended up in Parliament Hill in the north of London, but nonetheless, there I was. I remember how I felt, though—super-thin, for one (I mean, it probably matters) …but more importantly, it was just above freezing, with no pesky clouds hindering the sun from shining brightly in the crystal blue skies, and I thought that I could slice the air if I wanted to. I listened to my playlist of Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin and R.E.M. through my earbuds as I gazed at the park, completely alive with couples strolling, children biking, parents shouting ‘careful!’, dogs barking, and even the sound of a splash as a brave, stupid man jumped into the pond water, protected by only his Speedo. I was so happy in that moment, just as much a part of this world as I was an observing outsider. After reaching the top of Parliament Hill, the sun began to set over the whole of London. Why anyone would deny themselves this view and instead pay thirty-odd pounds to wait in line for the London Eye, I have no idea. I found happiness in London upon Parliament Hill, and I intend to find it again.
This is just to say, though I’m bidding you goodbye for now, Tumblr, I’ll be back. My collection of moments and stories is so large that the impulse to share a glimpse of it with the world at a moment’s notice will always be great enough make me log back on.
CHEERS, losers.
just a moment in time i thought i might share
“happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream”- kerouac
(what can i say, i’ve been binging on beat lit & gonzo journalism lately. the more i read, the more i write.)
Happy Valentine’s Day!
No, I’m not… I’m not being facetious, I swear. Just because I don’t have a beau with whom to celebrate means that I have to lounge in my pajamas while testing out my Domino’s-Ben-and-Jerry’s combo recipe and watching JennaMarbles bitch about cinnamon on YouTube? No way, man. Replace viral videos with terrible chick flicks starring beautiful people, and I tried that already when I was 18 years old. But a lot has changed since then. JennaMarbles hadn’t been invented. I couldn’t yet buy wine for myself. And I was still living in the Midwest.
Now, I live in Cambridge, a place where all the expectations of growing up in Missouri are reversed. My peers don’t have significant others, and it certainly doesn’t bother them. They are too busy with perfecting the balance of hard work and enjoying their youth. Suddenly, I’m an a place where my perspective on life isn’t just recognized— it’s the norm! Good God, pinch me.
You see, growing in the rural Midwest, people were always suspicious non-obsession with boys. Why is finding Prince Charming not your priority, Kasia? Why are you so focused on school and books and writing? In short, what is wrong with you? Even my sister, who is still in high school, recently informed me in a Skype session that she had found the man for me to “marry.” When, in an irritated mood, I retorted in defense and asked her to stop with this unsolicited advice, she responded, “Well obviously you’re being defensive, so there is some truth to you being lonely.”
On the contrary, little sister. In my entire life, I’ve never been happier. My favorite activities are reading books on my own and dancing with friends, and I’ve done plenty of both this year. For the first time, too, my impulse to not give a rat’s ass about a boyfriend has been received as perfectly normal. Before, I felt lonely for two reasons. First, I was met with that ubiquitous response, “there must be something wrong with her.” Secondly, any “romantic” experience I’ve had so far—whether it be dating or hooking up with a guy in a club—has left me with that disgusting sinking feeling in my stomach…just pure, elemental self-loathing. If countless hours of pouring over poetry and novels (gross, English major) have taught me anything, a guy worth having should make you feel good about yourself.
But the fact is, I can finally accept myself as an independent young woman. I now understand that I was never solely lonely (I’ve got the most wonderful friends in the entire world). Instead, I was upset that I was unable to conform to expectations. Now, I know better; finally, finally, I’m becoming comfortable in my own skin. I’m happy for those who are in relationships (perhaps the most telling change of all), which is why I honestly do hope that you have a lovely Valentine’s Day. But if you’re single, this message is for you: don’t despair. If romance isn’t your priority, there’s nothing wrong with you. It only means that you’re driven in some other way, whether it be for your career, religion, family, or whatever else… and that’s just fine.
I will certainly be celebrating Valentine’s Day; I’m about to shower before cocktails and dancing with my friends. And since I’m on Tumblr, I might as well say it: my ship is Kasia x Self-Respect.
