So once again, the Freshers bandwagon rolls around (has it been that long already?) and once again I am not on it. Which makes the mountain-esque pile of club fliers coming through my letterbox all the more annoying. Incidentally, I have taken to shovelling them back out of the letterbox onto the doorstep in a vain attempt to deter repeat offenders; I don't think this is going to work, and the next stage of my villainous plan is to sit under the letter box and wait for the next unfortunate bastard to come along and try to violate my door with his worthless slips of paper, set them on fire the second they come into sight, and then push them back out onto his feet. Surely this can't be counted as arson as it's taking place on my property? Although technically I'm renting so I suppose it's still not a great idea. Oh well. A girl can dream.
Freshers week also means that navigating home on any given night of the week down London Road becomes something of a challenge, trying to avoid the tarted-up bands of girls who, I depressingly realised last night, are younger than me, and the hungry-looking bands of boys staring at said tarts, and of course all the random splashes of vomit and trickles of tramp urine (40% alcohol content or higher), add their own touches to the challenge. Doing this while you yourself have been drinking is even more irksome and not to be advised.
Don't listen to me. I'm just grumpy because I have to wait another year to university. And don't even know if I'll get in, which, believe me, is killing me.
As if Freshers week wasn't enough (aren't I a fucking ray of sunshine today?!) the Boat Show is currently exerting its annual death grip on Southampton. Don't worry, Boat Show. It's not like anyone actually LIVES here and needs to get on with their LIVES or anything. We don't need to be able to drive at over two miles an hour. We don't need to be able to park anywhere. It's fine. We'll just lie down and play dead til you've finished showing off your floating temples of sickening wealth, then when you've packed up and gone, we'll get to our gnarled peasant feet and go about our miserable mud-grubbing lives, wallowing in our own muck and mating filthily with people who share an umcomfortably high percentage of our DNA. That's fine. Really.
Anyway, as I need to get ready to go out, I shall leave you with this, from my good friend Ryan, who has just concluded an exuberant weekend of birthday festivities including fish and chips, a wang, the Alex, the Dungeon, a jazz club, some rabbits, and an Indian restaurant at half two in the morning:
Me: You are a bad man.
Ryan: Jesus was a bad man, I'm just misguided.
That's all folks.