The debut novel in JK rowling's new spin-off series
Aspiring writer and utter cliché. Likes Hamilton, Caitlin Moran, and tricolons that are weighted towards the end. Is surprisingly good at connect 4.
*Any of you who remember this blog will know that the last post was many many moons ago. I could pretend that the reason for this is that I was just too consumed by my university studies to waste my time on frivolities such as this blog, but we would all know that that was a huge lie. The truth is that I did write a post about the run up to Christmas, but just forgot to actually post it during the run up to Christmas, meaning we will have to eagerly await that post in ten months time. I’M SORRY – OK?*
As I’m sure most of you are aware, we are currently within the demonic clutches of university exam season (dun, dun DUNNNN) and, whilst the days leading up to an exam that you are hideously unprepared for is probably the closest we can get in this life to being drowned in actual hellfire, I propose that finishing exams early and living in the bland nightmare of exam purgatory is an even worse fate.
Ah, Britain. No, Great Britain: a country so smugly pleased with itself that we actually put an adjective in the name; just on the off chance any other regions were for a moment uncertain of our superior status. During an exchange programme, a few years ago, I realised just how terrible we English are.
Recently in my life, I went on a holiday with my friends, or squad, which we imaginatively called our squaliday. Considering that 90% of this blog’s audience are the people who went on the squaliday, it would make sense to write about our hilarious misadventures of the past week for the purposes of nostalgia and relatability.
Instead, I’m going to delve into a more pressing investigation. My hypothesis: Leonardo DiCaprio could’ve ‘drowneded’ in all of his films.
Mainly because it means I don’t have to write anything new, and partly because I think it will entertain you, here is (probably) the best thing I’ve ever written – I showed it to my teacher and got a star sticker put on it, if you need proof of the standard.
I used to be very scared of slugs so wrote this pretty speciesist poem when I was 9 or 10 just for fun calling for an international slug cull. Because what child doesn’t have genocide on their mind?
Anyway, here’s my poem about slugs which I rather imaginatively titled: Slugs.
It’s also my dad’s birthday (little shout out – you should buy him a present) but I’m scared that I will be singing Happy Birthday in between sporadic sobs while clutching my tear-stained results in one hand. Admittedly, that’s probably the worst case scenario.
I don’t understand how to cope though. Roughly two months in between your last exam and the day when you get to find out if you’ve screwed up your life. I can’t handle that kind of pressure.
By this, I don’t mean that I’m hoping to be go into something stupid, a profession that guarantees disrespect and ridicule. I don’t know, something silly like being a semi-professional uni-cyclist or a politician or something.
I mean that I want to be a writer which means that I am destined to be poor.
We all have different personas based on who we’re with. The occasional time when you’re out with one friend and then see another and your behaviour visibly changes; then suddenly the existential questions come flooding in:
Why am I acting differently now? In what way did I just change? What am I really like? Who is the real me? WHO AM I????
It’s hard to focus on small talk when internally you’re having an identity crisis.