Category: Life of the Lazy Student


When I found these convos on my girls page I died inside.

Ahaha.

Now that’s ensured more views (seriously), I’m going to inflict INJUSTICE upon your eyes.

Maybe not.

I’m supposed to be packing and washing up but I have accomplished neither, awesome. I DID, however, watch four episodes of The Simpsons. Fabulous.

Warning: Contains adult languages and themes, shameless parody and cuntishness.

Because I am wonderful and highly educated, being at Oxbridge (CAMBRIDGE) and all, my favourite men in the world are the thick ones who will not figure out that I am slagging them and their plebian sexual abilities off in this little blog, even when it becomes national news for some unfathomable reason. (Perhaps the miners and their urchins like to read about the goldleafed lady parts of brilliant belles such as yours truly; I do not know or care, because I am highly educated and must worry about my studies which are more important than yours and, of course, my reputation as a vixen with a poor sense of humour and the inability to keep schtum about my silly little sex life.)

I met one of my favourite men in the world at a social gathering common only to one half of Oxbridge, that being CAMBRIDGE, or “Bridgey” as its glorious scholars, like me, enjoy calling it over our pretentious conversations about being Better Than You. These social gatherings are quite exclusive, and you must be given what is known as “Daddy’s allowance” to be invited. But enough about my lifestyle, I can see you want to know about how I contracted the Aids. Pray stick with me, peasants, the time to fap is nigh.

He was a little paunchy, and a massive twat to go with it: I could not let this great love monster escape my opportunistic clutches. As he guffawed heartily about the girth of his scholarly phallus, I knew he would be the one: the ignorant thrusting machine who would service my upper-class cunny and remain moronically in the dark, even though I would write accurately of his physical appearance, vocal exchanges and exact geographical location on the night we made sweet silver-spooning love and even when my racy erotica is heavily publicised by masturbating journalists.

“Hello,” he said, as I collided into him, reeking of desperation. I tapped my wine glass three times to satisfy my OCD. (Did I not mention that before?! Foolish me! Well, I have it and it makes me appear really interesting and not at all idiotically unknowledgeable about the condition and what it actually does to its actual sufferers.)

He smiled a crooked yellowed overbite and I gushed. Every British man reading this is so predictable and unable to defend themselves against my beautiful sexism that they will naturally assume that I am talking about them, so I will not bother to disguise him beyond telling you all that he is 6′ 1″ and named Algernon.

He pulled me into his flabby grip and breathed hot winey breath all over my blessed face. This reaffirmed my notion that this was indeed the one I would write about to all my vicariously-fapping readers and we adjourned to a room. I am not sure which room it was – a drawing room, an observatory, a Turkish bath – but I know that I was bent backwards over a large gilded globe, which made it easier for me to read the spines of everything by Chaucer upside-down whilst being rogered. Painful, but romantic.

The sex was lovely but I’ll leave that to your imaginations after fucking around creating a huge build-up. Anti-climax? Oh non, my nether regions beg to differ! 😉

I’d adore it if I could tell you something intelligent, but I simply cannot engage my throbbingly huge brain. Slutty outfits are calling to me – I can’t let this nice little attention-seeker run dry now, can I?! Love and terrible “sexual puns” always!

If you haven’t read the Sex at Oxbridge blog, do so. It’s gratingly unfunny, unfair and arrogant. This is not a cunt-punt to any Oxbridge student: just this one who makes them all look like tossers, which I know for a fact they are not. (Largely.)

My chest is covered with red glitter because I have spent the day courting my skirt and fixing up the panels that happen to be covered with… well, red glitter. So my breasts are superstars and my room is dusted with sparkles.

I have also been making rat ears.

Well, all right, I made one rat ear and got bored.

I have one rat ear, behold its corpulent velvet loveliness. It’s huge because I’m a theatrical attention seeker

Why am I making rat ears, then?

WELL, on Friday I’m going to see EMILIE FREAKING AUTUMN which is, you know, cool.

She is one of the only musicians I actually obsess over, as opposed to being mildly inclined towards. You will have guessed this from the number of times I’ve stuck her songs on here. The above song is fucking hilarious. (The other  artists are the Dresden Dolls, Fiona Apple and Alice Cooper, just so’s you know.) And a little bit of Google-fu will tell you that she’s obsessed with rats and plague and whatever so a bit of costume is needed. I ordered a corset with red and white ribbons on (swoon) and I will spangle and ratify and be a dirty fangirl.

SPEAKING OF DIRTY FANGIRLS, I now have a bag with the Mad Hatter on. To join, you know, the bag with Jack Sparrow on, and the hoodie with Edward Scissorhands on. Mwahaha.

I have no fucking idea why I’m so hyper; I’ve only had Diet Cherry Coke, which contains no real sugar. And no calories, so I can overdose and be pleased. On the other hand, I’ve managed to eat eight hot cross buns in two days.

Clockwise from left: Count Festoon, Professor T. Pimlico, Sir Scrofula and Caractacus Jones.

Last night I watched Kubrick’s Lolita… I have nothing to say other than when I get my own house, it will look like Clare Quilty’s.

Nom

I found they do Cherry Lucozade in one litre bottles, my iPod Siegfried broke, and DT is now a hat stand for me to trail corset suspender clips from, the good, the bad and the ugly all in one day. Awesome.

Also I feel sick, I’ve eaten too much.

AND –

Fiona fucking Apple. I bid you goodnight.

Literature.

To be played as you read, if you wish:

“I had dinner before everyone else and afterwards I came and sat at the table, until eight o’ clock when it was understood that I had to go upstairs; the precious and fragile kiss that Mama usually entrusted to me in my bed at the moment I was going to sleep I would have to convey from the dining-room to my bedroom and protect during the whole time I undressed, so that its sweetness would not shatter, so that its volatile essence would not spread and evaporate and, on precisely those evenings when I needed to receive it with more care, I had to take it, I had to snatch it brusquely, publicly…”The Way By Swann’s, Marcel Proust.

Do people write like that any more?

(It’s so hard to read: the entire thing is long, winding sentences with occasional punctuation and very vivid imagery.)

Will I ever have the ability to read it in the original French?

(Erm…)

I wish school-standard French taught you how to speak it fluently instead of useless little phrases and all that grammar. I’ll be pedantic about a sentence only after I can speak a whole one without hesitating, thank you very much.

On the day of my last journal entry I had a sudden, very strong craving for tea. This is remarkable because I tried tea at the age of eight and detested it. For the next eleven years I was to detest even the smell of the stuff, until I was struck by a need for tea. Weirdly enough, I’m now drinking silly amounts of the stuff. And I really like it.

I was told today, very sweetly, that I have a nice singing voice. It made me pleased 🙂

TOFFPOX: Prudence! What kind of person drinks rum?
PRUDENCE: …A person who wants to get drunk?
TOFFPOX: No! Yes! I mean – what sort of rogue is usually associated with rum?
PRUDENCE: …Johnny Depp?
TOFFPOX: …Who?
PRUDENCE: Johnny Depp, the local barman.
TOFFPOX:
(disdainfully) “Johnny Depp, the local barman”?
PRUDENCE: Yes – well, if you told me to say the first thing that comes into my head when you say “rum”, I would say “Johnny Depp”, because he’s the local barman, and serves alcohol, including rum, so, yes, he’s the sort of rogue that I would associate with –
TOFFPOX: No, no, Prudence, you’re missing my point –
PRUDENCE: Which is?
TOFFPOX: Pirates! Pirates drink rum!
PRUDENCE: …And?
TOFFPOX: We could dress up as pirates and run away to sea!

First night of Fairytale Shorts – ten minute fairytale adaptations/devised pieces performed by the uni’s drama society – went well. My short, “Scurvy Curs: A Delightful Tale of Whimsy”, about two ladies who seek adventure as a badly-disguised male pirate and a parrot named Nobstradamus, went down well. I am extremely pleased with the audience’s reaction to the whole thing. Pirates having an orgy to the tunes of “Love Shack”, a maid with a feather duster wound into a coathanger and worn as a headdress and the crew dancing around the stage to “Why Is The Rum Gone?” seem to go down well with people my age and older, which excites me. I’m glad I wasn’t just writing stuff that I thought was hysterically funny and alienated everybody else. AND they laughed a lot at my character, which I suspect is because of the highly nasal voice and the glasses perched on the end of my nose. I love Bluster. She’s insane.

COCKSWAIN: Do ye swear by the sword that ye really be a scurvy cur and yer true callin’ be to run through bluejackets and lobsters?
BLUSTER: Are you averse to killing naval officers of any sort?
TOFFPOX: No.
BLUSTER: No.
COCKSWAIN: And be ye true to the sweet trade until ye find yeself in Davy Jones’s locker?
BLUSTER: Will you be a pirate until you cop it?
TOFFPOX: …I suppose so.
BLUSTER: Yes.

Second and final night of the performance tonight. I had a nightmare that I was forced to rewrite the entire thing and everything fell apart on the night, and I’m glad that’s not the case. (I guess now that I’ve written that, half my cast is going to fall ill or break body parts. I hope not.)

In other, more academically-focused news, I got the same mark in both my first essays for this year: THREE MARKS short of a first. I started out on a trip of self-loathing once more, until my seminar tutor told me that actually, it’s really good at this stage, and next time I can work towards a first. I am very happy indeed. I got a couple of firsts last year, which don’t count towards my degree mark, but I hope to repeat the performance again. It’s very odd. I’m used to A*s in all my English pieces of work, so not getting a first kind of equated to getting a B. You won’t really appreciate this until you know that, consistently throughout my school life, I have been achieving among the highest marks in the year in everything to do with English. It was that one subject that I never ever really tried hard at but enjoyed and got high marks in anyway. Science and Maths? Bollocks to them.

I leave you with this most important moral message from my play:
BLUSTER: And disregarding the danger of STDs, they all lived happily ever after. Remember girls, you CAN do anything, but you WILL end up as a sexual object anyway!

URGH hello.

I have been flagrantly ill and as a result have lost a considerable amount of weight. Awesome. Things I ate yesterday: Viscount x 6, jacket potato x 2, massive serving of chocolate pudding x 1. Awesome.

Weight is now gained, I suspect.

Last night my womb tried to commit mutiny and had me in a miserable mess jackknifed under the quilt trying not to actively hunt things down and kill them to relieve the intense pain. Paracetamol? BAH, not strong enough. I hate bein’ a gurl.

Consequently I did not sleep until the small hours. Consequently I have missed missed my Music and Narrative lesson. LUCKILY the tutor records and sticks all his lectures up on t’internet so I love him for that. But how do I email him and inform him that my incessant female behaviour caused me to miss his lesson? Dilemma. Bah.

I sort of made a promise to…136 people that I would dye my hair purple and look like Madam Mim because of it. I may have to wait until I actually have enough money. Also I found out that if I bleach my Very Dark Hair I stand a good chance of losing my curls, possibly permanently, since there is no guarantee the hair will grow back the same texture and style. I’m not prepared to do that. I like my crazy Bellatrix mop, cheers. Dark purple it shall be. Maybe I’ll bleach streaks so bits show up brilliant violet. Maybe.

So I settled on my Hallowe’en costume after much agonising because that’s what I do when I want to dress up. I agonise. For a long time.

And so I will enter the revelry dressed as a Filthy Victorian. For those of you unfamilliar with the term as a name of sorts, it sounds like what you think it might be: a Victorian who is filthy. Except not in an urchin-type manner, oh no – think filthy nobility. Marquis de Sade on something stronger. Anachronism alert. I think too much about costumes. I’m madly tired and awake at the same time.

And, for those of you unfamiliar with the term as a name of sorts, it comes from the lovely Emilie Autumn, a singer to whom a close friend introduced me a couple of years back. I’ve posted some of her work up here before. A family friend commented that she sounds like what Kate Bush might have been today. She plays harpsichord, electric violin, plenty of other delightful-sounding instruments, sings alternately like an angel and a banshee, and describes her brand of songitude as Victoriandustrial. Amused, I have always been. She’s totally nuts as well, which is always a perk.

Here is the song that will be stuck in my head for the rest of the day thanks to my dedication to make you listen to what I listen to:

I think the inspiration came partly from watching Corpse Bride too; I love that film entirely too much.

So I bought a long black skirt and four metres of emerald and black organza and will attempt to make a Victorian-bustle-thing-of-sorts this week. And lace gloves. I won’t make these, I have already bought them. And a fascinator. When I become rich I will buy ridiculous things like this all the time and spend my days rolling in velvet wearing Elizabethan ruffs and monocles. I may invite you to join me for sweet tea.

I saw Up yesterday with two of my delightful friends and though I am not about to review the whole thing I need to say that a) dogs that sound like Foamy the Squirrel make me cry with laughter and b) finding out that animated characters are infertile is intensely heartbreaking. When I first saw the trailer I wasn’t particularly thrilled, mainly because I’m neutral towards Pixar in general, but if you’re having doubts like I had doubts, forget them and go to the cinema. Go and see Up, obviously, not just any random film.

My Southampton accent has gone away! This is because I have spent lots of time in the company of people who speak rather beautifully. The life of the wife is ended by the knife!


Beautiful.

The websites I really really like today are…

Music Map – find out similar-sounding artists to the ones you like, a lifesaver if you like relatively obscure stuff and trawling through garbage on YouTube isn’t something you want to spend your spare time on. Like Last.fm’s facility but far simpler visually.

Jelly Towers – so my brother introduced me to the parent website and now I’m hooked. Jelly Towers involves feeding jelly cubes to “Jydras” (basically sugar-junkie hydras) using simple balancing methods. It’s meant for younger children than I. But can I do it? Can I fuck. It’s one of THE most frustrating games I have ever stumbled across. Those fucking jelly cubes only have to take a slight knocking to make them fly everywhere. Irritation in game form can now be yours.

How to make ruffles is a skill everybody should learn. Ruffles are sexy.

You didn’t fully believe me when I said Emilie Autumn is totally nuts, did you?
NOW YOU WILL.

First, WATCH AND LISTEN because this is amazing and I watched it this evening.

Secondly, we are definitely getting a blue-tongued skink 😀
Lord Bill Ptolemy Pythagoras, regardless of its sex, shall be its name, and “Cosmic Creepers” its nickname, just because. WE ARE EXCITED.

Today I purchased a black tricorn and big black and peacock feathers, and I now have a pirate hat. It’s wonderful. I am proud of my skills, which consisted of glueing feathers to hat. Truly tricky.

Spam comments can suck my invisible cock, they’re fucking annoying and, if you’re going to post them, kindly contract something nasty and wheeze yourself to death. Thank you.

Lots of baby pictures have been appearing on the old Facebook feed of late. Dear new parent(s), your brats are hideous and squishy. They would be quite nice on toast, I expect, but other than that they’re uglier than Brundlefly and twice as productive in the vomit sector. Therefore, kindly stop assailing my eyes with photographic evidence of your active genitalia.

My life is being wasted thus. It’s driving me to distraction. I am in love with those little pink blocks that symbolise all my frustration and hatred.

I’m not doing Italian as an elective anymore, YEEHAW! It was really starting to bore me. Too much grammar and, even after a year of doing it, the sparse Italian I can speak was learned from phrasebooks and the internet, and not the course itself. Someone needs to address the way we approach and teach languages in this country – it’s a failed system. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: no wonder Europe hates us. We’re a lazy single-language island of fail.

Instead, I’m looking at operas and film scores. And next term, CHARLES I YAAAAY. Though not as hot as his son, and shorter than even me, Charles I is still groovy. “In spite of his intelligence and cultivation, Charles was curiously inept in his contacts with human beings. Socially, he was tactless and diffident, and his manner was not helped by his stutter and thick Scottish accent, while in public he was seldom able to make a happy impression.” Bless him. Awkward Scots for the win.

Heeeeee. :3

My corset came, it makes me thin, I am so happy.

The five pounds of weight I thought I gained were actually errors by my scale, and I have in fact lost an extra pound rather than gained anything during the time I’ve been here. Still considering joining the gym. Still agonising over the cost and whether I’d actually go or not. Pole dancing starts soon. I am excited.

I have a Magenta costume. I qualify as being cool.

My seminar groups and teachers are all good, with intelligent people rather than idiots who think they know it all but actually don’t. Huzzah.

I have a four-day weekend. Even bigger huzzah.