This week, I was roused from an extended booze-sugar and long-distance heartbreak coma when, without warning, my future sidled up and defibrillated me in the tits. For whatever reason, Mrs Bennett had decided to set the internal deadline for UCAS statements about three years too early, meaning that I'm gonna have to start thinking seriously about what I want to do at university rather than spending my evenings putting love spells on the lead singer from Palma Violets. What a bitch!
Naturally, a scrum has formed outside the English block, as anyone with half a brain (so that’s everyone, I guess, we are children, we have small brains) jostles for the English teachers' attention. They’ve got a point though, right? I mean if someone with a degree in writing can't make you sound vaguely interesting you're probably better off throwing yourself in a canal now rather than enduring three, long years of solitude as the rest of the student body writhes around you comparing sex bruises and sniffing lottery tickets.
Can you tell I've not been to university yet? Well excuuuuse me if you're not part of the lucky generation that had their teenage life trajectory scorched into their brains by the first Skins advert.
Anyway, eventually I clawed my way into a "tutorial pod" (ugh) but it quickly became clear that my first attempt at my UCAS statement – which is essentially a glorified cover letter – was not remotely up to scratch. "The thing is, Berlinder honey," my 22-year-old teaching assistant coos, "You simply can't mention your anti-social behavior in a UCAS statement;” Meaning I was wrong; it’s not a glorified cover letter, but 4,000 words of lies and hot air. When she hands it back, it’s a mess of red crosses, circles and scribbled notes, most of which simply read: “re-think”. Is it worth it? You tell me, grandpa.
As if trying to make myself sound like a highly social and internet-savvy genius isn’t taking up enough brain-space, I’m also trying to decide whether or not to report my History teacher as a pervert. Bumbling, ineffectual and cosily incompetent, Mr. Brown has given up on trying to enthuse his unruly charges with tales of the Victorian rail network, and merely listens in on our personal conversations instead. Oh joy.
Yesterday we were all watching a video of this guy declaring his love for Chloe, when Mr B pipes up (like, shut up already) about how an ex-student was filmed having sex with some bro at a party. Trust me, hearing your teacher say “intercourse”, “mobile device” and “poor thing” in the same sentence will never leave the dark recesses of your mind. Thanks for letting us know that all academics are complete and utter perverts Sir, I wonder if putting thinly veiled allusions to the big S-E-X in my personal statement might be the thing to win me a spot at uni? Hey, you never know.
Either way I’m never going to finish this bullshit 4,000 words while Lizzy Jones is lisping into my left ear about how difficult it is juggling her part-time General Studies A-level with an eating disorder. Lizzy went to my old school too, so I've known her forever, and can safely say that I’ve never met someone so mesmerised by XXS Zara jumpers and their own exposed ribcage. She wavers between clinging to me for dear life (literally) and shunning me for like-minded girls that consume seven nuts and two sips of milk for lunch. Look LJ, I'm sorry I friend-dumped you in secondary school, it was nothing personal (lie) but remember that time you fainted on me in Maths, and I revived you? You didn't have to scream "Do I smell carbs?!" as soon as you came to, it was kind of the meanest thing ever.
The familiar thunk of Lizzy's emaciated frame hitting the floor snaps me out of my sweet nostalgia. Christ on a bike, someone get the girl some smelling salts and a sandwich already. If I sound like I’ve got the empathy levels of Anne Robinson with a grinding comedown, don't hate me plz. It’s only because UCAS genuinely is horrid, and the prospect of having to leave our provincial love-nests has given all of Year 13 PMT (except Lizzy, obviously… body of an 11-year-old, etc).
Is it normal to envy my out-of-school friends who are constantly high on the acetone fumes they inhale from working in nail salons? Sigh. Anyway, bad time to whine, I seriously need to make a start on all the charity work I’m about to insert into my personal statement. Later!
Previously: Things Got YOLO at My School Disco