Apologies firstly for the low word count of this blog. I have exams coming up, the stress of which renders me incapable of pretty much everything - including studying for exams.
Secondly, it has recently come to my attention that an alarming number of people aren't releasing the full potential of their calculators. I have a trick, taught to me at the tender and impressionable age of 7, that will make you and your CASIO the talk of the town.
At this time of the year, the going gets tough. Lots of study to do, lots of essays, lots of research. It’s also the time of semester where you receive results from your earlier endeavours, which will bring you to the horrible realisation that: the semester will be over very soon, and you haven’t learned anything.
However, this is no cause for stress. Grab a textbook, hit the library or any of those great online databases (JSTOR is really popular among the English nerds), get under the covers and construct a cubby house from books, your laptop, a teapot, biscuits and a torch. You can learn anything you need to if you’ve got a couple of free days.
What really sucks about this period of uni is that you start to miss your peeps, compadres, komrads, chums, dawgs, bras, hombres, war-buddies and what have you. To paraphrase David Byrne: “You may ask yourself / where are my beautiful friends?”
The pie machine’s making another guest appearance. While I was sitting up in Manning with a friend, I watched as the line for the mystic pie machine grew from zero, to one, to two, to three. Amazing, I thought, people actually use the thing. Shrapnel’s slotted in and the patron watches on bewildered at the black magic; two minutes later, a steaming hot pie (some say the origin of the pies are divine) drops down, and one’s suspension of disbelief is broken. Having a mind that doesn’t tend to stay on topic for long, my thoughts give way to something of greater importance.
The lights on the porch were just right, enough to see the glass you are drinking from but not the pores of the person you are talking to. There was a bunch of relaxed looking students enjoying their weekend in the best way possible, with a crispy snag rolled in a fluffy piece of bread. I sidled up to the evening’s host to get some clarification about the guests that I didn’t know.
D: “So who’s that guy?”
H: “Oh he’s the neo-realist.”
If you had told me in second year that there would be a time in my university life that I would make it through four weeks of semester having only visited Manning Bar twice, I would have laughed in the face of your naivety. Manning was my second home, for lazy lunches in the sunshine, afternoons that drift into evenings on the balcony, or concerts & club events that rock the stage. I knew the tech guys, the bar manager, the Access office crew, and the guy who booked the gigs. You could go alone and know there’d be someone there to talk to. We’d catch up and joke about our growing qualification… a Masters in Manning.
Le français, they say that you can seduce any girl with a cleverly crafted smattering of this language of love. I have to admit, that's one reason why I'm studying it. But what's the use of studying Old English if there aren't any medieval women to whom I can profess 'thou hath ankles most shapely and pale'?! No, Old English isn't the best language to pick up with on campus. But as a fresher, I might as well be speaking it when I try to navigate the sandstone mazes of Sydney Uni.
If you’re reading this, you need to get a life.
JUST KIDDING.
Making friends at uni is harder than at high school, because there are so many people bustling around doing their own little thing. Then again, the fact that there is a bar on campus can, on occasion, lubricate the situation.
One thing I was always curious about was what kind of bag I should bring to uni every day, and what people filled it with. So here goes:
