When fantasy is better than reality

I haven’t left my room in two days, been wearing the same outfit since Saturday, and have taken up smoking again. Welcome to 9^th Week at Oxford when everything is due for the term on Friday.

I have so much nervous energy, fuelled by the ciggs and incessant caffeine abuse. The only thing that has been able to get me through this is my upcoming weekend in London—seeing old friends, and hopefully, a former lover--and popping some valium before bed whilst watching episodes of LA Law off of www.alluc.org

There is a part of me that hopes I run into my former lover. It’s the same part of me that knows emotional closure comes from time, and acknowledging that the only way you could be over him is that you aren’t the same person when you first fell in love with him. It’s closure that can only be ascertained through the great accomplishments that end up changing you as a person. I’m a very different person now then when I last saw him. Much more in control, taking less shit from people, much more confident with my sexuality as a woman—just happier with me.

But I think I scarred him from the last time I saw him about two years ago. If only he knew I’ve moved onto better things such as rich older married men, writers, musicians, and Artists—men who captivate me with both their words and actions. Plus, it’s always much more fun seeing someone since when you’ve lost twenty pounds and are on your way to receiving a degree from one of the world’s leading universities.

I’m not that juvenile to want to rub it in his face, the perpetual American talk show topic of “Look at me Now”—it’s tacky, and unwarranted, and doesn’t address the real reason why things never could work out. The things I’ve accomplished in the last few years are symbolic of just how much I’ve changed as a person, and are more for my benefit than his. Think about it, isn’t it pretty fucking great when you don’t see someone in years and they tell you how well your doing?

You know that is the real reason we facebook and myspace old friends from secondary school and university. I’m just saying.

It’s an acknowledgment of how far we’ve come from the awkwardness that characterizes the difficult times in our lives.

So, it’s times like this when I am bored of the work that I’m doing where I retreat into the haven from reality that is my mind. Thinking of schemes, envisioning a fantasy built with aspects of my reality—it’s why it can taste so vivid to me at times, where I end up believing most of my half-wit schemes.

Because writing a 4000 word paper on survey methods addressing such interesting dilemmas like “What to do when a respondent doesn’t answer the door?” or “If I stray from the interview questions, will I lose the integrity of the data collected?” It’s moments like this that make me wonder why I took a year out of my life. But then I think of my old friends/frenemy’s seeing I’m at Oxford on my facebook profile and recall the reason—they don’t realize it’s all smoke and mirrors.

Really metaphorical for other aspects of our own lives, don’t you think?

Men are pussies

The fun of blogging-- an excuse to procrastinate from the real work that should be done.

Just got back from a weekend away where I played the game, “How drunk can I get on someone else’s dime”, where even if you win, the hangover in the morning will remind you just how much you lost—you know, things like brain cells, the will to live, and dignity.

But it reaffirmed for me just what simple creatures men are—hint that you are in the mood for sex, throw in a bit of over-confidence, and you could get anything you want.

As exemplified when I walked up to a guy and told him, “Entertain me.”

He looks at me puzzled.

“Out of all the men in this club, I choose you to entertain me.”

“How should I do that?” He asks

“If you have to ask, then you aren’t worth my time.”

Now, I know it sounds counter-intuitive to be a bitch, but when she is dressed up in a short cocktail dress, stiletto heels, and manicured nails there is something that gets at a guy. Maybe it harkens back to the days when men were expected to be men, and just the mere thought of competition gets the repressed testosterone going—you know, the stuff that has been in hiding since the dawn of feminism and political correctness.

“Entertain me!” I say again. But this time, looking directly into his eyes.

And so he begins to tell me a story.

Like I give a shit about his life as a chav/pike.

“You know, usually men are far more interesting after a girl has a few drinks in her. I can see you never learned proper etiquette when dealing with a girl.”

He buys me a drink. I listen to him talk for about ten minutes, where I was onto my next mark.

Now, I know it sounds juvenile to play, and that is may be a reflection of the fact that I have this habit of basing my self-worth on the interesting (and not-so-interesting-but-very-hot) men that have found their way into my bed, but it’s nights like those that reaffirm the power of my sex. As a woman I am cognizant of the fact that I will never be ‘one of the guys’, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t want to be privy to discussions about music, movies where things blow up, and girlfriend difficulties. So, if I can’t be one of you, I might as well position your perception of me in direct opposition of what it means to be one of you. It’s the newness that makes me seem exotic and different.

And so I exploit.

Free drinks in exchange for a few kisses and a feel up of my breast? When champagne is used as the currency, I really don’t mind.

An Apropriate Valentine's Day

The remaining guests by night's end at the dinner party I went to on Wednesday were newly single people and gay men.

What better company then to spend it with the fellow scorned and homosexual population?

What Happened to Prescription Drugs?

It’s ironic that one of the biggest privacy whores such as myself, would create a blog, a public place where I get to air my ‘dirty laundry’ for voyeurs such as yourself to see. As much as I’m heartened by the prospect of being in the same category as belle du jour, Jason Mulgrew, Dooce, and other bloggers who have gone on to quasi-fame and (little) fortune, I have to admit that it wasn’t completely my idea.

When I am bored, my self-destructive streak rears its ugly head. Pills are taken whilst drink consumed, and the occasional line of white powder inhaled and/or a man-boy will awake next to me in bed. Contrary to popular un-scientific opinion of those who are privy to my indiscretions, I don’t do this because I hate myself or am crying out for someone to love me/shower me with attention—with the help of my therapist I’ve come to see that my behavior is a direct result of my rage that I keep bottled up. It’s easier for me to deal with my hatred of places/situations/things when I am drugged up with natural chemicals like endorphins and unnatural ones like the anti-depressant my doctor prescribed for me and the alcohol I use instead to self-medicate.

With so much rage directed towards my present situation of being in a graduate program that is a joke, living once again in student housing, and being far away from my friends and culture, it was either continue to get drunk four out of the seven nights a week, or channel my anger someplace else. With a desperate fear of weight gain (for reasons I will share with you later), and seasonal depression that is only exacerbated by alcohol abuse, I’ve decided to vent here, and take my therapist’s advice.

She told me to write. I don’t think she realized I would do it publicly. I think this is how her British culture and mine diverge in understanding. Or perhaps it is merely a generational thing.

Do you want to know the typical day for an Oxford student? After going for a run in Christchurch Meadow, I sat in my room today reading journal articles and trying in vain to figure out what the fuck these authors are trying to say. American authors, unlike their English and Continental European counterparts have this nasty habit of channeling Dickens’ wordy literary disposition (which was substantiated by being paid per word, by the way), and writing forty pages when the thesis could have been explained in seven. This hinders my ability to comprehend the information for my tutorial, and in turn I shove cups of tea (preference strong Indian teas) down my throat, hoping that the caffeine acts as a legal form of speed to keep me focused—which it does not.

As I’ve learned in tutorial the hard way, there is a correct answer, and then a more correct answer—with points only being awarded to the ‘more correct’ one. It really does live up to its reputation, “Oxford University: Where your best hasn’t been good enough since 1117” or something like that. I am too lazy to Google it. As for me, this tear down ‘you aren’t smart enough’ environment is eating at the belief in my own intellectual capabilities. Plus, when your tutor doesn’t speak English, you have to wonder if you really were wrong, especially when she used your explanation to tell you why you are wrong.

It’s 4am as I write this, and I have to be up early tomorrow. And hopefully, with the prospect of an audience it will force me to confront my anger and really tap into the rage—besides looking up AA meetings, I’m ready to try anything to stop myself from gaining alcohol-related weight.

Disgruntled Student Writes Truth

What students for nearly one thousand years have wanted to write, and I have been enabled by the comforts of the 21th Century. I bet Upton Sinclair and other muckrakers must be ashamed 1to have a citizen journalists who treasure their anonymity such as myself, be included in their ranks to dig past the bullshit, and give people the truth.

Or maybe I am just a bit delusional as I write this. Frustrated by another day having to teach myself material that the lecturers couldn't teach, either because of their lack of English skills, or lack of desire to give a shit about the students. Whatever, it's not like the University is selling an education--only a plastic card that allows you to gain admission into Examination Schools to sit an exam that grants access into the sick incestuous world of the Oxbridge graduates. It's one thing to fuck them after a pricey dinner, the spreading of legs acting as a tanglible expression of the words 'thank you', it's quite another to share their bed as an over-educated equal. But I have to be honest with you, my dildo has kept me more satisfied than my fellow students between the sheets. Except for the North Americans, and maybe continental Europeans. And I can't forget the South American who I almost had sex with, except we didn't because neither one of us had a condom--but he made up for it in other ways.

Welcome to the anonymous diary of a disgruntled student at Oxford University. I'm bored with the academics, the men who've found their way into my bed, and if I have to go to one more fancy dress 'bop', I am going to overdose on the 'emergency use' Klonopin that my doctor gave me. Funny how being an anonymous voice in cyberspace, is the only way I can discreetly vent my frustrations.

Gotta fucking love the 21st Century.