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.