I’m so fucking tired. But I got 1s and 2s in my mock interviews, so strong/good, and according to their statistics 87% of 1/2 candidates receive an offer. However, I’ll effortlessly fall into the tail-end 13%. But it was a fantastic experience. I’ve learnt I really need to brush up on my technical terminology, revise my texts, think up some interesting arguments/examples to throw into the conversation and really learn to structure my arguments. Show each side of the discussion then reach a conclusion while providing examples as back-up all the while. Basically, I have to speak in essays. Oh boy.
But regardless, it was truly fantastic to speak to so many people who had such a extensive passion and knowledge of literature. It was surreal, being able to turn to anyone in a room and launch headfirst into a discussion of the linguistic experimentation shared by Burgess and Welsh and Hoban. Or the very nature of literature, and art, and the ethics of translation, and how music is the ultimate aspiration, and how a sense of the transience of musicality is reflected in Perec’s work. And God, I just want to live with these people and pick their brains. Even though a tutor laughed at me because of the face I pulled when he used Catcher In The Rye as an example of a first person narrative. But that was yesterday, today is today.
And today I’m going to get a couple more hours of sleep, drag my ass up, buy a travel card, go into town, eat some sweet-ass McDonalds pancakes, buy some cigarettes, pick up a leather jacket and some fashionable wears, come home, get changed, bouffant ze hair, apply liberal amounts of cosmetics and meet up some friends for dinner/drinks/Adam Lambert show. Adam Lambert is my spirit animal. This is gonna be good.
LET’S GO LIVE SOME LIFE N SHIT.
P.S. I really wanna play pub golf. I think it would enrich my life.
I think my body just reaches a stage where I am physically incapable of experiencing any more stress than I’m already processing. So my neurones short-circuit and I’m reduced to a state of terrifyingly tranquil calm where there’s nothing else to do but ride out the wave. There are so many things to do, people to talk to, impressions to make, and so much rests upon it all. My life, from this week onwards, could go in two entirely separate directions. One not necessarily better than the other, but very different indeed. But I am calm. I am breathing. I feel my body acutely, sensitively. I’m going to dye my hair, have a bath, listen to music and brush up on all the theories I claim to have read and all the genres I supposedly love. And then I’m going to sleep. And then I’m going to wake up at 6am, get ready, get a bus, get a train, get a tube, get a cab, and sign in to this conference I don’t even wish to attend where I will be throughly out of my fucking depth. But it will be over by 6, at which point I try to get home through the strikes to watch X Factor. Everything ends, given time. Even the most stressful situations have an expiry date.
Sometimes, when I have stupendous, torrential, epic, ghastly, gory, brain-draining, crimson-spurting stress-induced nosebleeds and spend the following twenty minutes rejoicing in leaving bloody hand prints all over the bathroom, I wonder whether I'm completely altogether right in the noggin.