Cut Down To Size

I hate getting my hair cut. It means I have to describe to the lady with the sharp implements and the "whaddayouwant?" attitude what I'd like my hair to look like in its prospective shorter state, and I'm terrible with foresight. Many times I've undergone this ritual and come out the other side looking like a girl with fashionably short hair accentuated by my naturally girlish face. Last time I asked the keeper of the scissors to just give it a bit of a trim. I quite like having fairly longish hair in an early-2000s emo kid kinda way and I expressed my desire to keep some of the length whilst keeping it trim and unruly. I even gestured towards a framed monochrome picture of a male model on the wall of the damned place, trailing off with "something sort of like that, but still with some length". The wench agreed with my request in a second, and in the subsequent second forgot it as she took an electric razor to my scalp. It took virtually a whole year to get back to how it was in the first place.

That year ended yesterday as I embraced the sun (although not literally cos that'd involve me travelling millions of miles across a vast vacuum and ultimately end in me burning to death in seconds as I attempted to hug what, in the interest of perspective, would essentially appear to be a wall of fire) by accepting that the thick shagpile rug atop my head needed to be cut down to size; plus it's started to look like a mullet and I am neither a 70s rock star, one of the cast of Grease or a part of the travelling community.

Dreading my explanation of what I wanted (essentially, make it shorter, but still make it look okay), I proceeded to ask the hair-sorceress what was the longest setting on the electric razor. She dully (that's dull-ly, a state of dullness) showed me the "number 8" from her arsenal of clipping attachments. I opted for this because it seemed the easiest to explain, and because I'm so used to having longer hair normally, this number 8 looks to me like how I'd imagine a number 3 would. So that was the back and the sides sorted. How about the front and the top? I like the front and the top; they're the first (and only) bits I see when I look in the mirror and, thus, care about. I asked her not to completely destroy them, just trim them down a bit, which she did, under the impression that I wanted to follow the latest indie fashion trend.

"They're all having it like that now, aren't they? Where it's kinda top-heavy."

As I sat there, pondering the fact that in six or seven minutes time I'd look up to the mirror and see a wannabe T4 presenter horrifically staring back, I got to thinking about the fact that many students seem to have longer hairstyles, or experiment in cutting their own. Originally, I'd naturally assumed this was because they were making some kind of statement about individuality, independence and lack of care. Now I realise that it's because they don't have any money, and that I too shun the idea of a quarterly trim in favour of letting it all grow wild and bushy until I can tame it nae longer by which time I'll have taken a pair of Crayola scissors to it and emerge with a fringe in the shape of zig-zags, or waves, or whichever fun-shaped scissors I had to hand that day.

Fortunately, my new doo doesn't make me look like a girl (much) or an indie fashionista. Instead, I look about as close to what I wanted to look like as possible without me having to physically project my mind-thoughts into the brain of someone who's able to hold a pair of scissors and not ram them, pointy-side-first, into my ear. Huzzah, I can rest in the knowledge that I at least tolerate my own appearance and will not have to worry about it again for another year and a half. This means I can keep saving money (if I had any) so that I can eventually get all the things I've been promising to get myself: certain books I'd like to read, certain musics I'd like to listen to, certain games I'd like to play and certain consoles on which to play them.

In a bout of freak coincidenceyness (or another made-up word like that), my newfound appreciation of food from McDonalds has aligned with the resurrection of their recurring Monopolopoly tie-in game promotion-type thing. So far, since they started it again, I've eaten there twice and gained a whole two stickers because of it. Both those stickers represented different train stations which, in pseudo-gameplay terms, already puts me half-way to owning a PS3. Naturally, having not eaten at McDonalds in many years, this is the first time I've played along with the Monopolopoly game and I must say I'm getting mighty swept up in it all. If there is a God, or other all-knowing sentient being that takes any interest in the happiness of human life - specifically mine - then all he, she, or indeed it needs to do is give me the other two stations in my next two visits to a McDonalds outlet and I'll be able to cross one of those items off the wish list and not piss away hundreds of pounds on it.

It'll also be especially helpful now that Gamestation's gone tits up.

A Bit Of A Mess

In the last week alone I've eaten more McDonald's cheeseburgers than I have done over the last decade. Four. I blame influencial students and close proximity to fast food outlets. But enough of that.

I was able to go outside yesterday in short sleeves and without the need for some kind of thermal hooded jacket for the first time in what feels like seven years. This might've been because of my recent hermit-like state in which I've spent endless consecutive days in the same room, let alone the same house, to get every last shred of work done. I swear, one day after taking a shower I leaned over to slightly open the bathroom window and was suddenly reminded of what fresh air was. Anyway, The last time I went outside the weather was practically Antarctic, so you can imagine my surprise when I stepped out into the blistering sun and, once again, allowed my mind to engage itself in the thought that comes around this time of year that the planet is slowly dying a boiling, melty, flooded death. Also hayfever's coming.

It's the time of year that the world of Academics flounders; in fact it's virtually common knowledge that the University year begins to end as soon as the sun shows up, thus allowing the citizens of the world to enjoy food and good company in the presence of others in the great outdoors. Huzzah! We can play outside again!

I know. This is very sporadic and a bit of a mess right now, but I've come fresh from several wheelbarrows full of making long reams of text link together in the hope that it makes some kind of sense to intellectuals to deem worthy enough of a grade of some decency at degree-level study. But back to the sun.

I got a ukulele last summer and barely touched it. I would even say I've barely looked at it if it weren't for the fact that it's been leaning against the wall for a few months that not viewing it every day has become impossible to do, like fridge noise and trees, they're always there but largely unnoticed. Anyway, pointless similarity aside, I've finally picked up the ukulele, attempted to tune it, feebly strummed out a dodgy sounding version of a Coldplay song for some reason, and left it to lean back against the wall, where it'll probably stay until this time next year, by which time it'll need tuning again and I won't be able to do anything with it because my mind's been so clogged up by assignment work around the same time.

I'm very sorry if you've decided to read this at all, but if you've made it this far you only have yourself to blame for having needlessly wasted your own time.  You really should've given up a long time ago. Somewhere around the word 'consecutive'.

Now go away. I'll do the same. Meet back here in seven days, and hopefully I won't be spouting as much crap by then. Or if I am, I'll at least have learned how to channel it somewhat.

Too Much

About a year ago, students at my University complained about how the student support services did too little to support students. This year, I'd say they're doing far too much.

It's around this time of year, students who pretend to care about the way things are run in order to gain popularity amongst their fellow kin litter the halls, the cafés, the walls, the ceilings, the shops, the classrooms and even parts of an unknowable fourth dimension with light-hearted propaganda detailing how they plan to make University a better place. In most cases, these are usually the same pledges made by the same people as last year who were elected then and are gunning for re-election now.

When it comes to politics, I may be a cynic, but it's only because I find politics to be complicated; so complicated, in fact, that only idiots think they know what they're doing because they're too thick to realise they don't know what they're doing. That's why I think the Alternative Vote referendum should've passed last May and if I was able to vote at the time (which I wasn't due to circumstances revolving around address transferral and generally having a busy life), I would've gone for a 'yes' vote, not that it would've made the blindest bit of difference.

The AV system of voting is complicated, which is exactly what politics are. Voting under the current system is easy to understand, thus extremely simple, thus flawed. To me, the idea of using a stupidly simple method of voting to elect political officials is like washing a plateful of discarded roast dinner in a dishwasher: yes it's the easiest, quickest fix, but ultimately you end up with specks of gravy and cabbage permanently dried to the plate, which only leaves more damage for you to have to manually clean up later on anyway. But the Uni seems to have the right idea since votes for student elections (no matter how dull or pointless they may be) are conducted under a similar system to the once-proposed AV style.

Why am I babbling on about this? Because yesterday, during a particularly enjoyable afternoon workshop session, my phone began to ring. Embarrassed, I terminated the incoming call, which apparently sent it to Voice Mail. I'd pondered who would be calling me from an unknown number in the middle of the day, even allowing myself to wildly believe that one of my previous endeavours into the world of potential part-time work was letting me know they wanted to offer me the chance of giving me money. Once the session had ended, brimming with anticipation, I went straight ahead and listened to the message left for me. The voice that emanated from the phone was far too friendly and optimistic...

"Hi there Jamie (as if she knows me personally), it's Sally (or someone, I don't remember the name) from Student Services, just wanting to let you know about student elections coming up, et cetera, blah blah, pointless information you've already heard, blah-de-de-blah-de-de-bl- **Message Deleted**"

Many things ran through my head at this point. One: I don't care. Two: HOW THE CRAP DID YOU GET MY NUMBER?!?!!? Three: I really don't care. I voted in the student elections last year and nothing particularly special happened, I noticed no change, I was not directly affected by anything and I have other, more important things to concern my time with.

The University and its affiliates are now just going out of their way to definitely make sure every single droplet of information is distributed around every single student seventeen times, way before anyone's supposed to even care. As well as the election shite, unit choices for next year's studying had been open for a week or so before the reminder emails were circulated - a good three weeks before the actual deadline for them to be done.

An email I received last Monday lovingly informed me that I hadn't made any choices yet. Naturally, I was aware of this since I've been waiting for information from certain course officials to allow me to tailor my course specifically the way I want it. It's a situation that only affects me personally, so I could forgive the generic reminder email on the Monday telling me that if I'm confused, I can find out more information at the Options Fair that Wednesday. Pretty standard stuff.

On the Tuesday, I received the exact same reminder email telling me that if I was still confused I could find out more information at the Options Fair that still hadn't actually happened since the last email was sent out.

Luckily, I'm now on track (or at least as 'on track' as I'd like to be at this point) with assignment deadlines since, of my three assessments due next week, two are completely done. I'm now staring into the face the biggie (4,000 words on a bunch of stuff I don't know or care about), with a week or so left to do it. I've vowed to myself to keep my head down, to get on with it, and not to interact with the world or its affiliates for the whole week, meaning the chances of me dealing with an email reminding me about student elections, or any other banality I genuinely don't care about, shouldn't come to my attention until this time next week.

Unfortunately, I have a whole week to deal with a massive something I genuinely don't care about just so that I can pass this year.

Ad-libbing

I've been sat here looking at a blank screen for half an hour now, trying to think of some kind of topic to do moaning about. Well, actually, that's a lie. If truth be told I've ended up writing a sentence, realising it wouldn't go anywhere, erasing it, writing another sentence, realising it wouldn't go anywhere, erasing it, and slamming my head into the desk repeatedly. Unfortunately, it's difficult to expand that into anything more; trust me, I've tried it, but then I erased it and began this particular sentence instead.

Just now, I even considered highlighting all of that and hitting the "Delete" key but stopped myself when I realised that would've just resulted in a waste of another three or four minutes of my stay on planet Earth with no evidence to show for it.

As it turns out, ad-libbing these things isn't as easy, or as fruitful, or as some third thing when your mindspace doesn't want to co-operate.

That said, maybe it's too busy engrossed in the work I have yet to do and so little time left in which to do it. In that case, what the heck am I still doing here? Screw this for the moment, I'm staring a potential degree in its hypothetical face and it ain't gonna get itself.

Same goes for next week, I suppose. Unless, of course, something of vague and mediocre interest happens. Stay tuned for a tale along the lines of "I finally figured out how to comfortably eat Chinese food using chopsticks", although that wouldn't really be true because I did that yesterday and, in fact, it was one of the original sentences I started this with which I got rid of because it couldn't stand on its own as the sole topic of an entire blog post.

But at least I brought that idea back from the brink and am able to prove what a small portion of my life-time was initially wasted on.