Tuesday, 18 January 2011

This One's For You, Guadeloupe.

After over two years of using this site, I've just this week discovered that I can actually observe how many people are visiting my blog and the countries they live in. According to these startling statistics, the more mortifying my life is, the more hits I get that week. I'm not sure what that says about human nature, but I think you should all take a long hard look at yourselves in the mirror. I seem to be a big hit in Guadeloupe though, who knew? This one's for you, Guadeloupe. 

I'm actually rather proud of myself this week due to my doing everything so far on my weekly to-do list. Granted, I am aware, that it is only Tuesday and the list was made marginally easier by one of my lectures being cancelled and my essay deadline extended, but still, I am proud. I even got up early and went to the doctor's, which I applauded myself for as I completely despise going. Naturally, as God is still punishing me every single thing I have ever done wrong, I ran into someone I knew. The doctor's is probably one of the worst places to run into someone. No matter who it is, how well they know me, or whether they even see me or not, I am always overcome with paranoia that, even if I'm stood there with my arm in a sling, they are sat thinking, 'Oh my God, she has chlamydia/gonorrhea/syphilis/some other embarrassing ailment' and I consequently start going red at the first sign of eye contact. Just for the record, I have none of the aforementioned diseases, although the doctor has planted thoughts of alcohol dependency in my mind and encouraged me to think about my alcohol intake. After asking me how many units I drank and my replying 'Oh, about ten' (pints), she chirped, 'Oh, well that's good! That's actually less than average for the week!' I then had to explain that I thought she had meant per night and had to then sit there in a disapproving silence as she scribbled on her clipboard. I couldn't see what she was writing, but I'm sure it was not nice. After more disapproving looks and leaflets about alcoholics anonymous (ok, not really), she let me leave. In a bid to exit as fast as I could, I got confused as to which door let me out and ended up opening one, only to be met with the wall it had been wedged against. After a bit of awkward fumbling and accidentally knocking into an old woman with my backpack, I finally got out and ran all the way home. 
Unfortunately, that is not the only thing that has made me want to crawl underneath my duvet and watch crap television for the rest of time this week. The house listings went up at the start of January, meaning people would be viewing (i.e. snooping) around number 53 and, more importantly, my bedroom. It wasn't until three groups had already visited that I realised there was a naked picture of Louie Spence on my bedroom door. Not only that, he had a pineapple covering his penis, was flanked by two slags and had a picture of my housemate's face tacked over his own. I wish I was making this up, but here it is in all its glory:

Just when I thought things could not possibly get more embarrassing, the last group came into the living room and, low and behold, I realised that one of the girls was in my Modernism seminar. I will probably now be forever remember me as the girl with this monstrosity on her bedroom door. Excellent work, self, excellent work.

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