...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
Due to being preoccupied with damage control in the aftermath of Miss Bitch, and something called a diss-er-ta-tion (still not 100% sure what that even means), I have to admit that this week’s quit did not exactly make my top 5 list of priorities. In my defence, it’s been a hell of a few months. In retrospect, however, I suppose I was subliminally attempting to avoid any disruptions at this academically crucial point in my third-year career. Yeah, that sounds feasible, let’s go with that...
So this week, I just wanted a quiet life to cushion the workload. You know, early nights, cups of cocoa, snuggly socks and a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, like my body was stuffed with cotton wool and crumpets, that might just get me through being chained to my computer screen with nothing but a pile of books and the entire series of The West Wing on DVD to numb the pain.
In reality what did I get? Harassment from a taxi driver, nervous twitches, the running over of inanimate objects, and a horrible feeling that I was doomed to die alone. Meh.
It all started promisingly enough. I was getting through my work and, feeling worthy of a night off, took up an invitation to see a film with the word ‘star’ in it somewhere.* Rocking up to the cinema, slightly too drunk to make out the screen past flashes of pretty lights and a rather dashing lead actor, contentment was abounding. A few vodka cocktails and a disco later, I encountered Beelzebub himself.
After grabbing some chips from one of those campervans outside Lloyds TSB that smell of grease, my friend and I headed towards the taxi rank, only to find what seemed a perfectly normal cab waiting outside Gallery. That’s the thing with psychopaths, you can never tell just what they are from a hasty glance at 3am.
Up I rock all smiley and ready to fork over good money for a ride home, when the most aggressive encounter I have experienced for quite some time ensued. First off, he made my friend place her chips on the floor of the front seat so that she wouldn’t eat them, even after our assurances that she would keep them closed in their little Styrofoam container until we were safely out at least 5 metres away from the (shitty) car. Mr. Aggro Fathead was having none of it though, so we acquiesced.
Needless to say neither of us like being told what to do on the best of days, but whilst my friend wisely kept schtum, I let a few huffs of indignation slip my lips during the awkward journey. My biggest mistake, however, came upon exiting his precious banger, when I may have closed the door a bit harder than was really necessary. And by 'closed', I mean slammed.
So out Hellraiser gets and starts following me to our front gate claiming that I was ‘bang out of order’ and that he was going to report me to the police. All this on a street from which a woman vanished not three months ago. Yeah, ok, I was the one who was out of order. Luckily my roomie came to the rescue (as always, my Knight), asking him just exactly what he thought he was doing threatening two young women outside their doorstep. That got rid of the bugger, but once we were safely on the other side of the door I just collapsed into sobs. Melodramatic perhaps, but I was terrified that I’d gotten us into a whole lot of needless trouble.
Turns out he didn’t have a leg to stand on, according to the nice police lady my friend wrangled on the phone just to reassure me and get me to snap out of my hysterics. But it was not a fun way to end the evening. The next day I was a bit of a twitching wreck, having developed a thoroughly irritating eye spasm that made me look more than a bit special.
Lord knows why, but I insisted on driving that morning anyway, twitch and all, and managed to ram into the wheely-bin that sat behind my car on the pavement. Crash, bang, so long dignity.
That day I also managed to put salt in my tea instead of sugar, and almost burn the bottom of a pan I was trying to boil water in, forgetting the actual water itself. A progressive increase of tears followed each misdemeanour until, at around tea time, I was doing my best Alice in Wonderland impression and nearly drowning in them.
Turns out I am my own worst enemy. Thank God for other people, without which myself and I would have destroyed me a long time ago.
Here’s a little tip to end this self-imploding message: never do anything. It’s the only way to save you from yourself. That might just be me again though…
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