Returning from University

I vowed to never mention my own personal circumstances on this blog, or at least never to employ them as the basis for an entire post, but I am about to flaunt this rule, I'm sure enraging the thousands of readers who eagerly follow my impersonal posts in the process. This blog post is a necessity because, as I believe is a common phrase among today's youth, I am presently desirous of a bitch.

Well I've finished my first year at university (I must take a minute here to assail an annoyance - why must people write 'University' with a capital letter? But then I suppose we do all go to School and visit the Library and use the Toilet. I find the whole affair rather sinister - University gives the impression of a grand international institution bent on world domination, which aspiration I'm not sure I advocate. If I wrote that I'd just returned from the Cupboard the absurdity would be immediately conspicuous. The capitalisation would suggest that the cupboard was some sort of significant figure in the house, who might dispense Kit-Kats only upon the pursuance of the cupboard's whims) and I'm thoroughly underwhelmed. I'm going to write something more comprehensive, and have begun to do so, but I'm not entirely sure whether I'd like to post it yet. Coupled with this is a sort of authorial constipation which currently haunts me, under whose tyranny I either produce nothing or something which Gillian McKeith might turn her nose up at. The mere presence of words in this blog post indicates which camp this prose occupies.

There is something - to me at least - terrifying about moving to or from university. I don't like the change of scenery as much as my mind tells me I ought to. Disequilibrium reigns for the first few days and then an irrepressible dolour sets in, regardless of the direction of the journey. It seems I am able to lament the loss of the positive aspects of the dwelling I have just vacated, but not consider the forgone negatives. However disgruntled I am in the one location, and it is usually just a question of how disgruntled, moving serves only to exacerbate my disaffection. After this it is a process of becoming inured to my surroundings until I must be unearthed again. The result is that I am reluctant to ever engage in translocation.

Furthermore, it's sickeningly hot and my sympathies are largely with the poor people who inhabit a country hotter than ours. My dislike for the sun has been variously attributed to vampirism, reclusiveness and natural contrarianism, but I don't think there's anything that difficult to comprehend. Summer is the season of sweat, of discomfort, of people being nauseatingly happy for no reason but that the nuclear reaction in the air is incinerating us at a quickened pace.

I now have four months in which to languish in my house, and I feel more than ever an urge to seek employment. The sad truth, however, is that I cannot see myself exerting any energy in acquiring a job.  The idea of being a serf is unappealing enough, without the added mortification of having to beg for it.

Anyway, this really has been a pointless ramble, partly committed in order to prove I'm still around and partly for my own selfish purposes. More poetry when I'm feeling perky. Good riddance.