Pining for Peroxide, a Can Opener and Steve the Cat.

After reading Armani’s recent article in the Boar this week, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Her article focused on the how her Humanities degree hasn’t really lived up to the expectation set in the glossy Warwick brochure. Anyone who knows me well will know that me thinking, about anything really,  for an extended period of time is usually a very bad thing. But nevertheless, I have decided to do it anyway.

I got to thinking about the parts of university no one ever told me about. I’m coming to the end of my first year now, and undoubtedly feel much more settled in now than I did when I first started here, but I’m still in the process of adapting to a massive culture shock. And this is what has really stuck out to me:

Firstly, nobody tells you how lonely university is. And no, before you misconstrue that, this is not to say that I am sat alone in my room grizzling my tits off. I’ve met friends that I know will be friends for a very long time, and I’ve thrown myself headfirst into the societies I’m interested in. But when I’m in my room for the night, I can’t help but pine for the family cat. And it’s not so much that I want the cat itself, because poor Steve is old and decrepit now anyway. It’s more about what Steve the Cat represents: familiarity. In a strange way, and this is hard to explain and is probably a complete oxymoron, the constant noise and busyness of Warwick makes you feel alone. I feel like a very small person sometimes, which is amazing considering I’m well above 6 feet tall, in a very large sea of people (sorry to sound cliché).

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                              Yes poor GinGin’s really is that small, and I really am that tall. Love you, bae.

And I feel I may have mentioned this before somewhere else, but hey I’ll say it again because it’s important: no one tells you the strain university has on your mental health. No one warns you that you may find yourself in the kitchen at 3am, sobbing over a can of baked beans, all because you cannot find the can-opener. I’m a chipper person, I’m wired happy, and I know I am not speaking only on my own behalf when I say that having to ‘adult’ and actually start a degree is a bit of a plunge in the deep-end.

No one tells you that your physical health will be in tatters either. I’ve gone from a sprightly eighteen year old who would run around a busy restaurant for hours at work, to a constantly-tired nineteen year old who’s body screams internally every time she steps foot in the gym. I’m probably also severely malnourished of certain key vitamins (because let’s be honest, what first year do you know that buys fresh fruit, let alone eats it?).

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                                                              No further explanation necessary.

And I know this seems like a strange point to end on, but I really think my hair is a good indicator of the effect of university life.

My trademark shiny hair, and I’m really not blowing my own trumpet here (look at the picture below, I had a field of golden wheat), is now a dull brown. And why is it dull and brown you ask? Because I can’t budget, therefore can’t afford the highlights I once frivolously let my parents pay for, and the shampoo I’m using is a shit brand that was on offer in Tesco.

lucious locks

                                                           So young, so naive, so FLAW-LESS.

So all in all, yes I miss peroxide. Yes, I really do need to find my can-opener, and learn not to cry in its absence. And Steve, you furry sod, I miss you too. But I’m having far too much fun to come home.

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