Uni Will Never Be Like Real Life
Being a recent (and unemployed) graduate I am one of the many that are currently struggling to find work, without ending up in a rundown factory packing perfume testers into boxes for less than minimum wage.
During my unemployment I have found several opportunities to do work experience in order to improve my employability and prevent me from whiling my hours away watching Jeremy Kyle and his constant battle against the moronic hordes.
Whilst at University I was bogged down by the paperwork and irrelevant nature of a lot of what we had to do. For example making a perfect cube from Foam board over and over again until it was “acceptable” and “within tolerance” and writing research reports and feasibility studies that had to have a certain number of words in them and no plagiarism, along with The Essays. All this meant that by the end of my degree, I couldn’t really remember why I wanted to study interior design, and on more than one occasion I came close to giving the whole thing up as a lost cause.
In June last year I was released into the big, wide, REAL world. I didn’t really have a clue what to expect. I had no idea how a design practice was run or how many essays I’d have to complete or in what time frame.
It came as a huge surprise to me when, having been accepted for work experience, I wasn’t expected to complete any essays AT ALL. None!
This left me feeling confused and lost. If I wasn’t meant to be writing essays, what WAS I supposed to be doing?
It turned out I was supposed to be designing. Designing real things, with a real budget, that are really going to be made.
This made me feel both elated and terrified all at once. What if, after all that uni work, I am actually a terrible designer? Academically, I’m not very good. I’ve never managed to achieve the grades people expect from me. I am intelligent, but I can’t get my intelligence down on paper. As soon as people put guidelines and rules and regulations on paper in front of me I flounder around like a cat in the ocean, not really knowing where to swim and wondering how the hell I ended up here and thinking about how much I hate being wet. I always had a problem with briefings because I just didn’t understand what was expected of me. Even reading through my notes and the documentation given to me after the briefing didn’t help and I hated asking for it to be explained again as I felt like an idiot. Everyone else always seemed to know what was going on and if I asked them I ended up getting on their nerves as it looked like I hadn’t been listening. What I really needed was a list:
1) Think of a design
2) Research design
3) Draw design
4) Evaluate design
Obviously it was a lot more complicated and spider web-like than this, but this was the main list I worked from if I failed to understand what I had been told to do. Which was often.
This problem became completely irrelevant in the work place, where there were no peers to think me a fool – I was the new girl, it was ok for me to not understand occasionally, and what with the lack of uni rules and regulations thing didn’t become over complicated and hard for me to process. When asked to design something, I didn’t have to produce whole rooms full of research to back it up; I just had to know how it was done and what materials I was using.
This has left me wondering what the point of university is. I mean, yes, I get to put some letters after my name and tell people I have a degree but when it comes to real life I have no experience or education in what really happens at an interior design establishment.
Yet I paid over £3000 a year for this. I’m going to be in debt until my grandchildren are born at this rate. And now people are expected to pay £9000 a year! My advice is this – don’t do it. Don’t go anywhere near university, especially at that price. So yes, you have fun, meet new people, try new things, have an exciting and interesting life but at the end you are in no way prepared to get a job in your chosen field and commence living.
What used to irritate me more was that my lecturers never seemed to get the fact that I was PAYING them. They were disorganised, late, confusing, boring and arrogant. And I was paying them £3000 a year to do that.
I reckon that these days people are better off doing apprenticeships or training schemes with individual companies. It’s far cheaper and often you’re guaranteed a job at the end of it, meaning you don’t end up lost in the back of your sofa whilst trying to get away from Jeremy Kyle and pals.
- INSTEAD OF GANGS- THERE WOULD BE FANDOMS
“UGH, THERE’S ANOTHER FIGHT BETWEEN THE HARRY POTTER FANDOM AND TWILIGHT FANDOM IN THE YARD.”
Sherlock fandom would beat them both up. But…
(Source: greatesthungergamesfans)
I’m Slightly Worried I May Become A Serial Killer.
This evening I have been reading Wikipedia’s entries for Serial Killers, in order to while away the hours before bed.
I have always had this grotesque fascination with serial killers. I think it’s because ANYONE could be one. Your annoyingly loud next door neighbours? Serial Killers. The little old lady over the road? Serial Killer. That screaming kid on the bus? Serial Killer. The woman glaring at you in the post office? Serial Killer. Your other half? DEFINITELY a Serial Killer.
What is it that causes people to do these horrible things? You always hear in the stories that they were treated badly by their parents, or orphaned at a young age, or bullied at school. But in reality that’s just an excuse. Other people have gone through the same, sometimes worse, and don’t become serial killers. That we know about anyway.
What’s worse is that these people get married, go to work and have kids. I want to do all these things too. And I got bullied at school. Maybe I am on the brink of becoming a serial killer.
Apparently one guy became a serial killer when his Girlfriend dumped him after he was imprisoned for theft. He started killing to get revenge. Maybe all it’s going to take for me to become a serial killer is a nasty but not-too-awful shock. Maybe I’ll become one if next door’s cat gets run over, or the Co-op raise their prises any further.
The strange thing is, I can kind of understand killing someone. You know, someone really awful, like Saddam Hussein (I know he’s already dead, but let’s pretend for a second that he isn’t) or Tony Blair. I can even understand killing several people, like Saddam Hussein AND Tony Blair (two birds one stone!). What I really don’t get (and therefore am fascinated by) is cannibalism. HOW. DISGUSTING. And yet I love to read those “true stories” about it. They make me feel truly terrified, and I remember the guy I told you about that lives under my bed with a machete. (see “If I Bumped Into Derren Brown…”).
I am beginning to wonder if my strange fascination with the gory is a sign of my underlying serial-killerness, and whether I should warn my housemates/family before it is too late and I’ve had to store them in the loft. For one thing, I’m not so sure I can be bothered with all that lugging bodies around I’d have to do if I don’t warn them.
Another thing that I may have a problem with is my very oversensitive nose and gag-reflex. So I’ll have to think of a way to prevent the smell very early on in my serial killer career, I really don’t see how those guys who bury the bodies in their houses do it.
I’m also very squeamish. I can’t even watch Saw. I once watched “Creep” and had nightmares for weeks. So I’d have to find a nice way to kill people. Like, with a bunch of flowers and a poem. Or a romantic dinner for two.
I’d also feel a bit guilty about the amount of work I’m causing for the police, and the upset of their family members. There are two ways I could get around this. 1) I could kill their entire families and all the police or 2) I could leave a “sorry” card. I think I’m going to go with a sorry card as it seems like less effort. And everyone likes a card.
Another issue is that serial killers all have a type. And to be honest, I can’t think of a type. I couldn’t kill all the homosexuals because I’m not homophobic and my brother is gay, I have several friends who are either gay or lesbian, and I’d miss them. I couldn’t kill all the blacks because I’m not racist and again, I have several friends that I’d miss. I couldn’t kill all the Jews because I’m not anti-Semitic. Couldn’t kill all the people having sex out of wedlock because I’d be first on my list (I have definite proof I’m guilty of that).
You know, after all of that I think that Serial Killers make their lives too hard. Maybe I’m not going to be a serial killer after all.
I’m never going to do anything ever again.
I really hate how complicated software can be. For example, for the past 45 minutes I have been trying to link Microsoft Word to my Tumblr, as I know it can link to Wordpress or pretty much any other Blog. Tumblr, unfortunately, like to be set apart from the rest and do not enable a connection to Word. This irritates me. Why would it not connect to Word? It’s a Blog isn’t it? You can write on it? Why would you not enable word processing software to connect to a website where you can write words?!?! On top of this faffing about I had plans to do something other than get irritated with Tumblr 45 minutes ago, and now I can’t remember what that was. I blame Tumblr for this.
When I decide I am going to do something I always feel that I have to finish before I can move on to the next thing, even if it’s not working. If it isn’t working I will keep trying until I end up screaming at whatever is foolish enough to prevent my success. This never fails to alarm poor Hopo who always seems to assume I’m shouting at him. What he never seems to realise is that if he asks me if I’m “alright” when it is blatantly obvious that I am not, then I am going to redirect my screaming at the more irritating thing. I mean, look at it from my perspective; as long as I’m still getting my frustration out I’m happy as Larry. I don’t really care who or what I’m directing it at, provided I feel less annoyed by the end of it.
This is often where Hopo makes his fatal mistake. In fact, this is The Mistake.
He takes offence. Despite repeatedly telling him that if I’m swearing for half an hour at a TV screen because my Wii won’t connect to it, or at my laptop because it has decided that the internet doesn’t exist or at my bike because it thinks it’s ok for the chain to slip every time I pedal, I’m not actually calling him all those names; I’m calling the TV/laptop/bike names, he still gets riled up as if I’m calling HIM names. This, of course, only serves to irritate me more, as now, not only can I not fix the problem, but someone is irritated with me for being irritated.
Being dyspraxic, I often find I can’t explain what the problem is. Or why I’m irritated. I get irritated to the point where I am no longer capable of using words. Problems end up being explained as, “The THING won’t go in the BLOODY F**KING THING!” which helps no one. Least of poor Hopo, who at this point thinks I am blaming him for my ineptitude, and also doesn’t know what is wrong and is DESPERATELY trying to decode my messages with a look of fear and panic on his face. He is simultaneously trying to work out if he has a greater chance of survival by running away or blaming someone else. Thing is, I may as well be sending him smoke signals while he has a blindfold on.
I have just proved this fact by telling him that I am writing a Blog telling everyone that they should feel sorry for him because he has to interpret my smoke signals while he is wearing a blindfold and he looked at me and said “Sometimes, you just shouldn’t talk. I do wish you wouldn’t drivel.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.
The long and short of it is that I am irritated with myself, and poor Hopo thinks I am irritated with him, so he gets irritated with me so I get irritated with him. This is irritating; and so the spiral into hatred and doom continues. I have thought about the solution to this problem for a long time now and I think the only way to prevent this from happening is if I just don’t do anything EVER. Case: Solved.
Old People Aren’t Nice
When I woke up I had a bit of a nervous breakdown.
Luckily, my very good friend Kirsty was on hand to help and escort me out of the building before I started flailing my arms around like I was attempting flight and ended up accidentally giving someone a broken nose or a black eye. I managed to cry all the way to her house, egged on by people walking past and staring at me. Kirsty got me sat down with a drink of squash at hers and made me feel much better, although slightly like a five year old after a temper tantrum. This wasn’t her fault mind you, this is because I felt a bit like I was throwing all of my toys out of the pram in a fit of rage. Having really bad hair due to a party last night where I dressed as a lion didn’t help much.
After calming down for a few hours she received a text about some pizza at my house and so I decided that when it comes to food, perhaps mine is the best place to be after all.
On my long and dangerous journey home (it’s a whole TEN MINUTES walk away. It was like an expedition to the north pole.) I came across an old and wise looking Asian lady, wearing a beautiful sari (I think that’s how it is spelt) and going for a little walk at a slow pace down the road. I’m sure you know the type. She looked regal in both her manner and her dress, strolling like she had all the time in the world. I walked behind her for a while, wishing I’d look that good in a sari, especially at that age (she must have been late 80s, early 90s, at a bad guess. I’m not good with ages). I would look a bit like a blimp in a condom though. And it’s not even like they’re tight fitting.
Anyway, about 100 meters down the road a young cat steps out from behind a wall and approaches the beautiful old lady, obviously wanting attention, and I thought, “How sweet, I wish I had a camera to capture this moment.”
The old lady looks down, spots the friendly feline and immediately starts stamping her feet, scaring the cat away. Fair enough, you think, a bit harsh but maybe she is allergic or doesn’t like cats. So did I. But then she starts to follow the poor feline to where it’s run to. Stamping and clapping her hands while it cowers cornered behind a bin. She even started hitting the bin and the wall around it.
This is when she looks around and spots me, staring gormlessly at the sight of a woman as well turned out and kind looking as she is showing no mercy to an innocent animal who simply went to greet her and be friendly. I knelt down and called the cat, which came running to me; realising that I was its best chance of safety; and started winding its way around my legs purring and meowing while I talked softly and calmly to it. The evil old lady stares at me in horror, having not realised she was being watched during her prior moments of cruelty. The cat then takes off for a location further away from Mrs Crazy-But-Well-Dressed, while I, Miss Bad-Party-Hair; with my head held high and my back straight; walk past her, glaring.
This whole incident has shattered all my illusions and childish ideals. Old people are supposed to be nice. End of. Young people on the other hand “don’t know they’re born”, are intolerant, cruel and litter. Only the worst type of people litter.
I KNOW this is a giant stereotyping of age and I KNOW it doesn’t apply to every person on the planet. Gaddaffi, for example, is probably not a very nice person. Hitler, although not VERY old, was still nearing the age where we are all suddenly transmuted into nice people. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think there were any signs of this sudden change occurring.
On top of this evidence that my old/young theory doesn’t work is the fact that I am young. I don’t think that I’m a horrible person. Having said that, I don’t think Hitler thought he was a horrible person, so maybe I am horrible and just don’t know it. I prefer things this way so if I am horrible please don’t be honest. Thanks.
In addition to this I don’t think my friends are horrible. And I certainly hope they don’t litter. Only scum litters. I don’t hang out with scum. Littering is worse than murder. Or espionage. Ok, I just wanted to get the word “espionage” in here somewhere. As Allie Brosh would say, “I Win!”
I honestly understand that some people don’t like cats. I don’t like dogs. I still took in that lost dog that turned up on our doorstep that time. I didn’t chase it away, clapping my hands and stamping my feet to scare it. I even let it in the bathroom with me when it kept whining outside the door although it’s kind of unnerving trying to pee whilst being stared at by a canine like you’re some kind of god. AND I gave it a name (it was named Dog. Original, dontchathink?).
I was even quite sad when the RSPCA turned up to take it away. Poor thing. He didn’t like that much. Especially when I explained to him that he had to leave because I didn’t like him much.
In reality, it doesn’t matter whether or not you like a certain animal. A decent person would have walked on and let it be. That applies to people too. If you see someone you don’t like in the street, that’s ok, just keep walking. And it was due to this very reasoning that there were no little old ladies injured on Beaconsfield Road today. Also, if she had been injured everyone would have looked from me to her and thought, “Young people today! What a poor, defenceless old lady, bless her heart!” Maybe that’s why she did it. She wanted to defame me and have me known as an old lady beater by all. She’s so evil that she’d planned it all in advance.
So can anyone guess what today’s lesson is? Wrong, it’s not “you can’t judge a book by its cover” it’s “never trust old people”.
