Oh New Year’s Eve, you big glorious let-down (and second most depressing holiday for single people). Every NYE since I can remember, I spend the countdown surrounded by friends, but as we finally cross over into the New Year everyone disappears; too busy gettin’ off wiv their BFs as if they’re sexually charged adolescents behind the bikeshed, and I end up making out with my hand like Fatscale circa 2002’s girly birthday sleepover. (Fatscale is a moniker fondly given to me by some boys in school who we all know mega fancied me really.) WELL NOT THIS YEAR. Be warned, people of Wiltshire: on the countdown I’m going to windmill my arms and the first person I hit will be my victim. I’m going to use so much tongue they won’t know what’s hit them. It’ll be a saliva tsunami.
I’m going to get all reflective now, because I feel I have achieved a lot this year. After three years of fucking about: playing Day of the Tentacle on my laptop, drunkenly throwing cheese toasties at the ceiling of my uni accommodation and doing pointless shit like this…
…I finally got a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. The first six months of 2012 were spent writing my dissertation, which meant reading Playboy magazine’s copious back catalogue, inspecting the pubic hair on centrefolds of the last fifty years and unwittingly googling images of Germaine Greer with her legs behind her head. One particularly memorable moment of my dissertation was a late night in April; it was right after I’d spun round on my office chair crying hysterically for no reason, using the pages on Simone De Beauvior’s The Second Sex to wipe away my tears*. Whilst reading an interview with Ian Fleming, the Playboy website went down. After a rather desperate conversation with the website’s online maintenance team, it was hard to resist telling them that I was actually a twenty-one year old girl doing her degree, and not a sweaty forty year old man in a string vest desperate to look at girls’ boobs:
All my blood, sweat and tears resulted in this:
BOOM. 8000 words of pure magic. The best part about writing a dissertation like this was the surreal moments that come with the subject matter, such as talking with my amazing dissertation lecturer (that’s right, big up Fiona) about the film Deep Throat and being able to litter my thesis with C-bombs.
Other procrastination highlights include spontaneously becoming a film maker for a new pancake-day-inspired horror film…
…and then also making this….
(My hair looks so bad because I’d just got back from the gym. Although that’s no excuse for having an actual combover.)
And trying to get Olivia’s cat into feline modelling:
And so in June it all came to an end. I’d arrived at university with just a jar of peanut butter and a bottle of vodka, and I left three years later with a 2:1 and no dignity.
Here’s a few things that this year has taught me:
– Sleeping in all your clothes shaves valuable minutes off your morning regime, giving you extra sleeping time
– Dissertations need to be started waaay before it’s due in, not two months before
– Showing potential employers pictures like this…
…will not get you a job.
– Cardiff is a beautiful and underrated city
– The current happenings of two of the most prominent and influential artists of the naughties:
– Tubington the cat does not like it when he doesn’t get his bacon sandwich in the morning
– Making highly inappropriate fat-person sex jokes in a job interview sometimes DOES get you the job
– The world didn’t end on the 21st December. To all those whom I told I hated: I was only joking. Ha…Ha….
It was also a year of self-discovery. I decided what kind of woman I wanted to be, what strand of feminism I wanted to support (MILITANTS FTW!!). My found idols in highly respected, independent, funny women like Helen Gurley Brown, Nora Ephron and Caitlin Moran. I finally put to good use all of the weird, bad shit that seems to only happen to me – this is the result. I discovered the repercussions of mixing Henry Westons cider with wine and an appreciation of exfoliation gloves. Jack Lemmon was my new crush and I developed a hate for all Woody Allen films. Honey badgers became my new favourite animal. I learnt that eating out and then dancing vigorously does not bode well together. I FINALLY learnt how to spell guaranteed without using spell check.
Anyway, New Year’s preparations are underway. I’ve brought my drink of choice – vodka and lemonade if anyone’s interested, so if I throw up on myself at least it won’t stain my white dress. I got my hurr did, which prompted two girls yesterday to refer to me a “poor man’s Zooey Deschanel”. Which I’m going to take as a compliment, because when I googled that phrase, the consensus seems to be that the poor man’s Zooey Deschanel is Katy Perry. And I’m ok with that. I’m pretty sure that’s not what these girls meant though; I think they just meant I’m chubby with a fringe. It wasn’t my aim to look this way when I decided to get a fringe; I got it because I hate plucking my eyebrows. Still, it’s a comparison I can live with. The only other comparison I’ve ever had before was to Little Mo from Eastenders when I was fourteen, so this is a big step up.
For anyone who’s looking for some inspiration with their New Year’s resolutions, here are mine:
- Find a way to lose weight but somehow keep my boobs the same size
- Try different things on the menu when I go out to eat
- Stop getting drunk and dancing like a twat. Note to self: Everybody is looking at you because you’re hitting them with your arms, not because you look like Beyonce
- Stop reading the last page of books before I’ve started. I completely ruined the wasp factory for myself this year
- Write a book, even if it’s very short
- Stop challenging people to drinking games – I’m a twenty-two year old woman, not an adolescent frat boy
- Get someone to keep a picture of me in their wallet that doesn’t have a moustache drawn on it
- To say YOLO more. It’s such an underused phrase
- Get a new laugh, because mine is embarrassingly fat right now
- Start drinking more red wine in an effort to appear sophisticated
I hope you all had a fucking awesome year – I know I did. And if not, there’s always next year. But let’s face it, 2013’s going to be as unlucky as fuck.
*I was in such a bad way at this point in my dissertation – so near to the end yet so far – that I started rocking a look that was last seen in Mugatu’s Derelicte campaign; baggy jumpers with no bra, trousers tucked into my socks and finding weird stuff in my hair like biros and Quavers. Olivia told me that the colour of my skin made me look as though I’d been dead for three weeks.