The possibility of universal collapse

I have been semi-lamenting my rather unique set of interests recently, specifically that I don't know anybody else who is studying Microeconomics AND loves Phoenix Wright. This has led me to wonder what would happen if I met another person who liked all the same stuff I did.

I have come to the conclusion that it would not end well for any of us. Let's pretend I never thought about it.

Well, would you look at that.

I just found my pen drive after 3 months, in the pocket of a pair of trousers which have been washed at least once since I put it in there. And it still works! I love technology.

I am going to Paris tonight, and then to college on Monday. Excitement is mounting.

I am well, apart from being in the Void Year. 2009 wtf.

Soon, precioussss

I wish I could justify just buying Spore and whiling my life away on that rather than actually going out and living it.

Oh dear

I've turned into one of those insanely successful people who win everything.

God I hate those people.

(I don't hate winning Christ Church Regatta, though. Not even a little bit. AAAAH!)

Holding out for a Hero

Crazy, masochistic week of drama was rewarded with places on two award shortlists!

We are the awesome. Fear our win.

In all seriousness

I am SO freakin' tired of myself. Everything is an internal battle. YAWN.

Life is over.

I will never be even a tiny part as talented as Alexander Petrov. What is the point of existence?

Oh, by the way, I'm miserable and mucusy again. Wahey!

You know that feeling...

Where you find something which you already know is going to be really bad, but it appalls you how bad it is just the same?

That's how I feel about this.

Must kan shu.

No more internets.

On the plus side, I got my groove back for now. No more morose whiny AJ for at least ten minutes.

I want to crawl inside something and die quietly.

Winter is poo.

emplooooyment

it is 4.00 and Waterstones have not called.

Why have they not called. Waterstones, why have you not called? I am not a happy bunny. Call. Give me a job. I will carry your books and you will pay me £900 and then I will live like a Queen for another semester. It'll be a match made in heaven.

I am floating in and out of reality.

Oh for heavens' sake.

Here we go again.

(Incidentally, if social skills were textbooks mine would not be written by Hal Varian. Make of that what you will; I personally am very depressed about it.)

It is a sad state of affairs...

... when the only things keeping my intellectual sanity alive are propositional logic and the German political system.

If I wanted to study Maths, I would have picked the degree CALLED Maths.

(The more astute among you will note that I picked the degree called PPE. HENCE. Unhappy.)

I'll allow for logic, though. Logic is HOT.

If you know what I mean.

A contingency plan for climate change

OK, so some other PPEists (and E&Mists, and Economics and some other rubbish-ists) I went to a lecture on the Political Economy of Climate Change, because we're awesome like that. And it was pretty cool, but it was also deeply deeply terrifying.

The basic message? We're fucked. Even if we set ourselves targets we probably won't reach, we'll still be well within the boundary for catastrophic climate change. It might not happen, but it probably will. The End.

Soooo, in light of these facts, and the fact that we probably have until 2050 to enjoy the world, I have formulated a Cunning Plan:

1) Die before 2050. This is probably the most instrumental part to avoiding ANY responsibility for how screwed up the world is.

2) Before this time, spend most of my life building an underground bunker full of important cultural relics, many of which will be created by me and many of which won't, but which I'll ascribe to myself anyway. This bunker will contain copious references to my good self, including plenty of missing and/or conflicting biographical details, in order to create an air of mystery. I might rewrite a couple of epic poems to be about me anyway. This bunker will then be sealed against all natural disasters, and the location encoded in a load of clever but not impossible clues (hopefully scattered all around the globe, probably on tops of mountains to ensure against rising sea levels.)

3) Probably not reproduce. I don't know, kids would be fun but then I'd be responsible for bringing them into a very bad world and if they pass down REAL details about my life, that will spoil the fun.

4) Years after my death, after most of the population of the world has been wiped out and civilisation has regressed etc, my bunker will be discovered by some clever archaeologists/scientists/plucky kids with too much time and money on their hands and VERY neglectful parents. They will then find the tools to rebuild society using things they attribute entirely to me. Hopefully this will start, if not a religion, at least some kind of worlwide following where I am considered the epitome of pre-global warming society. I shall be famous in the best possible way (i.e. the mysterious, biographically inaccurate way) and I will have not only escaped climate change, but capitalised on it to ensure I am remembered for thousands of years.

... it's times like these when I wish I wasn't an atheist who didn't believe in an afterlife. Then I could look forward to seeing all this first-hand.

Also, one of the first things I will steal will be Volker Halbach's Logic Manual. Just giving you the heads-up there. It's gonna be mine in the future.

On narcissisim.

I'm probably one of the least genuinely narcissistic people I know. I mean, is there anything I think I CAN do? Not as such, no. Probably, therefore, my rush to constantly define myself as the best person in the world is yet another symptom of my deeply ingrained emotional and psychological problems. Probably.

What am I going to do about this revelation? Nothing. I'm too awesome for change, remember?

PS. how is it I came to university with loads of great plans for doing lots of things among which rowing did NOT feature, and suddenly I'm in freshers' first VIII and technically out on the river at 7am? Oh dear.

Matriculation

Yesterday, I matriculated. This is an event which involved getting up early in the morning (well, 8.00), dressing like a penguin, taking photos, having photos taken, going to the Exam Schools, standing in a room, listening to an Australian speak Latin and then an Australian speak English, eating brunch, going to Sainsbury's, buying wine, drinking wine (I personally had 2 bottles in 12 hours, and would recommend the fairtrade red but definitely not the fairtrade white), going punting, being punted, going into bushes on a punt, coming back, ordering pizza, changing into normal clothes, eating pizza, whining, celebrating a moral victory, going to a house party, playing I Have Never, telling strangers personal things, coming home at some point, failing to get into my (unlocked) room because I couldn't find the key in my pocket and finally falling asleep in the "women's room" next door.

Today involved waking up in the women's room. And then moving, sleeping and now the internets. I also have to row and do some SERIOUS hard work, but... ehhhhh...

Is death particularly funny?

Possibly, the answer to this question is "no". In which case, I have not written a very funny sketch for Friday.

Still, nobody ACTUALLY dies, so maybe I am on the right side of scandalous.

I feel I should write a bit more about what's actually been happening to me. Well, things have got a bit quieter since last week, by which I mean I have been in my room before midnight every day since Friday. Buuuut I have still been doing plenty of things- Saturday, I went to an auction being filmed by BBC1 for daytime TV at the Oxford Union, which was surreally awesome and meant I now have a fun painting of a garden which I wouldn't otherwise have considered owning. Earlier this week, I saw Josie Long (writes for Skins, was apparently on Never Mind The Buzzcocks recently) at the Free Beer show, which is this tiny venue which (also allegedly, remember I know nothing about most culture) has lots of fun semi-famous comedians in a really intimate setting, and which was brilliant except the room was hot and I had to stand up and she dragged a bit at the end. I already have my tickets for Reginald D. Hunter next week, who is (ALSO apparently, I should stop believing what people tell me) a legend.
Then yesterday was an open mic at the college chapel which was SUCH a cool location for it, the acoustics were lovely and it was really fun to be in this old old building with only candles and really low electric lights listening to some very intimidatingly good people playing and singing songs they'd written. I came back early though to blitz this ongoing mysterious audition thing, which I can EXCLUSIVELY (that is not an exaggeration, of course news regarding me is exclusive. It's not like anybody is going to tell you except me) reveal is for the Oxford Revue. I don't have high hopes, but if it did come off I would be a very very happy bunny.

I am learning to be a rower, and going to the gym. I am currently right on top of the workload, which is brilliant. And tonight is a big free chocolate fountain at the Oxford Women in Politics (OxWIP) freshers' thing, so life is generally still very, very good.

Oh, all except the dinners here. Those suck balls. But at least it means my diet is better than if I were cooking for myself, particularly if you are of the belief that courgettes are a special food group all of their own and you need to eat them at least once a day. Then I'm a paragon of health (except for the chips I keep eating for lunch. Yummy!)

This place is still a big slice of awesome pie.

However, I have now made an executive decision to subject myself to at least one audition, and now I am wishing I were intelligent enough to unmake it. Auditions are Not Cool. I ought to do lots of things that I don't need to be good at to do... like... the internet. Not things that people have to do well.

This is a recipe for disaster, and more importantly, whinging. Hence, blog! Wahey!

I have developed a strong aversion...

... to being by myself.

Seriously, this room is DULLL, where's the peeps at.