Bexistentialism HT15 Week 1

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Oxford time, as I/you/he/she/you/it has said before, ticks to a curious time. But if you ever want a recalibration into the logistics of time, all you need to do is sit through a collection.Blatantly named for their purpose for you to collect together all thoughts on your own inadequacy, there isn’t a minute which is not felt.

But I’m not going to write about that. Nor the fact that I have a permanent-ink-cartridge-fountain-pen which means I am forced, by being pretentious enough to use a fountain pen, to bring a pot of ink to exams in case it needs refilling.

I’m not even going to discuss those who smugly flex their fingers as they gaze at their work, the words “gosh aren’t I just awfully clever” leaking from their mind like the socially incoherent fuckers that they are (not.bitter).

With my collection taking place on Saturday morning, the rest of the day is fated. And thus it is unsurprising that I wake up the next day with the remnants of costume and face paint, and struggle out of my room to the torturous reminder that daylight is a thing.

I wade through existence into the shower, and exhale as the hot water (turned only half on, a weak student shower being too much for my frail body) trickles onto my cowering skin. And it is as I sigh, of course, that I remember. Last night I lost my keys.

As I like to believe I’m not the only useless person in Oxford, I assume that you, fair reader, may understand that familiar thud in the stomach. By the time I find myself, hours later, searching the field by the Sports Pavillion for my keys, the thud has become a steady metronome.

My stomach is thudding unnecessarily out of time with my thumping head. It seems the skies have swallowed them up. Quickly, what was meant to be a free and simple Bop, turns into an £80 extravaganza. Yes. Replacement keys cost £7.50 more than a passport(on which I was forced to splurge days before).

I may start to claim that these columns are myriads of fibbery. It’sthe only way I’ll be recovering any pride. Fittingly, an image returns to my head. One leg either side of the Catz fence, I make eye contact with people in a ground floor bedroom. Their sober faces, even through my inebriated mist, are clearly etched with disbelief at Stupid Girl On Fence. Oh strangers, if only you knew how right you were.

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