I also gradually realize that, like many liberal arts-educated products of the internet “how-to” article age, I have become overconfident in my own competence, aka deluded myself into thinking that four years of essays and caffeine intoxication has given me practical “problem solving” skills.
The cottage/ camping/ vacation weekend – a theoretically relaxing “break” from the real world – is in fact the mentally defective brainchild of the residual borderline alcoholic and self destructive “experimenter” in every newly “socially productive” postgraduate. It almost always plays out something like this.
Go to the bank and find out that your bank statement is actually running a bit lower than you thought. Ok, a lot lower – probably from all the lunches or, erm, “falafel.” Realize you’re going to have to get a higher paying job than an internship if you’re going to want to keep eating or drinking anything at all. Realize you’re going to have to get two internships. And start selling drugs. Lots of drugs. And stripping! But you can’t strip – too many lunches.
Movies about university make it seem like everyone at university is literally having sex with someone all the time, usually shortly after a naked mudfight in a bathtub full of jello in the middle of a frat party with Luke Wilson and Tara Reid, or superbly drunk in some awkward situation with a pair of twins while the love of their lives is downstairs looking for them and crying or something, or on a road trip, or in an art gallery, or the library, or absolutely everywhere, all the time.