Wow, haven't blogged for a while

Oh well. It'll be a New Year's resolution to blog more often in teh futurezzzz. Because now I'm an Oxford Student, I can't deprive the rest of the world of my greatness, can I?

I have so much to write about. My christmas party. My recent entry into the terrifying world of Myspace and Facebook. My gap year. Me getting into Oxford (Admittedly, I have written about this already but I think that it bears repeating - I am simply Better than 99.9% of the blogging community. That's right, you. YOU. Scum). The fact that I have so far written 1607 words of my English coursework about the syntactical, lexical and phonological implications of the ramblings of Karl "K-Man" Pilkington. My ingress into the working world - I am now a waiter so could change this blog into one of those "True Confessions of a Waiter" things. Like yesterday, yeah, I picked up the plates and was like 'This is fine' but I realised that they were scalding hot halfway walking down the aisle of the restaurant and I was like wtf omg this hurts so I basically ran to the table and threw the hot plates of chicken and gravy at the two gents and what thanks did I get?? ONE POUND IN TIPS nuts to that. So yeah, stick around for more quality anecdotal gems like that. I suppose I could blog about this Christmas - especially the fact that I think this Xmas has been especially important as I have literally not been bothered by Jesus or God at all. Christmas TV. Commercialism. Some more stuff about the kerazy stuff those muslims get up to. The lack of homework I have done compared conversely to the amount of homework that I have to do.

Basically you see that there is a PLETHORA of things for me to write about today. But no. I have decided that all of these pebbles are just tiny jigsaw pieces in the great tapestry of life, and in order to weld together those innumberable shards of life's great mosaiic, it is necessary to pick up all the fragments and try to glue them together to form some sort of meaningful whole - checkmate!. Mixed metaphors aside, I have been wracking my brains for a way to sum up 2006 in a nutshell. After all, so much happened this year... from the news to my girlfriend suddenly appearing from the primal swamp again to Saddam Hussein misinterpreting the rules to Hangman to me throwing TWO AWESOME PARTIES to everything that's happened... it seems that summing up 2006 in a nutshell will be difficult. But nevertheless I have tried to to sum up 2006 in a nutshell. Below is my attempt to to sum up 2006 in a nutshell.

To sum up 2006 in a nutshell.



AHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH!!!!!! HAHAHAHHAHA!! YOU SEE IT'S LIKE SUMMED UP INSIDE A LITERAL NUTSHELL. I CAREFULLY TOOK THE TWO METAPHORICAL TERMS AND RETRANSLATED THEM LITERALLY TO FORM AN ALMOST RIDICULOUSLY SURREAL CONTRAST! OH VERY GOOD SIR!



That's good. Happy New Year to people I like, AIDS and rusty needles to those I don't.

I assume that you are all wondering

... whether or not I got into Oxford University. After all, it's been nearly a week since I got the results and I have yet to write a blog full of simpering self-congratulation or boisterious self-loathing, or a weird combination of the two. Contgratu-Loathing, perhaps. Or self-self. I have decided to clear up this state of affairs by writing this post in which I inform everyone who doesn't know how I did of the decision of the nice people at Oxford University. Although, thinking about it, everyone who I know in real life (AKA actual real people who I like) already knows the answer, as I have already told them. And if you read the comments in the previous post of this blog, it's pretty obvious how I did.

So actually this post is aimed at people who have never met me and who do not read this blog. To be honest, if somebody makes a point of not reading this blog, I assume that they'd be some kind of gibbering retard, happily sitting in a padded room somewhere, eating flies and writing scientific thesii on the wall with fecal matter. And such people have no place even hearing about Oxford University. Scum.

To to be honest a simple blog in which I just said "I GOT IN YAY" or "I DIDNT GET IN BOO" is a waste of time, as it would be lost on your people. I'd better write a long rambling story about the interview procedure instead so that people who weren't following me around all day with a camera will be able to see what was goin' down. I tell you, there was some dark shit goin' down at that college. Hoo boy.

First things first, I was applying to do English Literature at Schmalliol College (the name of the college has been changed in case a don happens to Google the college, finds this blog, gets offended, hunts me down like a dog and bludgeons me to death with a volume of Keates). Schmalliol College is, I found out following my application, like the hardest college to get into in the history of Oxford. To be honest I didn't even do any research on it, I only wanted to go because I'd been to an open day and the lady taking me on a tour told me a fun story of how the Schmalliol Collegians vandalised the boat house of their neighbouring college, Schminity. It amused me and I thought "Why not here's as good as any other place" (NB: I did not voice this point of view in the interview).

FLASH CUT FORWARD to the day of the interview. I rolled up to Schmalliol, smokin' a doobie, clutching my bag and planning my line of attack. You see, I was pretty sure that although there were likely to be a few nerds who knew more about books than I did, there'd also be loads more who didn't begin to touch my intellectual superiority. Thus the plan was to find somebody not as good as English as me and to essentially make them my bitch. This would then give me armour against the people who knew more than me. So if Nerd started talking about, I don't know, 15th Century Poetry or something and Bitch said "Wow I haven't read any of that", I'd be able to go "YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN'T READ ANY 15th CENTURY POETRY?", look at the nerd and roll my eyes before moving the conversation onto Magic Realism. I like Magic Realism. I can talk about it at length. Do you want to hear about Magic Realism? No? Well fuck you then. Magically. And realistically.

Before finding such an unfortunate specimin, I went up to the room, where literally my first action was to jump on the bed and crack my head against the wall. I rolled about in pain for a bit, before sitting on the bed and staring blankly at the cupboard for about ten minutes. It was dead good. Then I stood up, cracked my knuckles, tipped my hat (NB: metaphorical. I was not wearing a hat) and headed down to the JCR to find a mate. For any idiots out there, JCR stands for 'Junior Common Room', it is where we young student dudes hang out and shoot the breeze; they have such quaint names for things in Oxford.

To cut a long story short, I ended up gazing longingly at the huge group of people who all seemed to be best friends with each other, before quietly sitting on a sofa and wondering what the fuck I was meant to do. This went on for about ten minutes until I panicked and went to get coffee with my girlfriend, who was to be honest like a ready made Oxford bitch - she was ALREADY my friend AND she knew less about Literature than me, thus making her a perfect foil for my foibles! Unfortunately she fucked off to learn some Geography or something and I had to go back to Schmalliol to find myself a Polonius. At first it didn't go brilliantly; I kind of perched on a sofa and listened in on people's conversations until I heard a cheery northern voice. I looked round and saw an odd sight. A northern dandy (replete with cravat, long coat and boots) was having a deep conversation about Dostoevsky with some huge hulking asian-looking brer. I thought 'Ah this is my chance, time to turn on the Phipps charm' and did a very subtle conversation-joining maneuvre; basically I looked at them and slowly leant towards them until they were forced to acknowledge me.

I joined the converation and mentally cracked my knuckles - I needed to find the dumber of these two and mercilessly hound him until he accepted me as his literal God. This did not happen and both of them blew me out of the water with their skillz. I mean, I thought that I knew something about literature but HO - LEE SHIT. Literally the entire conversation was them saying long words about rhyme meter and old poets and Shakespearian verse and Dostoevsky's childhood. "I READ CRIME AND PUNISHMENT! It wasn't that good!" I proudly ejaculated when big D was mentioned, and they both gave me withering looks which sent me scurrying back to my fallback position of 'nod wisely and positively backchannel everything they say'.

We moved into the dinner hall and a girl joined in the conversation. She was blonde and called Prune or something. "Aha," I thougth to myself "A chance to prove myself a true king of the Books; time to turn on the Phipps charm". Unfortunately the Northern Dandy got to her first and started a conversation about Sylvia Plath, which now I wish I had fucking listened to. "So do you prefer Sylvia or Ted?" he asked. "Well I always thought I'd prefer Sylvia and hate Ted," she mused, "But I did read a bit of Ted the other day and to be honest some of his structures are incredible". I was like wtf who the hell is Ted why have I not been informed. To be honest the entire first evening was me staring blankly at highly verbose, knowledgeable people, with my mouth slightly ajar, and the letters W T F floating above my head, along with a question mark and a burnt-out lightbulb. If there had been a camera crew following me around, I would have looked directly at the camera and made a kind of bemused slightly angry confused face. Like s:-s or >':(

Actually, I think that the entire Oxford admissions procedure would make a really groovy reality TV show. Think about it - you have your cast of hot young things all staying in the same building. You have the inevitable drama of them all competing for an amazing prize and the tears and heartbreak that come from realising that they might have let themselves, their school and - yes - even their country down. Hell, there was a pub quiz on the second day so we were all split into different factions - I was in a team called "Fenglish Park" (a name that was a combination of English, Fine Art, and Linkin Park (?)) with a bunch of nice people who were in the same "What the fuck am I doing here" position as me. You even have mini challenges in the shape of the interviews themselves. And viewers could vote off the uglier contestants. This idea was what was bubbling inside my skull when the rest of the gang were reciting Shakesperian sonnets LEARNT BY HEART and deciding on their favourite rhyme meter (not a joke, the Northen Dandy - who later turned out to be safe blud - actually asked the question "What is your favourite rhyme meter?" and got annoyed at the lack of immediate response; he claimed that he was joking afterwards, but I also got the impression that, had someone responded, he would have been fully equipped to have a lively debate on the merits of the iambic pentameter vs the dactylic hentameter).

Actually, thinking about it, I have spent this entire blog so far describing how woefully in over my head I was, but I have yet to get to the most important bits of all - the INTERVIEWS THEMSELVES. DUH DUH DUHHHHH. They were ok. Well the two at Schmalliol were fine, with lovely lovely people, discussing an easy poem (ah, the Holocaust, eh? Elegy, you say? SCHWINGGGG) and, yes, a nice talk about the magic, the beauty, the masterpiece of fictional symmetry that is MAGIC REALISM!!!!!!!

Unfortunately, my final interview did not go so well. I got referred to St John's college, famous for being the college of current British PM Tony "Butters" Blaire. Schmalliol is best known for being the college of famous British legend Boris "Crumbs" Johnson. Use that as you will to extrapolate the relative ethoses - ethii? - plural of ethos - of the two colleges, but basically my St John's interview consisted of me getting bent over a chair and gang raped for 45 minutes. With a cactus. Metaphorically.

I am not going to lie, there were a few problems with this interview. The first was that I'd expected to be interviewed by a nice grandmotherly old woman. However when I entered the room I saw that there were in fact TWO OTHER GENTS in the room, including one bald guy who asked all the questions and spent the entire interview BLAM BLAM BLAMMING me with hard questions.

The second question revolved around my complete ineptitude with poems. See, I'd been given this poem by famous ladypoet Sylvia Plath. Unfortunately, her name was not featured on the poem itself. Had it been, I might have recalled the snatches of the conversation between the Northen Dandy and the Blonde Girl and would have remembered that Platthy had some kind of problem with men. Unfortunately as it was I totally misinterpreted the poem and decided that a mournful elegy about coming to terms with a father's death by cleaning an old statue was actually about a man cleaning a ship, and was thus a paean about paganism and the futility of God. BUT GOD-DAMNIT IT WAS A CRAP POEM ANYWAY the central metaphor made no sense and as it turns out, Plath's father was later lost at sea so I think that my interpretation worked just as well IF NOT BETTER. But unfortunately as soon as I brought up my idea they were like no get out you silly boy.

The other problem came when I decided to cuss the Gothic. I'm sorry to all you goths out there, but Gothic Literature is some of the most uninteresting simplistic emotionless crap I have ever read and I was annoyed that I'd wasted two years of school studying fricken Dracula and Frankenstein and being beaten across the head with imagery - OH LOOK IT'S NATURE V NURTURE! IMAGERY! BLOOD! I happened to voice this point of view in the interview, which led to a ten minute reaming in which the tutors tried to think of something interesting about the Gothic, failed, and thus quizzed me on Mary Shelley's home life instead. How the fuck do I know who Mary Shelley's mother was? I guessed that she was a human rights lawyer (predating lawyers and human rights by like a century) which made them laugh nastily and write mean things on their clipboards.
They then used the fact that I knew no background information about Mary fecken Shelley to prove that the Gothic was somehow much smarter than it actually was but at this point I was pissed off and I was having none of it so I was like 'Nuts to you baldy, the gothic is crap, the writers just adopt a theme for the day and make up some dumb monster to personify it' which kind of shut him up so he went onto discussing The Tempest.

I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE TEMPEST. It's like Shakespeare's randomnest play, makes no sense, and just gives the main character magic powers which lets him do whatever he wants when it is thematically convenient. I would rather talk about Hamlet which at least has characters who can't make demons appear and chase their enemies away every ten seconds. Unfortunately they were dead set on The Tempest, and in particular the Masque - a random trippy scene in the middle of the play in which a load of random trippy goddesses appear on stage, dance about singing about harvest, then fuck off again. I know less about the Masque than I do about Mary Wollstonecraft (Shelley's mum - so we've all learnt something today!). I didn't even read it when we did the Tempest as the teacher was like 'You don't need to read this it will never appear in any exam' THANKS A LOT MISS.
The Tempest bit of the interview climaxed with the guy staring me dead in the eye, putting on a high pitched squeaky voice and saying - "Why do you prefer Caliban to Ariel? Do you empathise more with him cos he's ugly? Ugly? Do you want to be ugly? Ugly? Are you ugly? Why do you prefer the ugly one? I love thee, master. I love thee. What do you say to that?"
I pretty much just stared blankly at him and mentally cross St John's off the list of colleges I am likely to get into.

So in conclusion, that was my Oxford interview procedure. So how did I do? What did the letter say? Did I get in? Or am I scum? In or scum? IN OR SCUM? To be honest I am bored of typing now so I'll tell you the answer:

IN. Not scum. You are scum. I am not. I am in.


Yay.


I think it's a mistake, to be honest. A typo. There's probably an English Literature genius called Tuomas Phelps sitting at home crying now with his Never ha ha not ever you fool you think we'd give a place to a moron like you? letter clutched in one pudgy fist. Ho hum.

What happened at my Oxford interviews

I know that you would like to know how my interviews at the University of Oxford went. I was going to write a long blog post about it tonight.

However, I got distracted by the fact that, following the interviews, I have basically turned into a nervous wreck. The results come in Friday and that seems simultaneously MILES TOO FAR AWAY yet MILES TOO CLOSE.

My disintegrating mental state has manifested itself in several ways. Firstly my mouth has started randomly bleeding. Secondly I keep pulling bits of skin off of my hands. Thirdly I have become addicted to repetive puzzle games. Firstly Tetris, secondly Minesweeper.

Tetris is awesome... my personal best is a rather good 162 lines.
Unfortunately I would not class Minesweeper as being an 'awesome' game. I am now addicted to it. And not addicted in a good cocainey way. I am more addicted in a bad heroiney way. Like I keep playing, not because I want to, because I know that if I stop I will lie in bed hating myself. Basically, the version of Minesweeper I have is shit - bombs are placed randomly, and so to win it is neccesary to just randomly make repeated guesses as to where the fucking bombs are. This is annoying.

To conclude, I just spent THE PAST HOUR AND A HALF compulsively playing Minesweeper. I DIDN'T WIN ONCE. NOT ONCE. I start a new game, click on a few things, die, restart, repeat. THE PAST HOUR AND A HALF. My mouse broke halfway through.

After a near-mental breakdown and -not even kidding- a single tear brimming up in my eye - I only only JUST managed to win, which allowed me to quit. And I accidentally erased my list of best times on the Minesweeper start-up screen. This means that, after my hour and half's hard work at Minesweeper (and nothing else... literally it was just me staring at the screen in clicky silence) I had actually made myself seem LESS good at it in the mind of the computer.

Thank FUCK I finally managed to scrape through that ONE GAME. The list of best times on Minesweeper now reads "COMPUTER" for the bottom nine, and "HOLY SHIT I DID IT" at number one with a blistering time of 2.42. My head hurts and my screen is clogged up with minesweeper windows that will not disappear no matter how much I press 'FORCE QUIT'. Look check it out:



Hehehehe HUUGE. And that doesn't even begin to cover it. There are millions of other windows buried under the first pile. Like a huge atmosphere of Ozone and devilled eggs.

I fucking hate Minesweeper.

Oxbridge results on Friday. I won't get it.

I want to cry.

OXFORD INTERVIEW HELP ME

Hey dudes, I was re-reading my last post when I remembered the tenth thing that annoys me. This is a little belated but whatever - the problem is easily rectified. Just read the previous post, and when you get to the bit that goes "1: Oh crap I miscounted there are only nine things that I do not like and I cannot be bothered to change all the titles", insert the following lines:

There's this kid in my school in the year below me. I can't remember his name, but he's asian or something. Right; he plays the bassoon or the piccolo or some gay instrument, and Oxford University - yes THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY - has decided that because he has the ability to BLOW INTO A PIECE OF HARDENED RESIN in such a way THAT PRETTY SOUNDS COME OUT OF IT, he is good enough to get a scholarship. Yes that's right, he is in the year below, and just because he wastes his time playing music instead of kissing girls and sunbathing he gets to bypass the need for getting decent exams and going through the soul-crushingly difficult interview procedures. Is that justice? If I'd known that no actual aptitude for a subject was required to go to Oxford then well, shit, I would've spent my formative years fellatiating a reed. But no I spend my scholastic years reading books and doing exams and I still probably won't get into the university because the admissions tutor doesn't like my haircut. What a knob this music-boy is.

To be honest I have never spoken to him before - the sight of his annoying smiley duck-face (he has a duck-face) puts me into a bit of a rage - but I bet he is one of those people who practises his instrument for like twelve hours a day and manages not only to insert that fact into every sentence, but to hold it over you as a matter of pride, eg:

Boy 1: Hey, duck-face boy, I am going to go and watch a game of fooze-ball this weekend. What will you be doing with your free time?
Duck-face: Fooze-ball? Hah! I wish I had time for fooze-ball, but some of us have to practise playing all the arpeggios on the bassoon a hundred and fifty times each.
Boy 1: I am going to have lunch.
Duck-face: Lunch? Look at you eating lunch! Golly your life is so easy; I have no time for lunch as I have to go and play the entire works of Mozart solidly for a day and a night while simultaneously composing my own opera. My life is so hard.
Boy 1: Ok bye.
Duck-face: I play the bassoon!! :D

... something like that. I just had a thought though. If I DO get into Oxford, I am so giving him a wedgie. I'll get in a year before him so I'll be able to get a really good hiding place, and then when he walks in holding his basoon I will totally jump out from a statue and wedgie him. Man it'll be so awesome.

Of course this is assuming that I do get into the University. Which, to be honest, is the least likely thing ever. My ingress into said educational establishment is entirely based upon how I perform at a series of interviews. Taking place next week, these interviews will test my knowledge and skill at literature to the hardcore core; I will be forced to navigate a Minotaurian-style gauntlet of essay-dissections, analysis of poetry, and general literature discussion, with a load of trick questions thrown in for fun (they say that there are no trick questions in the brochure but YEAH RIGHT they also say that black people and jews are allowed into the college and to be honest that ain't happnin any time soon).

These interviews will be a delicate tightrope balancing act of saying the right thing and acting in the right way. I am currently devising my act - do I choose to go with the "Handsome but unconventional rogue who will denigrate Shakespeare and call Hamlet a 'sissy-boy'" angle, or the "Deep and philosophical thinker with a unique definition of literature and art in the global marketplace" version? I reckon if I go for the first I will wear jeans, my "Reading is awesome" t-shirt, and a blazer - just to show that I am academically enabled. If I plump for the second, then I will wear leather patches on my tweed coat and grow a little moustache. Of course, I could always wear dark glasses and bring a dog in with me and pretend to be blind. Oxford is always up for admitting comedy tokens. Hmm...

Yes yes I know, teachers and adults say 'just be yourself' but yeah right when has that ever helped anyone? Anne Frank was herself and a fat lot of good that did - and judging by the verbal diahroea that occurs whenever I am in a high stress situation - for example, meeting a lesbian and saying 'lesbian' by accident, or meeting a woman with one boob and telling her the "What's black and has nine tits?" joke - it is quite safe to say that being myself is the worst case scenario of the interview.

* * *

(The bin-bag outside a breast-cancer clinic, by the way)

* * *

It will just be so difficult to give the interviewers what they want. As well as answering all their questions satisfactorly, I will also have to show that I am 'teachable' (I think this means that if I see the correct answer straight away, I should try to get it a bit wrong so that they can point me in the right direction), confident yet not cocky, verbose yet not annoyingly labyrinthine in the vocalisation of my prosaic conceptions, good-looking yet not annoyingly handsome, knowledgeable about literature yet not a geek.

Actually I think that being perceived as an English Literature geek will not be a problem for me. I think that being perceived as having any knowledge whatsoever about English Literature might be where my problems lie. I mean, one of the good things about me is that I have read pretty widely around our English literature A-Level course. The bad point is that when I say 'widely', I mean 'books from - in the past year - America Chile Peru Brazil Japan Russia Germany France and the whole continent of South America'. Do you notice what is missing from that list? YEAH ENGLAND. It was only the other day that I realised that I have read like only one actual book coming from England ('Waterland' by Graham Swift - fucking awesome) in the past year. I decided to set that right by quickly trying to blast through a book by Henry James, but sentences like "It was vain for Mrs Wix to represent - as she speciously proceeded to do - that all this time would be made up as soon as Mrs Farange returned: she, Miss Overmore, knew nothing thank heaven, about her confederate, but was very sure any person capable for forming that sort of relation with the lady in Florence would easily agree to object to the presence in his house of the fruit of a union that his dignity must ignore," - make Henry James difficult to recomment as a 'quick read', so I kind of gave up and read American Psycho instead. Which, although being much more fun to read and having lots of killings, is basically a one-joke enterprise and is - worst of all - WRITTEN BY A FUCKING AMERICAN. When the course I am trying to get into is composed of English and ONLY English literature, my total lack of reading of that genre means that I might be in for a bit of bother.

Equally, when it comes to actual DISCUSSION of literature, I find myself increasingly unsure of my abilities. Last year I used to go to extra classes to take an Advanced Extension English exam (yes I am a geek so sue me; I got a distinction and you still wet the bed), which basically revolved around reading books and talking about them. The other day I was bored so I thought to myself - "I know what, I'll swing by English Club to see what's going down with my homies!!" So I did and to my surprise there were like eight kids from the year below who all seemed to know more about literature and were more able to talk about it than me. I AM MEANT TO BE THE BEST LITERATURE STUDENT IN THE SCHOOL and I kind of sat there with my mouth slightly ajar as they started talking about 'the Geography of the English novel' and 'the classically inward-looking climate of English literature'. One of them said the word 'peroquial' and I was like wtf. Then the teacher turned to me - as though I was some sort of fount of knowledge - and asked me for my opinion. Fortunately I managed to rinse that kid down as he was talking about Waterland, so I was like "You prick it's not important that it's in England; the fenlands in which the novel takes place only exist as the landscape of the anti-fairytale, the stage on which the actions of history can pirouette, and what's more you are ugly and I had sexual relations with your mother last night" and that shut him up.

But seriously dude... peroquial? I looked it up and according to dictionary.com it means "any of numerous small, slender parrots, usually having a long, pointed, graduated tail, often kept as pets and noted for the ability to mimic speech" so basically that guy has no clue what he's talking about. Parrots? Yeah whatever mate. Lay off the shrooms.

So yeah I basically know no technical terminology whatsoever. It's gonna be interesting in the interview when they ask me to clarify a technical term and I say "well, the word sounds kind of like what it is meant... to represent?" (actually this is onomatopoeia or mimosis I am clever). My only hope lies in the fact that usually I have a much deeper understanding of what's going on, I just have no clue of how to translate it into words. So while peroquial-boy might be able to read, I don't know, a bit of the ol'TS Eliot and say "well this interestingly links to the poem The Buried Life by Matthew Arnold (1822 - 88) in which the 'buried life' is 'the mystery of the heart which beats so wild, so deep in us'", I'll be like "THIS POEM BLOWS MY FUCKING MIND ELIOT IS A GENIUS HOW CAN HE FIT SO MUCH STUFF SO DENSELY INTO EVERY LINE I COULD TALK ABOUT THIS POEM ALL DAY WITHOUT EVEN MENTIONING MATTHEW ARNOLD WHO I HAVE NOT EVEN HEARD OF AT THIS POINT" and the interviewers will give me a place at the college and they will select a heavy leather-bound tome from the bookshelf and beat peroquial-boy across the head with it, punctuating each crunching impact with the words "Nobody... likes... a... know... it... all".

That is unlikely to happen.

Oh well, my interviews will be from Tuesday-Thursday. I should get the verdict by Christmas eve, just in time to ruin the holidays for everyone.

Pray for me.

ARGH FUCK I JUST LEANT ON MY CHAIR AND PINCHED MY ARM-FLESH AGAINST THE DESK THAT IS AGONY IF I CANNOT EVEN SIT ON A CHAIR PROPERLY WITHOUT INJURING MYSELF HOW THE FUCK AM I MEANT TO GET INTO THE BUFFEST UNIVERSITY IN THE COUNTRY