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Life Updates, as if you gave a shit.

I ought to clear something up before I begin. This is not mindless self-indulgence. This is not self-help, a form of therapy. This is a twisted, hilarious, ridiculous account of actual happenings. Everything is true, every word of it.   My life since graduating from Goldsmiths in 2012 (Media and Comms, 2:1) was nothing like how I imagined it would be. It was not the smooth sailing, straight into a job, endless partying and networking and fun I was promised. This isn't supposed to be a dark account of my undeniable misery over the course of that year, but the events are just too funny to not write about.   Nobody ever covers Graduates in the spectrum of young-people related media, television, whatever. Unless you're a bright eyed, tight pussied eighteen year old, nobody gives a shit. Do Freshers have the most fun anyway?! Certainly not. But neither do Fresh-Graduates. Briefly speaking, here's an account of the events so far:  

 Firstly, homelessness. This was a particularly fun one.
After spending 7 days and 7 nights bleaching the absolute crap out of our house, we were kicked out. Three of our housemates fucked off, leaving the remaining three of us to pick up the pieces. Jo saw in his 21st birthday covered in bleach burns (I've got pictures to prove it), went to the New Cross Inn and ended up vomiting in 8 different places around the house. Obviously we had to clean that up as well. So after we surrendered our SE haven to a pair of incredibly shady house managers (our landlord lived in Columbia and we were sure she was a drug baron), we were on our way. It was at this point that I moved in with my ex-girlfriend/best friend’s parents, bunking in her bedroom. Though it was unbelievably kind of them to keep me, and for this I am eternally grateful, it was an accurate start to one of the weirdest summers of my life.  

Which leads us to the Olympics. I was working in Cath Kidston in St. Pancras, and of course, I was pretty worried that there would be a tiny wee bomb scare while I was working in one of the biggest stations in London. By worried, I mean I saw it in a dream and convinced myself it was true (have I yet to mention my ridiculous anxiety levels?) So I reduced my hours to 4 hours a week to minimise the possibility of being bombed. For someone who has been considered suicidal in the past, I was pretty determined to not get blown up. I'd rather die on my own terms. Anywho, I spent most of my time watching Geordie Shore, looking for a full-time job and somewhere to live. I found a room in a house share in Sydenham with three gay couples. One of the guys, my friend Ben, is now an up and coming fashioned designer, don't you know. Meanwhile, Jo and Tom were living in a house share, in the same room, in Kensal Green. The whole thing was absurd.

And then we found a house together, and our landlord was like a cross between Arnie, a South-African pimp and a Cambridge doctoral graduate. Absolutely bizarre. He wore those strange Ali G style glasses all the time and had veins popping out of his muscles. After being attempted mugged, I developed a huge phobia of being raped and so I couldn't be in the house on my own all that often as our landlord would just appear out of nowhere and act really chill and stuff and it’d make me really uncomfortable. I miss my room in this house, but not as much as Musgrove. Anyway, I’m rambling but you get the gist.

Redundancy occurred from the Arcadia job I’d found just so I had a full time job, then I started working at AllSaints which was so bad it made me have a nervous breakdown and had to go home for two weeks and have my mum coddle me back together so I felt human again. And then I started working at the Farm. Meanwhile, I’d moved to Walworth which is where I’m currently living. The problems in this house are far too severe for me to even blog about, but we’re not happy. That’s all you need to know. Long story short, stuff has happened from then until now. And now is where I’ll pick it all up.

What d’ya reckon then? Fancy coming along for the ride?