Third Year: The Unglamorous Truth

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I can safely say that the final year of university is one of the most confusing times a student will experience. Gone are the days of being more dressed up than Beyonce at the Grammys every night, followed by waking up slightly embarrassed of falling over your heel on the way home at 1am. Now, your mornings consist of asking yourself whether you can look at least four people in the eye ever again. Furthermore, I’m sure I can’t be the only one that looks back and asks myself how, in the name of holy Jesus, buying new bodycon dresses every week was ever an affordable lifestyle. Also, Evoque is £6 entry. Yet, strangely, also gone are the weeks where you have to drag yourself from your reeking pit to be in every day at 9am for a lecture on a subject you are now questioning whether you know anything about or not. It’s a strange purgatory; a kind of combination of the two.

A typical day, whilst writing your dissertation, will involve sitting on your bed and staring into the abyss for a few minutes every morning, as you contemplate the hell that awaits. There is no need to get dressed, as you are not going anywhere. You can’t, you tell yourself, as even an hour in the outside world would destroy your potential prospects in life. So you assume the Hunchback of Notre-Dame position that you have been in since it became March and panic began to descend. You consider breakfast, but there is no point in prolonging living anymore. By the time evening dawns on you, you have watched so many episodes of Skins to convince yourself that maybe, one day, your life will be as exciting as Effy’s again (although I personally think her life looks terrible, the woman needs to get a grip and stop floating around mysteriously) and typed out far fewer words than you originally thought, beer is calling to you like the cruel mistress that it is. Live like Effy, just for tonight, it whispers, despite the fact that you are currently nursing a hangover from two days ago.

That is the weirdest thing about third year. Despite the mountains of work and endless deadlines, you go harder than you ever have before. Giggle-filled evenings in slip dresses and heels that end at 2am with a few adorable Instagram-worthy pictures mutate, violently and horrifyingly, into something else. Something much, much worse. You don’t dress up anymore, as you don’t have the time. Your nights now consist of jeans and band T-Shirts (ooh look at me), and start a lot earlier, typically about four or five in the afternoon. You start with pints, ignoring the slight denial and insisting that you are only being social, before moving onto double gin and tonics. Before you know it, you are no longer in control of your face, it’s 4am and you’ve been in Blitz for hours. The following morning, you wake, your eyes peeling open like a newborn puppy, and the disgusting cycle immediately begins again.

So there you go. An honest (maybe too honest) rendition of a third year student’s life, condensed for your pleasure. Or pain. But mainly our pain.

Photo credit: Flickr

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