Social Media Break-Ups...

Oh, how I envy our forefathers and sisters whereby a break-up consisted of finalizing a separation and asking someone not to call them anymore. “I won’t answer any of your calls or reply to any of your letters” seems almost hilarious in our modern world whereby almost everyone is instantaneously reachable via Facebook, Twitter, email or SMS. I am thoroughly grateful for advances in technology which have revolutionized social interaction. The only hiccup I have encountered is what happens when your social media world becomes so entangled in that of your significant other's that separating them is a tricky process. 

The world of social media runs alongside our own “reality” as a parallel universe. Ask yourself how many times you say Facebook, refer to Facebook or use Facebook a day and the results are shocking. Facebook is like a personal billboard whereby you have license to portray yourself, your likes/dislikes, your relationship status and your recent antics for your chosen Facebook world to tap in to and view. A problem I have  encountered is that of break-ups and social media: a new phenomenon for our generation which makes announcing a breakup almost as traumatic as the break-up itself. 

Our good old friend, Life, created time and space as a means of dealing with break-ups. Space allows for reflection and for dealing with emotions and heart-ache related to the loss of your significant other. Time runs in tandem with space allowing for regrowth and acceptance of the situation. In this new era of social media, space is almost eliminated as that person is constantly still featured in your life-be it on your homefeed or Twitterfeed. There is nothing quite as debilitating as stalking an ex-partner's page and constantly being reminded of old times and old feelings and living in a time warp whereby the chance of moving forward is limited. 

Is making a “clean-break” ever possible in the world of social media? Break-ups can be bitter, angry affairs and one does not want to antagonize things any further. Is it acceptable for the person to delete/block the other from Facebook, to unfollow them on Twitter and to delete their Whatsapp? Is this a slap in the face or just self-preservation? Does the person have an option if they are genuinely looking to progress emotionally and avoid unnecessary hardship? Because no matter how “over them” you are, seeing statuses such as “Drunk and out with the lads/gals”, viewing their recent photos or checking who they have recently added is only going to add to your post-relationship blues. Staying friends on Facebook can also create a kind of post-relationship rivalry whereby both parties try to appear like they are completely okay in the aftermath of the break-up. Or, adversely, a whole load of statuses about how depressed one is which can make your ex-partner feel like a complete and utter asshole. 

The overall conclusion I have drawn is that deleting someone from Facebook, at least for a period of time, is almost the only way to ensure that you deal with your feelings surrounding the break-up instead of dwelling on the apparent life of your ex-partner. Apparent being the operative word as Facebook can all too easily be manipulated to reflect a false representation of life. Facebook is forgiving-you can always add them back at a later date. The only thing one can do is avoid unwarranted hassle and hardship and keep them “out of sight and out of mind”: at least for the time being and to a certain extent in the social-media world. Your social media universe will probably be a lot more peaceful as a result. 

And in the meantime, hit up Lolcats. That makes everything better. 

Diary of an Erasmus Student (France edition) Part I

Erasmus, they said. T’will be grand, they said. Little did we know as we boarded our plane with our 15 kilo Ryanair baggage with another five kilos of layers strategically fitted on to us what exactly we were getting ourselves in to. Now currently in my third of a fourth year degree, I thought that I had college life and more importantly, college REGISTRATION down pat. However, no manner of UCD online registration, of tutorial clashes, of program-office fights, of random emails sent to various members of faculty and of utter confusion had prepared us for the beast that is French administration. It appears that trying to do anything of importance in France requires an inordinate amount of documentation and without fail, proof of residence, proof of EU citizenship and passport pictures. Passport pictures everywhere. Never have I gone through so many passport pictures in such a short space of time. Two reams of passport pictures later and I now consider myself an expert in how to take the perfect passport picture that is not only flattering but also conforms to ID-appropriate dimensions. Truly a talent that is not mastered by many. That is one thing that I can definitely thank French administration for. That and Tyra Banks for mastering the smize.

Notwithstanding this incessant need for my face to be plastered on every document I sign my name to, is also the need to PROVE that you are a resident of France. Even availing of a student rate in the local swimming pool involves a declaration of residency, commonly known as an “attestation de domicile”. There was a week of my life where I just about carried around every item of important documentation with me in the likelihood that someone, somewhere, would ask me to produce it. If I had lost my bag I would genuinely not have an identity or any means to prove that I once did, in fact, have an identity. I fondly remember the time when I opened up a bank account in 5 minutes during fresher’s week in first year solely because I got some trivial, free thing in exchange. I managed to open up a bank account in Paris and basically needed therapy afterwards it was that stressful.

Registration has been the most intense registration period of my life (UCD online registration is a blessing in comparison). From having to sign a learning agreement (???) to sending it back and forth from home university to host university and having to obtain not one, not two, but THREE different stamps and signatures, I feel like I have somehow signed over everything to Nanterre, including my soul and my willpower to try to get my head around French administration. From the constant beating that French administration has given us (I speak of such solely in the hypothetical sense, that shit has been outlawed for years) I’ve come to this weird acceptance whereby I have admitted defeat and am ready to submit to the overlord that is bureaucracy in France. I have made peace with the French system and in return, it continues to baffle me, require me to produce proof of residency and constant selfies of myself. I guess I will learn to deal with it. 

Maybe one day, someday, very far in to the future, I will understand it. And we will ride above ground in to the sunset together on the wonderland of Paris metros.  <3 <3

PROCRASTINATION

PROCRASTINATION

A Student’s Guide

It’s that time again-study season. A season that creates mass panic, mass cramming, mass stress and mass procrastination. There’s nothing quite like exam-stress to force you in to a maddening bout of finding things that really don’t need to be done but suddenly MUST be done with a fervour that would have anyone suspect that you were the most diligent of workers in the world. It’s like once a book is produced that your eyes start wandering and then BAM they land on something remotely in need of a quick tidy/reorganizing/mass overhaul and you’re off. Except these stints are never quick, as I’ve come to realize. They can potentially consume an hour. They can potentially consume the whole day if needs be. It just depends how creative you can get with things...

If you look on the bright side of exam-season, I like to think of it as a “get-shit-done” phase (*NOTE the “shit getting done” does not include any study of any form). For instance, my room-usually an impenetrable fort of strewn clothes and general mess-is now a blissful oasis of organization. My desk has colour-coded sticky notes plastered in a Roman-style mosaic formation to remind me what exactly I should be doing every day. My socks are paired. PAIRED for Christ’s sake. It seems I have exhausted literally every avenue available to me to put off study and immerse myself in some other banal task.

As it appears, I am not the only one to be pulled in by the black-hole of procrastination. One friend has suddenly taken up leisurely strolls on the beach, another likes to send me Facebook pictures documenting how her studying is going.  As for me, I’ve decided to watch the whole series of Geordie Shore from the beginning, plus a healthy dose of The Valleys because nothing screams A+s all around than some seriously trashy tv-viewing.

As much as procrastinating is putting off what exactly you should be doing during reading week-studying-let’s not become too critical of it. I mean, you ARE doing something and that something is of worth in some minute part of your life. Probably very minute, at the very periphery of your existence but no matter. Your efforts are not in vain. You have successfully chosen the most inopportune time to spring-clean your wardrobe, paint your nails, read a completely irrelevant book and watch some wholly exam-unrelated material but fuck it, you will be the best dressed, most feng-shui and informed student on all trashy reality tv shows going walking in to that exam hall. There's more to life than exams and procrastination shows us that-there is quite literally, HEAPS of other things to do outside of exams and I plan to tackle every single one of them before I actually genuinely have to study. 

Poetry is for dweebs...

One would think that in a college-setting where everyone is supposed to be "finding themselves" and "exploring new  outlets" that poetry would be seen as something cool and expressive. However, speaking from experience, this doesn't seem to be the case. You can turn around to a stranger and tell them that you're a songwriter or a musician and be greeted with nodding heads and impressed smiles. You tell people that you write poetry and they begin thinking that you're a closet depressive with deep psychological issues. Think Emily Dickinson meets Adrienne Rich. Like most people, my poetry-exposure was largely limited to the leaving-cert curriculum where I started to attempt to write my own frantic musings and ideas. Once the leaving-cert became a distant memory, I ceased to write altogether. Life got in the way and writing again seemed all a bit too teenage-angsty and weird for my liking. 

It was in the midst of exam-stress at Christmas that the opportunity arose to take part in a workshop run by the poet Harry Cliffton and I decided to submit some very, VERY old poems of mine. Surprisingly, I managed to blag myself a spot and for four weeks, ten of us sat around a table and talked about everything from poets that inspired us, forms of poetry, types of poetry and even our own poetry all under the guidance of Mr. Cliffton himself. Admittedly, I was a little overwhelmed by it all at the start-being thrust back in to the world of poetry after an indefinite break and desperately trying to remember lines of poems that I had learnt off in my leaving-cert days to try to appear educated and read. Mostly, I just stayed silent and hoped that if I didn't make eye-contact, people would just think that I was pondering life and other poetical shit. 

The most nerve-wracking of all was having my poetry read and critiqued by the group. It's like allowing people to read little snippets from your mind and you're there, completely at their mercy, desperately hoping that they don't now think that you're a psychotic serial killer who is going to go all college-shooter on their asses in the near future. Having not written in so long it was so beneficial hearing people's feedback and having a panel of external readers give their own opinions and critiques of them. The group was so open and encouraging and gradually, I felt more comfortable expressing myself and offering opinions. 

I think the most shocking aspect of the whole thing was how interesting and diverse the group was. I had the incredibly stilted view that it was going to be a whole host of English students in hipster clothing discussing the futility of life. Instead, there were students from law, philosophy, social science and politics, all interested in poetry and all writing on an array of subject matter. Every week, I looked forward to reading their poems and be granted that momentary glimpse in to their minds of what they saw, what they sensed or what they experienced. 

And then the unexpected thing happened...I started to write again. And then things exploded and all of a sudden, I'm going to open-mic nights and poetry readings with these new found friends of mind who ALSO write poetry. It's like having a support group where you stand up and read your poetry to a sea of strangers, never having the fear of not being applauded because you have your little army of fans on your side.

Poetry may seem inaccessible, outdated and uncool but it's not so far removed from lyrics and rap that is so worshiped in modern-day culture. The name of our group is "The Skinny Cats" a.k.a, Harry's Hunzos, made up of young UCD-ers who write poetry and we are on a mission to prove that poetry can be cool too. 

When Coppers met Sobriety....

In a world where lewd and drunken behaviour is the norm, 15 brave young-adults decided to take on the challenge of a lifetime-going to Coppers sober. Admittedly, the idea of facing Coppers sober was not really one that I welcomed with open arms. Usually, I only feel ready to brave Coppers after I have drank myself in to a self-induced coma and am not really too aware of my surroundings. This was not a challenge that we devised of our own volition. It is all part of Des Bishop's new show on Rte1 called "Under the Influence", in which he tries (maybe successfully, maybe in vain) to change Ireland's somewhat unhealthy attitude towards drink. He wants to prove that you can enjoy yourself and have equally as good a night-if not better-when you remain sober. In conjunction with his Rte programme he has launched "Hello, Sunday Mornings", a new website that aims to encourage people to give up alcohol for a period of time, be it a week, a month, 6-months, or a year but to continue to go out with friends and rock the sobriety card. 

I'm ashamed to admit that this sober excursion to Coppers is probably the first time I have gone out sober in a very, very long time. Beforehand, as I got ready, it dawned on me how much my night is planned around alcohol. We had to meet at a specific time in town and I was already planning in my head what time pre-drinks would have to commence-until the sudden realization came that there were no pre-drinks. I was driving home midday and I very nearly stopped in a shop to pick up my drink for the night out, purely by habit. It even influenced my choice of hand-bag for the night as I weighed up my ability to be able to simultaneously juggle a bag AND a drink in my hand at all times. We arrived at the designated meeting spot in a hotel in town and made a beeline immediately to the bar. It was a sight to be seen, a bunch of 20-somethings all collectively dressed for a night out and sipping on cokes, fantas, lucozades and teas and coffees. Many expressed that they were nervous about the whole affair and had strongly considered having a drink before they left. Everyone had remained sober but it had obviously been a struggle having to break a deeply ingrained habit. After our team-talk with Des who pumped us up for our sober adventure, we entered in to the dark depths of Coppers. 

It was early and it struck me how subdued the crowd was. Evidently, enough Dutch courage hadn't been worked up to enable anyone to hit the dance floor, bar one extremely drunken girl. We were the sole people dancing for the initial part of the night and we were attracting some weird looks from our fellow Coppers' comrades. The group was identifiable by our large "Hello, Sunday Mornings" blue badges which attracted some attention. On explaining what the idea behind the badges was to a few very-drunken males, their response was to annunciate "lossssssersss" in one, drawn-out breath and disappear in to the crowd. I was surprised: I had been very cynical about the whole affair on the journey in to town and on more than one occasion had found myself saying "If we're having a shit time, we can just make our excuses and go home". I was shocked at how much fun I was having. Apart from the embarrassment of having cameras filming your disgraceful dance moves, it was just like any typical night out. 

The highlight had to be the return of the slow-set, where we managed to get the Coppers' brigade to pair up and slow-dance romantically with a partner of their choice. I also got to slow-dance with Des Bishop. No big. I hadn't noticed the time passing and at 2.15, we decided to leave as one of our group had an unfortunate 9am this morning. 

I woke up this morning without the nasty hangover and with the shocking revelation that I had a great night out without having touched a drink. I can't say I'll make it a new "thing" and continue the sober trend but maybe once every now and again, I'll sober it out. If anything, the night has given me the confidence that I can be sober and enjoy myself. To anyone who reads this and thinks that they categorically can't handle a sober night out, I ask you to try it. Once. And surprise yourself. 

Also, keep an eye out on Rte1 on February 28th at 10.15pm to see how the social experiment pans out and to laugh at my obnoxious dance moves. 

U.C.D-My Guilty Pleasure

U.C.D-its campus may look like some monster has sucked up buildings from various eras and then vomited them back up. It may be host to the weird and the wonderful. It may have a lake with no purpose and it may be overrun with Hollister wearing clones- but I love it. I am proud to admit that I have a particular soft spot for the various sub-cultures and personalities of U.C.D. It is truly my guilty pleasure.

I liken U.C.D to a big, dysfunctional family. I've never been a fan of old-folk tales but if you were to fashion a story about how U.C.D campus came to be how it is today, I think you could build one around the story of a woman who inherited an estate (UCD campus to be exact) and became a black widow. A black widow is a woman who marries and then subsequently kills off her husband. I like to think of the UCD Black Widow as a woman who has married and killed off many, many different men of very different backgrounds. I also like to think that each man she has married has built on to U.C.D during their lifetime, before being killed off, leaving a piece of themselves behind them. Roebuck Castle is courtesy of her first husband who was antiquated and old-school in his architectural approach and also a bit introverted as he set it aside from everything else. The Art's Block was courtesy of her second husband, who was, as my friend Rob so beautifully put it, a “blind communist” who had a love of cubism and all things dull, dreary and lacking in hope. Her subsequent husband was more of a creative and environmentally-aware soul and it is thus that we came to have all the lakes of UCD. Her forthcoming husband, a preacher from a small parish in America, presented her with the chapel. The man proceeding him harboured a love for all things abstract and decided to leave the bizarre sculpture of a giant egg beside the Veterinary Science Building. Her engineering other-half built the water tower as an elaborate show of his love and affection to her. Her most recent catch was a retired NASA scientist whose last project was only recently completed in the form of our almost space-age sports' centre. He too, suffered an inexplicable death and his wife, the mother of UCD, lived on and inherited his improvement of her estate.

 I also like to think that each marriage brought with it various children from the marriage and from external marriages, creating this kind of step-sibling, mashed up family unit: the old-school law students from the first marriage, the rebellious art students who rose above their father's reserved approach from the second, the hippy, agricultural and environmental kids from the third marriage, the theology and psychology children from the abstract-egg lover, the business-minded and ambitious children from the water-tower entrepreneur and the engineering, super-nerds from the NASA retiree. This super-family was created-part culchy, part D4, part erasmus and part something else. And they, in turn, took up residence in UCD and used the various facilities left behind by the victims of their Black Widow mother.

U.C.D is like a grown-up version of baby Wezz which is a gathering of all similarly-aged people, looking for the collective buzz. Where, upon a night out, lack of clothing is not frowned upon but actively encouraged. Everyone is there for one purpose-to socialize, have a good time and hopefully get the shift at the end of it if they’re lucky. The mature students are like the Donnies of the Wezz-era: probably a little too old to be socializing with young ‘uns but they hang in there anyways and you got to love them for it.

A particular aspect of U.C.D which I find particularly entertaining is the toilets in the Art’s Block. The walls, doors and toilet dispensers bear host to a variety of inspirational words of wisdom, posted by passing students.. Anything from “Don’t see a great night wasted” to encouraging words such as “Nobody remembers the night that they got a great night’s sleep” to just the plain bizarre such as “Tina is a filthy whore and should not be trusted”. People seem to get this lease of inspiration whilst in the toilet. It’s a place of calm and solitude where you are at liberty to gather your thoughts. Your toilet cubicle chooses you-you do not choose it. I like to think of your toilet cubicle, complete with its own unique set of sayings, like an interactive Magic8 ball. It has the power to answer all of life’s great, unanswered questions. All one has to do is sit there, close your eyes, think of the question and then open them again and the first saying you see is the answer.

Such as:

1. “Should I go out tonight?”-*open eyes “Nobody remembers the night that they got a great night’s sleep”. Therefore, I should go out.
2. “Hmmm, should I drink a shoulder or a naggin?” *open eyes “Don’t see a great night wasted”. Naggin it is, then.
3. “Should I trust Tina?” *open eyes. Obviously not, seeing as she is a filthy whore.

Et voila. It is just that simple.

U.C.D authorities have tried to eliminate this vandalism by scrubbing off the writing but this has worked contrary to their plans. Instead, it has left a clean slate for new material and new innovative posts to be scribbled. Your Magic8 ball is constantly revised and renewed. No continuous, monotonous answers. All from the comfort of your toilet seat.

If you have ever longed to have a theme tune to your life, then U.C.D is where you should be. There seems to be music constantly blaring from somewhere-most especially during Fresher’s week. It’s usually a compilation of something along the lines of LMFAO “Party Rock Anthem” and “Sexy and I know it” that follows you around whilst you attend your daily errands. It’s uplifting, a lease of energy and you buzz around college, safe in the knowledge that you ARE sexy and you know and that everybody IS having a good time. You almost become immune to this music, following you wherever you go. However, be warned. When the music stops, you will feel a deep sense of loss. The pep in your step will fade to dull drudgery and that infallible confidence will be stripped away...

The craic is always rampant in U.C.D. Even when the entire student body falls on hard times and a deep depression takes over campus during the feared period known as “study week”, out of the darkness comes a light, a shining beacon in the form of “Spotted: U.C.D Library”. Suddenly, the library-so feared and hated by exam-students-is transformed overnight in to the only place to be. Romances are made in the frenzy leading up to exams, people are hit on whilst innocently searching for books by a random French guy, students declare their undying affections for another student they know nothing about bar the floor that they study on and the colour of their booty shorts…. It is truly the mystery and the magic of UCD.

And there you have it: my reasons for loving the train-wreck that is U.C.D. As William Cowper put it, “Variety is the Spice of Life”. If this is true, then U.C.D is the spiciest of curries that blows your mind, gives you the food-sweats and leaves you gasping for air/water. 

A Quick Delve in to Twenty-Twelve....

2012- the Year of the Dragon- has drawn to a close and I think it’s time to reflect on the highs and the lows that this year has brought me. The Dragon Year is characterized as dramatic, full of unpredictable events and confident, colourful and fearless people. . 

2012 involved numerous events that required confidence and fearlessness. I MCed a gig in Irish for Cancer, I spoke as a porn enthusiast in a porn debate, I took part in a mock “Take me Out” to raise money for a GAA club. 

It also involved a number of firsts: I got a job and met some kick-ass people. I attended and participated in an Anne Summer’s party. I learned to drive and then failed my driving test in spectacular fashion.  I lived independently. I chose Paris. I started a blog. I became a peer mentor. I crammed for exams. I developed a taste for Guinness. I entered in to a beautiful, beautiful domestic partnership

It marked the return of the Krazy and the celebration of all things outrageous. I dressed up as Ali-G and was successfully mistaken for a boy. I suited up for a ball. I rocked an obnoxious yellow sundress with carrots all over it.  

And lastly (cue soppy music), I realized that I have fantastic, fantastic friends who have helped in creating some amazing memories. What will 2013, The Year of the Snake, bring? Who knows. 

.