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. 

.

Waitressing: Proof that Slavery is Still Alive and Well...

How to: make your waiter/waitress love you

Waitressing: possibly the fastest way to lose all faith in humanity. For all those involved in the waitering industry and retail or shop-work in general, this post is probably not applicable to you as you have witnessed the failings of the human race first-hand. For those who do not, this might be of help. Here is a short piece on how to make your waiter love you eternally as a customer (not as a person, I don’t do miracles). Avoid the pitfalls of the unsuspecting customer and be a general top lad and your road to successful eating and flawless service has been paved.

       1.  I don’t make the food, I just take your order

The difference between the two may seem evident but this appears to be a common misconception amongst customers. I am a waitress. I take orders, attend to any issues you may have and ensure that you are generally having a great time at things. I don’t physically make the food, or have anything to do with the food-that is the chefs' and the food-runners’ job. Therefore, ordering something and chiming in that you “wouldn’t kill me if I lashed on some extra vegetables” or some “extra vanilla ice-cream with sprinkles”, followed by a cheeky wink, makes my life infinitely harder. To fulfil your request without charging you would involve me having to go in to the kitchen and personally ask the chefs for something extra which will result in them requesting a docket for it to prove that it’s gone through the system. As I haven’t charged for it, it won’t be IN the system, resulting in an argument. Chefs are crazy, hostile people. For my sake, please don’t make these obscene demands of me. They may seem simple in your head but they are far from simple in reality

2.  Kids in the restaurant-this is a place of service, not a zoo

For all those proud parents who decide to take their children to a restaurant, please observe some simple ground-rules. The general rule of thumb is if you would not normally let them behave in a certain way in public or at home, don’t let them behave that way in a restaurant. It baffles me when parents allow their kids to run rampant whilst people carry hot trays of food and liquids. There have been several close calls in work where I have been carrying plates and where kids have, quite literally, scurried under my legs or cut right in front of me and I have narrowly avoided a collision. Don’t get me wrong-I love children. It’s just, if I am carrying multiple heavy plates and if your kid becomes an obstacle and an obstacle that poses a substantial risk to me remaining on my feet, it’s going to come between my balance and your kid. And I’m sorry but it’s going to be your kid mowed over by my oncoming feet every time. It’s not even an intentional thing. I call it “self-preservation”. Instant reflex. Collateral damage. I don’t even make the decision, my body instantaneously weighs up its options of remaining balanced in a split second and in that millisecond, your kid’s safety is eliminated as a consideration.

I’m sorry in advance.

Also, children are messy, messy creatures. They don’t quite understand how to keep food on a plate yet and that’s ok. However, leaving the table like it looks like it has been scavenged by starving animals is not ok. Please, PLEASE for the love of God, clean up a little bit after your children. I don’t even mean a lot. Spending 20 minutes after you’ve gone trying to clean the place up is just not cool.

3.  The waitressing/slavery distinction

It appears that once you sign a contract for waitressing, you also sign away your fundamental rights as a human being. Expressly those of human dignity and respect. Waitressing does not give you license as a customer to treat me as a slave. The general rule is, if you would not treat a stranger on the street that way, then don’t expect your waiter/waitress to put up with it either. Do not expect me to curtsey as I leave the table. Also, wherever this habit came of clicking your fingers to gain attention-I am not a dog. A hand up or even eye contact if it’s not busy will be enough to draw my attention. Let’s not lose the run of ourselves here, people.

4.  It costs nothing to be nice

As waiters, we almost expect for you to be difficult. Being nice actually catches us off guard and it makes our little hardened, waitering hearts melt. Bless. If you are nice or polite OR EVEN BOTH, we will love you for all eternity. We will talk about you on our lunch breaks and refer to you as “that nice man”, “that lovely woman”, or “that amazing table”. I kid you not. You will become a legend in your own right. And we will do everything in our power to make sure that you leave with a smile on your dial and a pep in your step. We will welcome you with open arms if and when you return to us. However, if you are rude to us, don’t expect nice things in return. The concept of “spitting in your food” as far as I am aware, is not used in practise. Instead, everything will be carefully charged and accounted for and I will leave you waiting longer for water when I blatantly know you’ve asked me 10 minutes ago. What can I say? Karma’s a bitch. And since I like to think of myself as an agent of karma, I’m going to be a bitch too.

5. Don’t act as if I have the bubonic plague

Sometimes, if it’s a big table, it’s going to take me a while to clear it. I may be stacking your plates and other utensils for a solid minute-maybe even a minute and a half. It is incredibly awkward when people cease talking altogether whilst you are clearing. I am not a spy. I have little to no interest in your conversation if you wish to proceed. I also don’t have bubonic plague. It is okay to inhale the air when I’m there and I promise not to infect you. Stopping what you were doing results in awkward tension and makes it unpleasant for all parties involved.

6. Easy, Breezy, Beautiful

Whilst taking your order, I am reliant solely on your communication so please make it as clear and precise as possible so that the order is not lost in translation. I once had a table ask for “10 bottles of orange juice” only to say upon their arrival that they meant “Fizzy Fanta Orange”. There is a vast difference between orange juice, from oranges and Fanta orange. It resulted in the opened orange juices being set aside and me getting in to trouble with the bar manager for an incorrect order. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a mind-reader. I cannot deduce your intentions and infer them in to your order.

Although this appears as if I despise the catering business and all its inherent flaws, it is actually not all that bad. The majority of the customers are actually lovely, lovely people. It only takes one not-so-nice one to ruin your day, so let it not be you. For all thee waiters/ waitresses or retail staff out there, I salute thee.

Why board games at Christmas are never a good idea...

Christmas season: the season of goodness and generosity and Christmas cheer. One would think that a family, fun-filled board game would be an excellent idea to spend quality time with the family and expand on these themes. One would stand corrected in assuming this. You would think that the board games you played as a young, petulant youth which almost always ended in tears would take on a new meaning in your later adult years whereby you have now attained some level of patience, logic and maturity. One would also stand corrected in assuming this. If anything, board games played now, as an adult, are even more hostile, aggressive and tense than ever before.

The game of choice for my family is the trusty game of Monopoly (or Scrabble, on occasions). The concept of Monopoly seems perfectly family-friendly and recession orientated: Make good investments in choice properties and try to develop them as much as possible whilst simultaneously avoiding paying rent to the other players. Land on jail and go to jail. Land on income tax and pay for tax. Land on free parking and inherit all the money that has been set aside for taxes. All whilst rolling a dice and trotting your player-piece around a board. Seems simple, doesn’t it? It appeals to the older mind: negotiating deals, managing money, making investments and seeing them pay off etc. However, it has been in my experience that Monopoly brings out the worst in people. Unfortunately, the drafters of Monopoly never anticipated for the evil of human emotion to be mixed in to its game-play and never foresaw the devastation it has the power to cause. Or maybe they did and decided to unleash it anyways for their own entertainment. The bastards.

Firstly, comes the choosing of the player piece: be it, Dog, Knight, Race-car, Train, Thimble, Iron, Boat etc. This holds particular significance. This piece is representing you as a player for the duration of the game so there has to be a particular emotional connection to it. You know if you’ve managed to secure your lucky charm that this will be a good run and you need that assurance starting off. Failure to secure it leaves you with a sense of dread and a bitter taste in your mouth: this is not going to be a good game. You’re already at a loss and you haven’t even started yet. I also think that the piece that you pick is also quite telling of the type of Monopoly player you are, or have the potential to be. I’ve characterized them as follows:

·        

•      Dog- Appears to be cute, cuddly and innocent but could have the potential to bite if backed in to a corner.
• ·    Top-hat-Comes across as the height of gentlemanly-charm and manners but could this all be a front?
• ·   Race-car-Full of male bravado, arrogance and showiness. Makes brazen business deals and extravagant flashes of cash. Could this work to their disadvantage.
•       Ship-A beacon of strength, able to navigate its way through stormy seas…but the possibility of being shipwrecked is never too remote.
•     Thimble-With a hardened outer layer to protect them and their plans but is there anything of worth behind the façade?
• ·   Wheelbarrow-One to be watched. Puts the leg-work in at the start of the game without attracting much attention but then reaps the rewards in the end.
• ·   Iron-Has a mundane, ordinary approach but will inflict a scathing burn if you try to manipulate them
• ·    Knight- The height of grace and chivalry but when swords are drawn they are not afraid to get their hands dirty
• ·    Boot-Toes the line as regards the rules and will soldier on through good-times and bad. However, can administer a fierce kick if you get in their way
• ·    Train-Can be unpredictable, unreliable and waits for no man.

Then, the dice is rolled to determine first-player and then the game starts with a bang. Initially, it all seems like a bit of fun and everyone, with a full pocket of cash, decides to buy whatever property they land on first. I have been blessed and cursed with an extremely competitive nature and Monopoly feeds in to this nature. I don’t just enter in to a game “for the participation and fun of it”. God, no. I’m in it to win it. And win it I shall try, at all costs. Unfortunately, having numerous competitive people playing Monopoly results in a palpable change in atmosphere. First round aside, there’s a significant change in the air that would make even the most chilled of people feel uncomfortable. The “storming” phase has passed and players have settled in to their roles and tactics. This is no longer for a laugh, this is serious.

People always maintain that they don’t have a tactical plan to win Monopoly but this is a blatant lie. Our brains are trained to try to work out a strategy to put us in a favourable position. Unless you are really odd and in to self-sabotage, a pathway will have already been mapped out for you. Whether it involves just buying the services (Heuston Station, Shannon Airport etc) or banking on Shrewsbury and Allesbury, tactics are worked out and rigidly adhered to.

I also, can’t fully describe the game of Monopoly without reference to the corrupt banker. Many people ask how the bankers, which contributed to the demise of the economy, did what they did or abused their power in such a manner. I put it to these people to play the banker in one game of Monopoly and they will understand. It is almost like you have no choice in the matter: offer to be the banker and invariably, as the game progresses, all of your steadfast morals will go out the window. You will abuse this position of power in any way you can. It’s almost like a hidden clause in the rules of the game, “The banker shall always be corrupt”. And that is that.

As the properties go and negotiations are made, the tempo seems to up even higher. Landing on income tax is like a dagger through your heart. Suddenly, you are wishing that the gap between you and the next time you pass go will just evaporate. Jail is a welcome option rather than paying anyone any more money. Every negotiation and every deal is made with pain-staking deliberation. The breaking point always seems to culminate upon the buying of hotels and the imposition of these crazy rents whenever you land on someone’s hotel. Especially when they have multiple hotels. In a row. And you are left there, trying to navigate your way out of this red zone with only luck and a dice on your side.

Suddenly, when you are down to your last few bucks and the debts you owe are exceeding your assets, you begin to get incredibly irate. It is unfair that they expect you to pay so much for that hotel on that property. I mean, it’s not even in a nice area. They screwed you over in a negotiation deal earlier and refused to give you the property you had wanted so technically, it’s all their fault that you are losing. And they have those big, gigantic, red hotels everywhere just DARING you to land on them….and then you start to see red.

Poppy red, like the hotels. 

As snide comments are parted with and bitterness unleashed, all hell breaks loose and you’re on your feet shouting at them and they’re shouting at you. And it no longer has anything to do with the game and you’re shouting about the shitty present they got you or that they left the milk out overnight or how they never got you a pony for your eighth birthday. All the unrealized hopes and dreams of your childhood come pouring out and all their failings as a human being and fellow family-member too.

All this, from one measly game of Monopoly.

So for all the naïve families out there, who will reach for board games over the Christmas season, heed my advice and choose a less detrimental family activity that has less of a risk of turning ugly. Something without little, sharp pieces that can inflict a surprising amount of pain if thrown at force. 

Happy holidays, everyone. 

The Exam Bubble

For the past three weeks in the lead up to exams, I’ve existed a bubble. It’s hard to define but I’m sure any exam-student can relate. The pre-exam period represents an emotional, physical and general upheaval of everything a student has ever known and loved. Gone are the days of going-out midweek, skipping lectures and living in a carefree zone. Replacing them are hours spent in the library reading material you genuinely don't recall ever seeing before, frantically emailing friends and acquaintances for notes and a sharp increase in the amount of late-nights and early-mornings you face: but not for the reasons you would have liked.

I liken it to the seven stages of grief. The first stage is shock and denial. This is prevalent in the initial period when lecturers begin to refer to exams “drawing closer” or begin to cite things that would be helpful “for your revision”. There’s still enough time for you to convince yourself that you don’t need to study yet and that you'll be fine. 

Then comes the guilt. As the initial period of shock wears off and study still has not commenced, the shock is replaced with guilt. Suddenly, spending hours on Facebook gives you a sick feeling in your stomach that you are doing something inherently wrong. Going out becomes a dangerous undertaking, as if you are doing something you know you really shouldn't. However, this rarely constitutes enough of a push to compel the student to act. 

Anger fast ensues. As D-day draws closer and time is running out, guilt is replaced by anger. Suddenly, if someone refers to the fact that they’ve “started studying already” you begin to resent them and their willpower with every ounce of your being. You talk solely about what you need to cover, difficult topics and lecturers and complain violently about how you loathe all the aforementioned. You resent the fact that you have to do exams. You resent the fact that you are in college. Comfort eating can also play a huge role in this. Ben and Jerrys all around. 

Then depression sets in..As you realize that your days of freedom have come to an abrupt halt, depression is fast to ensue. 
Suddenly, when you think all hope is lost, the phase known as the “Upturn” begins. Whether it is from sheer fear or panic, this represents that day when you decide to get your act together. Books are bought, notes are organized, stationary comes out in full force.

It’s go time. 

The “working through” period is a direct response to the upturn. This usually involves drawing up a detailed study plan. Maybe with stars and glitters and highlighter pens. That’s when you know things just got serious. 

Lastly, there's acceptance. This is when you finally reconcile with the idea that it is now time to work. There’s no evading it any further. It is knocking on your door and if you don’t answer it, it’s going to leave a bag of dog-poo on your porch and set it on fire.…..

I don’t think any student worth their socks can walk away from exams without a serious caffeine addiction, a new-found appreciation for freedom and a revelation about the sheer amount of information one can digest by cramming alone. I found the exam-centre at the RDS the most telling of places for the various exam-student stereotypes. There are a few that exist and they are as follows:

1. The “Ad-Astra Do-Gooders”

They’re the ones that have been to every 9am lecture that you’ve had so far, or so you have been lead to believe, given that you’ve missed the majority of them. They also ask questions in lectures and answer all the questions in your tutorials. They arrive to the exam-centre at the exact time before entry to the exam-hall is permitted. They’ve no time to de distracted. They’ve come for one purpose and one purpose only: to attack the exam to within an inch of its 2-hour life. They are also categorized by the amount of pens they carry. I.e: the pen as the back-up of the back-up of the back-up.

2. The “All-Nighter Blighters”

These are probably the most striking of exam-takers for all the wrong reasons. They are recognizable by their grey complexions, dark, purple bags and that wild, I’ve-ingested-enough-caffeine-kill-a-small-deer look in their eyes. You get that deep sense of desperation when you pass them….and also probably a deep smell of something else as these people seem to forego all personal hygiene requirements for the benefit of the cause. They’re to be avoided at all costs. Unless you’re an Ad-Astra whizz kid whereby you can feel free to pass them and revel in your own self-worth.

3. “The “Ah Heck With It” Brigade

These are the trusty folk that you should befriend before an exam, if ever you feel a need for reassurance and comfort. They’re known for their constant refusal to revise or tolerate any questions in the immediate period prior to entering the exam hall. Their theory being, that what you know now, is what you will know when you’re in there. The typical, “ah well, they’re only exams” kind of crowd. They’re also known for referencing something external and world-related for no apparent reason, if only to make you aware of the wider problems in society rather than your own trivial blitherings about exams. I.E “Did you hear about the shootings in America? Wow, it really does make you think. There I was, stressing about exams and then you just realize what’s important”. The humanitarian, charitable kinds. Bless 'em.

4. The “Oh my God, I’m so fucked…when really I know everything” Wenches.

These folk are to be avoided at all costs prior to entering any exam hall. They are known for their ability to lull you in to a false sense of comfort in thinking that you’re all collectively fucked for the exam and therefore, everything will be ok. DO NOT BE FOOLED, FELLOW EXAM-TAKERS! These people are fakes. They are not your trusty, mediocre companion. They’re the secret-studiers of this world that SEEM mediocre when really they are excelling behind your back. Known for their willingness to join in the comforting mantra of “I’m going to fail” yet are still able to cohesively answer any question put to them. To be avoided if you have any nervous disposition at all.

5. The “No-Hopers”

Interestingly enough, these people are strangely comforting to be around prior exams. There’s something alluring about someone who has given up all hope, who has accepted fate and is at peace with what will happen…failure. They have a  kind of Jesus-like aura about them, almost like they're untouchable or walking on air. They’ve achieved some kind of enlightened state that only a select few manage to obtain. To care so little as to be completely and utterly unstressed.  If in any of the above categories, they are a welcome sight to be seen and an even more welcome conversationalist prior-exams. There's nothing quite as reaffirming as talking to someone who is in a worse position than you.

6. The “All I ask, is to pass” students.

These are a mixture of “ah heck with its” and crammers, although they appear to be a little bit more put-together than the crammers on the day. They represent the majority of the student-body and thus slip under the radar for the best part of the time.

Exams have finally, FINALLY drawn to a close. I have survived on very little sleep. I have survived on very little food and water. I have explored areas of my brain that I never even knew existed. I have pushed myself to the perimeters of my sanity and then maybe a little more. I feel like the bubble which I have been trapped in has been popped and deflated. The only thing is, I have deflated with it. One always expects some kind of euphoric sensation post-exams when you can smell the freedom - the taste of your old life slowly being fed back to you. However, I don’t seem to have gotten that. Although, that depends on your definition of “euphoric sensation”. If exhaustion counts as some state of enlightenment, then I guess I’m the next Buddha.