It’s odd, this time last year our household we panicking about deadlines and trying to put together plans for after Uni, and out of the four of us only one has stuck to their plan.
I know I should no longer use the term ‘housemate’ because we no longer live together, but ‘ex-housemate’ just sounds like we all had a massive argument and one or two moved out. So ‘housemate’ will be the term and the term will be ‘housemate.’
Claire housemate number one, the fiery red-head who could put up an impressive fight and quite literally eat Tescos out of eggs, planned to move home and settle down with her boyfriend.
Becky housemate number two, the country bumpkin whose taste in bread and love for beaded men leaves little to the imagination, planned to spend another year with myself in some dilapidated graduate place.
Amy housemate number three, the slightly more country than the previous country pumpkin whose knowledge on private school boys and Jack Wills out did us all, planned to also spend another year with myself in some dilapidated graduate place (If it wasn’t for boyfriends doing what it does best!)
Ffi housemate number four, the Welshy elder of the group whose perfect cleaning regimes put the rest of us to shame, planned to take over the world.
As for me, apart from move in with the Boyfriend (Haha, my aching sides) the plan was to spend another year in Chester and begin life as a graduate.
So can you guess which one stuck to her original plan?
Would it help if I told you that the housemate in question is going to take Australia by storm in 2012? I didn’t think so.
Its not until you look at situations like this that you think ‘Blimey, when did my life get this regimented/ docile / so far off the track’ that it starts to scare you. I know life isn’t meant to be planned day-by-day but if it’s not planned at all then why bother?
This blog is starting to go off topic, so back to the housemates.
The whole reminiscing process started with a phone call from Becky and a sneaky peak at Facebook, which since having left Uni, has be worryingly untouched.
Anyway, I was going through my photos and a horrible truth hit home, 99% of these photos were of my housemate and myself totally inebriated (thank you Word thesaurus for that lovely contribution.) We looked like the biggest bunch of piss heads known to man and the photos weren’t even ones where we could pull of looking totally smashed, they were revolting. I think taking a camera out on a night of ‘slight intoxication’ is up there with the dangers of drunken texting. It should not be done!
The unfortunate thing is you CANNOT delete them. I use that word with two meanings, obviously you can delete them, but not only do you run the risk of being seen as exceptionally vain, it would also appear to the rest of the Facebook world that you have no life and that all your photos are worryingly ‘acceptable.’ (It is advisable to hate these people and they tend to be related to the people who have albums called ‘My modelling photos.’)
So there you have it, the reasons why your Facebook profile must display you as tax-avoiding alcoholic, who likes nothing better than to have her legs in the air reveal all the facial expressions of Yak with a standard creeper, two coconuts and an African swallow up its arse.
Maybe there is a reason I’m still single after all…
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