Fucking Michael

In a nutshell, that's my dominant thought these days. Know why? Because fuck you.

How are you? Now it's been, what, four months? How's that career coming along? I'd have asked sooner, but you're kind of hard to get hold of.

I get the impression you tried to remove yourself from my life completely, and even though I'm no closer to knowing why, it's becoming clear that you didn't do a great job. Tear neatly along the dotted line between "you" and "me" and, guess what, I'm not over you, I'm not fine, I'm just hurting. I'm hurting still. Know why? You didn't even have it in you to make me hate you.

Come on. If I'm that insufferable, then cheat on me. Let me find you holding hands with someone else. Let me see dumb stupid compromising texts on your phone, whatever - if I hated you, you'd be nothing by now.

Or, y'know, if you want to practice basic decency, then tell me what I want to know. Tell me what I did wrong, tell me why you're sick of me - but can you? No! Cut me loose and leave me hanging! Why not!
It's been four months, Michael, and I'm not okay. I'm not okay, and I'm not okay because of you, and if you don't feel even just a little bit guilty then you're even less of the person I thought you were.

Why, though? Is it that hard, speaking to me? Drop me a line, drop me a fucking text, I don't care - I hate how much of a coward you are. If we were to bump into one another tomorrow in the street, you wouldn't even cross the street to avoid me. You'd do your infuriating "Helloo" with that dumb wave you do and, I don't know, maybe even ask me how I am, what do I know - but it wouldn't mean anything, and it wouldn't lead to any kind of conversation - especially not the conversation I want - and within seconds you'd be walking away again, and you'd leave me even more sad than I am now. I don't understand why you're so unwilling to clean up after yourself.

Just, fuck you. Fuck you.

It's funny -

I'm sure no one envies me, and yet I consider myself unbelievably fortunate. University? - pff, maybe later - and yet my own skepticism doesn't compromise the excitement and fear and whatever else is being felt at this moment by everyone waiting for the first day of uni. And so it shouldn't, of course - but I think the reason I'm in such distraction by the impending Year of Complete Isolation, is that I just don't understand why everyone's going. I mean - I've had to explain my reasons for not wanting to go. I suppose you could say that I'm worried that my friends - the overwhelming majority of my friends - are going off to university with no clearer idea of why they're going than I did six months ago when, amid revision and UCAS and all that bollocks, it kind of just occurred to me one day that I didn't want to walk this path being laid for me.

When I'm feeling particularly fluffy, I like to compare it to a pasta machine, with "it" being this big, ugly, proverbial SYSTEM that everyone likes to throw around and exploit and criticise - present company included, naturally.

Try and take me seriously for a minute. I know it's hard.

As I said - this SYSTEM is like a pasta machine. A pasta machine that primarily makes tagliatelle. The windy thing on the side of the pasta machine turns; this, within the context of the SYSTEM, is the passage of time. It turns, and churns out string after string of tagliatelle - and the tagliatelle is delicious, and edible, and everything that it should be, "and the Lord said that it was good" blah blah - but then, from nowhere, a lump of pasta-dough doesn't want to be tagliatelle. It wants to be a bow-tie, or a curly ribbon, or a shell, or a loopy-loop, or a windy tunnel. The pasta machine, unable/unwilling to accommodate the wishes of this nonconformist, rejects it; it gets caught in the workings, slows everything down, gets put on the receiving end of a thousand disapproving looks and exasperated lectures, all of which the pasta has heard before, until the words "You'll like it when you're tagliatelle" become the bane of its existence and it is left with two choices: to force itself to mould into tagliatelle, or to leap headfirst out of the pasta machine and pray to God that they'll land safely. 

That is what it's like, admitting to everyone who ever said, "You'll do well at university" that, eheheh, I don't want to go. First, the silence, then the questioning, then the unhelpful advice, then the "Oh, well, you can always change your mind". Thanks, lady. Further invalidate my autonomy, why don't you.

Without turning into some neo-hippy/hipster in vintage clogs and a fifties housewife petticoat, fuck the PASTA MACHINE.

So, uh,

now I have to admit that I didn't do as well as I'd have liked - but FUCK IT I'M NOT GOING HAHAHAHA oh dear lord I'm so grateful that I didn't have to go through clearing. I hate pitying people, because I know that no one likes to be pitied, but fuck me - I imagine clearing to be a massive pit of disappointed teenagers fighting to the death for a place on the Communication Studies course at the university of Bedfordshire and it's just depressing to think about.

*Where Katherine is once again a massive snob and fails to care*

Impending Results

In terms of immediacy, my A levels are basically irrelevant. I think that's why I'm not scared to find out how I did on results day, Thursday.

It feels a bit like someone said to me, a few months ago, that I'm going to receive a present on Thursday 15th August - and they're honest with me, they've said that it could be a nice present, or it could be a massive disappointment - so I know next-to-nothing about this present I'm getting, so I don't really think about it, but then when I do think about it I get kind of excited, because a present is still a present, and that's quite exciting.