You wake up whenever you want because you’re an adult and that’s what adults do (read: you wake up far later than what is healthy for the average human being).
You do your skincare hoping that it will miraculously cure the acne you’ve had since you were in primary school and also because if you can avoid wrinkles long enough your chances of a big break in Euphoria or Riverdale will last until you’re at least 35.
We live in hope.
You contemplate doing your makeup. But you can’t be bothered and justify this by telling yourself that it is ‘natural’ and ‘authentic’ if you don’t wear it. But people might look at you and think you’re not put together. What if they look at you and think you didn’t try? You realise that you can never escape the male gaze. These things come from within. It feels a bit like you’re in chapter 1 of 1984. Is this a dystopian future? How lovely.
You also realise that you can’t do makeup because you are inept and the foundation shade you own would make you look like you were doing a Donald Trump cosplay. You take time to ponder why someone so famously conceited seemingly does not own a mirror.
You also think that you should quiet that voice inside your head a bit. Too many thoughts in too much time; it’s not even 10am yet. When you were young and used to go into your parents’ room in the middle of the night your mum would always be awake. She told you this insomnia was because she could never quiet her thoughts. You thought this was ridiculous. Turns out it was ridiculous and genetic. Actually, CANCEL. THAT. PRET. SUBSCRIPTION. It’s probably just the caffeine.
All your flatmates are at their 9ams because they are STEM babes and you contemplate if you are a bad feminist for doing a humanities degree. You realise that UCL agree with this as they told the students in the IOE that they couldn’t have a microwave because all available funding was going towards UCL East. RIP.
I don’t know if you’ve heard, but UCL was actually the first university in the UK to admit women on equal terms with men. So they are actually God’s gift to feminism and never ever have to do anything for anyone ever again. They have already given us enough. We should be grateful. Praise be.
After another hour of staring at your reading rather than actively reading it you decide to complete a Debby Ryan hair tuck and imagine you’re everyone’s library crush. This is one of your favourite hobbies (and they say women don’t have substance…)
You give up on studying. You’re worried, but there’s no point. It’s always fine, right? It always gets done, right? You got this. If Megan Fox believes she can manifest Machine Gun Kelly’s entire existence, you can manifest at least a 2:1.
You have no confidence in your own academic ability anyway. This is partly because of imposter syndrome and partly because your A Level history coursework went from an A* to a B in moderation. You know this is probably because your teachers told you that Guardian articles are a completely accurate substitute to secondary sources written by actual historians. You now realise how stupid this was. Note to self: never trust anyone. Well, at least it was the Guardian and not The Daily Mail. Your mum reads this for fun. That is a habit you will not be picking up. It stops at the neverending monologue. You’d never commit a crime like that.
You continue your mysterious girl era by strutting down the
catwalk steps at the Student Centre. You do this whilst frantically worrying that everyone is assessing your outfit but then realise that your fellow students are actually not the judges on America’s Next Top Model. You’re struck by a moment of mortality as you realise the world doesn’t revolve around you. Do you have a God complex? Maybe you are no better than a man…
You go to your seminar. You realise it’s been 45 minutes and that you should probably say something. The stars align. You do. You then spend the rest of the seminar worrying that what you said wasn’t in coherent sentences.
Your intrusive thoughts tell you that every single one of your classmates hopes the floor will open up and swallow you so they can watch you burn in the fiery depths of hell. Or worse, they think you are incompetent and stupid. You ignore them. You choose life. The people in that room almost certainly don’t even remember your name. You defo have a God complex.
You get back on the Tube in rush hour. You’re supposed to be a university student with enough free time to get on at off-peak hours. You can’t because your lectures are from 4pm to 6pm. This is UCL’s fault because they hate humanities students. Your department has to scavenge for lecture theatres in STEM buildings like you have to scavenge to find a space to stand on the central line (ew). Another evening in someone’s armpit. Glamourous.
Time for Tesco Express. You haven’t eaten all day, your fridge is empty bar some clumpy milk (gross). Your annoying flatmate never takes out their food so your fridge smells like a Victorian sewer system anyway. That’s besides the point though, £3.90 is a reasonable price…right? Doesn’t matter, it’s the closest thing you have to a balanced diet.
You promise yourself you’ll do more work before you go to bed. You know you won’t. You end up doom-scrolling on Tik Tok long enough that you come across an Andrew Tate-esque incel video that makes you want to throw yourself out the window. You think about writing a hate comment. But then you remember, he has a Bugatti and you don’t. You promise that tomorrow you’ll go to bed earlier to prevent yourself from falling down an misogynistic internet pipeline. Spoiler alert: you don’t.
By Rebekah Wright