Uni

Uni

First year.

First year I went looking for myself in jaager bombs and vodka.

I cried. I didn’t go to uni. I lay in bed unable to reach half a meter to open my curtain but enough energy to shower, put on some lipstick and pour a drink.

I changed my degree. I had resits in August. But I made it, by the skin of my teeth.

Second year

In second year I found my feet,

I think.

I had friends. I went to uni, not all of it, but some of it. I did extra credits. I cried a lot less. My palette improved, I swapped vodka for cider and blackcurrant.

Classy gal, ha.

Third year

Shaky. I moved back home, but I was hardly home.

The library became my home.

I got mumps.

I became a gin drinker

I messed up a lot.

But again, I made it, by the skin of my teeth.

Fourth year

Rock bottom and denial.

Sleepless nights and the fear that four years would culminate in disappointment.

But I made it.

Not by the skin of my teeth, through hard work and a lot of luck.

Prosecco drinker now,

because there is so much to celebrate.

I did it.

T

 

 

 

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