I got kicked out of Falmouth University, but I haven’t gone home yet
If you want to lean on two chair legs then you god damn lean on two chair legs
‘Burn shit. Fuck school.’ – Tyler the Creator
This summer I received an email from Falmouth University explaining that I had been ‘terminated’ from their Sports Journalism degree with the implication that it’s all over and that I might as well drown myself. This reminded me of a very simple equation I was taught when I was around 11:
Money x Degree = Happiness
It’s very simple and very easy to understand and very two dimensional and very wrong. I realised from a young age that I am the metaphorical goldfish attempting to scale the metaphorical tree. It took until this year to realise that, as a goldfish, this tree is completely irrelevant to me, and if I did miraculously manage to climb the tree, as a goldfish, I would inevitably suffocate. Stay with me. After I was removed from the course, the initial feeling was sadness, as the education system is all I have known since I was small and round.
However, as I found myself rapidly descending from the bastard tree, I felt a sense of relief as I landed with a plop in a metaphorical river. Suddenly, I realised I could just drift down-metaphorical-stream, and focus on my own happiness, rather than the happiness of the people I really don’t want to make happy ever.
After I was ‘terminated’, I spent a couple of weeks back in Bristol with my family. Smoked a load of weed. Completed the GTA 5 campaign. Got really good at table tennis. Then all my friends went off to Uni and suddenly I was a small goldfish in a massive river with no other fish around and it was shit. I came to the conclusion that my being yearned for avocados and white people with dreadlocks. I visited Falmouth for a weekend, came back on the Sunday, cried to my mum and went back on the Monday. I knew the risks but what reservations or worries I had immediately vanished as I arrived at the station and was greeted by a man who thought I was someone else but I wasn’t this person but I said ‘hi’ anyway. They said ‘hi’ back. I was home.
Since my arrival, the challenge has been trying to eat enough so that I don’t turn into a GoFundMe project with, for the most part, exactly 7 pence in my bank account. Occasionally I wonder if at this stage, if my wallet were to be stolen, would I be annoyed about losing my railcard, or relieved for the extra space in my pocket for my hand? The important thing is, however, that I am smiling for around 60% of the time, sleeping around 30% of the time and the other 10% I’m desperately miserable but hey ho.
Whenever I think about what my future holds nothing really materialises. I think this means I’m going to be hit by a moving vehicle. I’ll keep you posted.