After being tempted by online prostitution as an alternative to revision, EVIE PRICHARD has had to go internet cold turkey.
What the hell are you doing reading this? No seriously, go back to whatever you’re meant to be doing. I mean it.
Ok, you fresher historians and English students can stay. Everyone else sod off.
Those of you who are left: let’s talk about procrastination. I think it might be sent by the devil. It’s everywhere, it’s ruining my degree and my life would be completely unworthwhile without it.
Without the kind of cold-sweat workload that necessitates constant and bizarre forms of procrastination, I would have nothing to do with my time. When I go more than a few weeks without a supervision (welcome to the rigours of a Cambridge Philosophy degree) I go a bit mental, lie in bed all day feeling sorry for myself and get up just in time to go to the pub. It’s a life which undermines my very humanity, but what it lacks in dignity it more than makes up for in vitamin D deprivation.
So in a sense – a very theoretical sense – I’m glad that I’m finally having to put some work in. Activities that once seemed utterly tedious, pointless or indicative of some kind of social anxiety disorder have suddenly regained their lustre. I can lock myself in my room for a whole day doing nothing but practicing ventriloquism with my bras and googling things that I don’t know are websites but which probably are and if so are probably quite funny (see thingsthatlooklikehitler.com for an extremely amusing fire alarm).
But I’m still trapped in a town where people shuffle like dementia patients to and from Sainsburys and don’t seem to speak above a whisper. It’s like the whole city thinks it’s the reading room of the UL (which incidentally, I visited for the first time this week and seems to be modelled on this video). The other day my friend had to go to London because he broke his tooth off on a malted milk biscuit, and I found myself feeling jealous of him.
Oddly enough, this wasn’t what made me realise that things had gone too far. It took internet prostitution to prompt that particular revelation.
Miss Travel is a website with a very simple premise: some girls don’t like taking money for sex, so let’s pay them in holidays instead. It has an alibi, of course – busy, successful men often go on exotic holidays, and those poor lonely souls who are unattached have no one with whom to travel. Unfortunately, the site’s labelling of their users’ profiles as ‘attractive female’ or ‘generous male’ rather undermine this justification.
So obviously, my friends and I gathered round the laptop to jeer at the paunchy middle-aged men and Snog Marry Avoid candidate bimbos. Unfortunately though, most of the users open to public scrutiny seemed unfeasibly perfect. I mean how many glamour model/PHD students can there actually be? We reluctantly created accounts to gain access to the munters.
For ego purposes, these accounts had to be borderline appealing. For procrastination purposes we had to keep tabs on whether anyone had viewed us, winked at us, or invited us to the Congo. And yes, a chubby 40 year old man with the numbers 007 in his username did indeed invite me to the Congo. Unfortunately I’m ethically opposed to warlord sex and had to respectfully decline.
Some of the men, though, weren’t that bad. It was this that made me realise that my pathological procrastination, coupled with my desperate desire to be anywhere but here, have melded to create some terrifying hybrid-mutant problem. I’ve had to go internet cold turkey.
Because really, however feminist I may be, if there actually is a hot 26-year-old out there desperately seeking a travel companion who’s not a gold digger, wants to explore the world and enjoys talking about the philosophy of physics, there’s very little I can do to prevent myself from screaming “DOES QUANTUM PHYSICS DISPROVE THE LAW OF EXCLUDED MIDDLE?!” while pouting and hurling my packed suitcase into his arms. And then what would happen to my degree?