SWOTVAC is going to kill me.
Every student on week 1 of every semester, ever: “I’m actually SO excited about Uni this semester! I’m actually going to try this time. Really focus on my future and expand the sponge that is my glorious mind, yano? I just have a thirst for knowledge and a newfound maturity. I’m going to learn all of the things about all of the people in all of the lands.
Every time a new semester rolls around, we enter it with the same naivety and the same utopian forecast of High Distinctions and general life fulfilment.
Because, you guys, this semester we will totally be empowered. Like mentally and spiritually. We will prosper, we will conquer. Knowledge is power, and we’re so going to change the effing world. We will stop watching four hours of YouTube per day and definitely do the set work after the second week. Definitely.
We barely manage to reach week 4 before we remember that we attend Uni with a bunch of Supernerds. Complete geniuses who off the top of their heads can recite every key moment in history whilst simultaneously explaining the intricacies of Quantum Mechanics, making us Mere Muggles look like we have the collective brain capacity of a garden gnome.It doesn’t take long to realise that your tute room is brimming with the kind of people who use words like “obstreperous” in conversation and who don’t own TVs because they’re too pretentious to realise they live in the new millennium.
It’s around this time that we Mere Muggles fall into our mid-semester slump. We suddenly remember how we grew to freaking hate this place and why passing last semester was such a grand effing achievement.
It’s around week 7 when we begin saying things like:
“I actually hate myself”
“What the shit is this?”
“What the shit is that?”
“Do you know how much a high-class escort earns per shift? I googled it last night. It’s a lot. And, I mean, it’s probably not even that demeaning. Like I have selfies in a bikini on Instagram… so it’s basically the same thing.”
Before we know it, we’ve adopted the same old mantra of “Ps get degrees”.And then good old SWOTVAC rolls around. Three years in the system, and I still don’t even know what SWOTVAC means. Well, I know it means that I will go through a full week fighting the urge to swap my morning coffee for a glass of methylated spirits, so there’s that…
Another handy way to tell it’s SWOTVAC week is when you see science students attempting to stick pipettes in their eyes.
Other useful non-pipette-related ways to identify that it is in fact SWOTVAC week:
- The past week of your life has been set to the sweet soundtrack of ugg-boots shuffling along carpet with the backing-track of a humming coffee machine.
- Your family has been avoiding you like you avoid making eye contact with seedy tradies who pull up beside you at a red light.
- You’ve been wearing variations of the same outfit day after soul-crushing day (grey on grey has happened too many times, and no, you’re not proud of it).
- You eat a lot of food. A lot of food. It’s just… it’s a lot, okay?
- You now have so many pimples on your chin you’re practically a walking, talking constellation of acne.
- You sit down in the shower now. Because life depresses you. Life is hard. Standing is hard. Also, I’m not sure if I mentioned this earlier but you hate yourself. You hate yourself a lot.
By SWOTVAC week, you’re too chunky to even consider Operation High-Class Escort a legitimate career path anymore, and the panic really starts to set in. You’ve come too far to back out. You resort to watching videos of Shia Lebouf shouting messages of inspiration as a last ditch attempt to jumpstart your motivation.You cry a lot. You yell at your Mum. She doesn’t deserve it, because she’s a nice lady. You feel sad. So does your Mum.
You dream about life post-exams. When you will stop consuming enough food to feed a small village. When you will wear exercise gear and actually have the intention of working out in it. When you will go to bed at a reasonable time again. Start standing up in the shower. Be able to look at your laptop without uncontrollably spasming back and forth like Drizzy Drake in Hotline Bling.
Comrades, let me assure you that such a time is near. We are oh so very close to sweet freedom. You cannot stop now. If you take anything from this post, let it be this: you, my sexy-student-reader-friend, are so much more than a garden gnome. You know who you are? You’re that legendary lady from the Ford ads who has been missing from our screens FOR TOO GODDAMN LONG.You, like the Long-Lost-Blue-Top-Wearing-Ford-Goddess, have your shit together. You are the perfect combination of confident and lovely. You have that whole Morroccan-Keratin-DNA-Silk hair thing going on, and the whole world can see that you’ve got life well and truly under control. I would totally buy a Ranger from you, because when you put it like that, holy SHIZBALLS it really IS better than a Hilux! I would buy week-old ham from you and wear it as a hat if you told said so.
(Srs can someone pls bring back Ford Lady… I miss her.)
As Shia (and Nike) said: “Just Do It”. Eat that cereal. Be kind to your Mum. Smash out that exam. The end is near. I believe in you. SHIA BELIEVES IN YOU. We’ve got this. Amen.
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