This question may seem innocent but as soon as someone asks me about my future plans it sends my brain into a state of crisis and I have this dangerous and urgent impulse to run head-first into a wall.
Imagine LS2B at 6pm on a blustery Thursday night. Neatly printed booklets are placed at each available seat and platters of food lie untouched and out of sight. Two female students begrudgingly enter the venue. As 6.30pm comes and goes, other students reluctantly trickle in.
Sighs of frustration can be heard. Yawns are unavoidable. Rolling of the eyes is inevitable. Will the meeting kick off before 7.30pm? Will we reach quorum? Will we ever take a vote? Only a cry of “Order!” will tell. This is the time we dread. This. Is. STUDENT ASSEMBLY.
It is difficult enough not seeing your best friend every day, weekend, week or month when you move away to another part of the world, even if it is just a 13 hour drive. But when that time turns in to a month and then a year and then years to come, and not by choice, you begin to wonder how this came to be, that time can force a pair a part for so long with the justification of it being “natural” and “that’s just how life is”.
We’ve all been there, right? One of those late nights, with friends, or alone (busy developing our narcissism). The song has just finished; an eerie silence appears and is amplified by the quiet hum of unattended computer fans. You can’t go back now. You’ve experienced something new, something interesting. You want more. Such would be the beginnings of a music addiction.
A couple of months ago, perhaps just before exams started, I realised something terribly embarrassing about myself, something that I had constantly pushed out of my mind and up until then had managed to laugh off … I have a fear of the Jammie.
To narrow it down to only the Jammie is an exaggeration, so for the sake of being particular, I have something that is known as Amaxophobia – the fear of being a passenger. Where your worst nightmare might involve scar-faced murderers and freefalling from tall buildings, mine is simply being in a car, bus or truck.
With your history of magnificent cell phones that never break, your ability to host an array of polyphonic ringtones and your attempt to bring out new generation smart phones, it has all come to a staggering halt.
You have indeed built up quite a reputation for yourself, especially with the 3310 which has become a cliché for bottomless jokes of wanting that model of a phone over a Blackberry. Yet I have to ask, what has prompted you to create wellington boots? To tap into the fashion world when your background is cell phone-based is quite a brave leap over niches, but possible I suppose.
I have to accept the unfortunate truth that I have stopped growing. You can laugh, but couple my 5 ft 2 height and my enduringly baby-faced visage, I am often mistaken for a young teenager.
While visiting my younger sister over the holidays, many people including family members, would ask me what subjects I’m studying in school and direct university related questions to my younger counterpart. Strangers commented that I look like the younger sister or would exclaim loudly in airports that I can’t be 20 and that my passport is therefore forged. Not joking.
Two years ago, I was chopping onions when the doorbell rang. My dad answered the door and when he came back into the kitchen he was carrying an envelope made of browning dried parchment that was attached to a white owl-shaped balloon. I looked up from my chopping, and that’s when I knew…
I was going to Hogwarts. Now, I rationalized with myself, I was well over the age of 11, but perhaps Professor McGonagall had wanted to give me a little extra time in the Muggle world, or maybe there had been a terrible, terrible mistake and my name had been left off the list all those years ago.
Two years down the line and I still struggle with the exact same feeling I have for exams as I did the first time we encountered one another. Such an intimate relationship we seem to have. So twisted and full of loathing. There I am sitting at the desk in Jameson Hall, scribbling harshly around your body of questions with my pen trying to decode what exactly you want from me and you having to just sit there and take it.
We’re 90s kids. Need to be reminded of what that means? Gummy Bears, stick-on-ear-rings, Britney Spears, Pez sweets, phone cards, and most importantly, Pokémon.
To be honest, I find it very hard to fathom why people say, “I wish I was a kid again.” Looking at my friends, we really are just a bunch of big children. Every now and then I bump into those gravely studious, varsity-is-my-life-and-I-will-be-its-slave people, who I find rather distressing.
A couple of times in the year, Michaela’s art exhibitions seem to suddenly spring onto my events calendar and promise the same old magic. Such events consistently offer surprisingly affordable artworks, free bread and wine for students to gorge themselves on; and allow parents an opportunity to frantically purchase every oil-on-canvas in sight. Heavenly.
When you read the word "journalist", what do you imagine? Is it an image of a fedora adorned reporter chasing the latest crime story, or is it a picture of a paper strewn office with Thompsonesque figures slamming down typewriter keys in an attempt to meet a deadline that had passed four cigarettes ago?
Could it be a more modern portrait, could it be a sweatpants wearing blogmeister whose opinions are forged by a long absence from the actual world? Or a hardened veteran of many war-zone embeds, impervious to any interest bar, what he considers "real news"?
This weekend I managed to view the local attractions of this year’s South African gay & lesbian film festival – Out In Africa.
Despite the event being run since 1994, this was the first time that I would actually be attending a screening. Also, having not been to many gay & lesbian film festivals before, I wasn’t sure whether to expect the sophisticated likes of “Philadelphia”, “Milk” and “Transamerica” or if there would just be some mass arrangement of confused-man-sleeps-with-best-friend drama films. I was hoping for the former.
I’m not normally one to diminish the many problems South Africans face. However, it wasn’t until two years ago that I really understood what being a South African meant.
Just as I finished school, my parents immigrated (and they dragged me along) to the “Great and Powerful” land of Oz. And by Oz I mean Aus - the land down under; golden soil and wealth for toil, their home is girt by sea.
Last Friday I spent part of my night in a dark little bar with a couple of friends. The bar closed at 1.55am; dutifully enforcing the new by-laws, much to the dismay of our fellow, merry customers.
The music continued playing long after last round was called, and we stayed long enough to see the inebriated passers-by come floating through the doors, only to be disappointed that no more alcohol was being served. We stayed to watch the events of the night unfold.
The mob waits for me as I trudge up the wooden stairs onto the platform of newspapers which I indeed made for myself and must hence take responsibility for my printed word, even if it is not that of my own. Because it is easier to walk with torches blazing while clutching on to Blackberries with the Twitter app wide open than to support the racist xxxxxxxxxxx to shackle those that do.
An official statement released by VARSITY newspaper with regards to "Is love colour-blind?"
I wish to issue an apology to those who have taken offence to the article published on April 2nd, 2013 titled “Is love colour-blind?”. The intention was to create a platform for UCT students to engage with a topic that is still prevalent in South Africa.
Let me be frank with you, dear readers. I’ve been struggling. I’ve been struggling to find an idea, any idea, to put into some coherent form to share with you here.
The Vac (capitalised purely as it is very important) came and went in the form of an arch-nemesis to General Productivity. The latter's forces, battered and bruised by the unholy alliance of home, sun, surf and the absence of classes, have suffered irredeemable losses. At least that was what I thought, until my Twitter stumblings happened across a wonderful strand of information from UK gaming blog Rock, Paper, Shotgun. The cavalry had finally arrived.
At some stage of your life, you will most probably find yourself in the awkward position of liking someone that your friend has liked/likes/dated/is currently dating or someone who is already taken.
It’s one of those situations that will put most of us in a bit of a pickle. Guys have it simple. How I met your mother taught us the rules of the Bro Code, but what do girls have – trust? You would think that knowing someone well enough to have them be your bestie would stop them from doing things that could potentially hurt you, but this isn’t always the case.
Call me lazy, but when I watch a movie, I want the screenwriters to have made the ending obvious. And by that, I don’t mean that I want the ending to hit me over the head screaming “Hello, it’s me you’re looking for”. All I’m asking for is to know the movie has finished before the titles roll up.
No, I don’t want to decide for myself whether they end up together, or if they get him behind bars after years on the run. I want to be told. Is that so hard? I’ll have none of this post-modern, “I’ll make my own meaning” nonsense.