You'll soon come to notice that as my thesis deadline creeps closer, the frequency of my blog posts will significantly increase. That instead of getting the small BOOK I need to write out of the way sooner rather than later in order to enjoy an Amsterdam summer of festivals and fun, I will be spending my days re-posting Buzzfeed articles showcasing The 17 Best Parts Of The Only Shirtless Picture Of Ryan Gosling In “The Place Beyond The Pinesor 18 Microwave Snacks You Can Cook In A Mug. And until 'the fear' kicks in I shall be found dancing around my bedroom to Taylor Swift, eating peanut butter out of the jar and cutting in my own bangs after a New Girl overdose. Do I enjoy living this close to the edge? Yes actually, I'm very comfortable here. I've got my Ryan Gosling pillow and the cuddly crocodile I won at the Dam fair by my side, oh, and another thing, an alcoholic beverage in my hand..
The longer I live in Amsterdam work at Coco's, the more the ratio of my having a beverage in my hand to me not having a beverage in said hand is increasing at a rapid and mildly concerning rate - unfortunately alongside the number of alcoholic beverages consumed and the exponential growth of my beer belly, sigh. As a result, yesterday I created a new rule for myself whereby I no longer drink during the week, playtime should be reserved for weekend purposes only. Alas, this lasted all of FORTY MINUTES - damn you and your Espresso Martini, Adriaan - so here goes, ten reasons why I'm definitely convinced that I'm slowly but surely becoming an alcoholic:
Mieke Bal is one of the core theorists of my thesis, she's a great gal. However, whenever I reference or quote Bal, as I type her name I immediately think of Bol's liqueur
When out shopping for birthday presents last week, me and Linda stopped for a shot of tequila mid-mission, then resumed our business as if nothing had happened
I haven't had a hangover in months
When I leave for work on a Saturday afternoon, my floormates don't expect to see me again until Monday morning
There is a drink that exists at my work called 'a Robyn'
Me and Hannah have recently made up a dance especially designed for bar stools in the Coco's Mine, since we find ourselves sat there every weekend. Minimum effort, maximum proximity to the bar.
I legit drink beer to unwind
Me and a friend actually hid beers at a house party the other week, in fear of supplies significantly depleting
If I make a mistake or forget something, my friends just assume I am/was drunk
I properly enjoy downing an Irish Car Bomb
However, the slightly bigger issue would be that in actual fact that none of this remotely bothers me. Drunk me has a hoot. Drunk me is a generally better and more talented human being - as my recent Pool reigning and continually improving efforts at the Smirnoff Challenge prove. Hell, drunk me is probably going to write a substantially better thesis than sober me could ever fathom.
And I'll drink to that.
They say the first step is admitting that you have a problem, so here goes. My name is Robyn and I have been dancing around my bedroom in my pyjamas and singing into a hairbrush listening to Taylor Swift's '22' on repeat for the last two weeks.
I
moved to Amsterdam to do a Master's degree - which retrospectively has to
be one of the least thought out and impulsive decisions I've made,
probably ever, and I don't mean the moving here bit. I was too chicken
to pack up and make the move alone so I fell back on studying here,
making the journey a marginally easier ride - students get huge social
induction events; students get accommodation; students get free stuff.
Turns out the words 'study' and 'Amsterdam' aren't friends. They despise
each other actually. In fact, Amsterdam is a total possessive and
jealous boyfriend and won't let me spend any time with study. He's
whiny, he's needy, he requires my full attention at all times but for
everything he takes, man does he give back! It's not me, it's Amsterdam,
it's impossible to do anything other than play here.Yet every time I
find myself in a downwards spiral of study neglect and guilt, I just
gotta listen to Taylor telling me how 22 is supposed to be and I realise
that I'm absolutely doing it right.
Yes, life can be about
succeeding, creating opportunities and securing a good job; getting paid
to do what you love, something that challenges you daily but you feel
passionate about, care about. But the longer I spend living away from
the UK, away from home, the more I've realised that life is really about
those little things that happen in between. Life is what happens when
you're busy making other plans. The accidental four day benders you find
yourself amongst on Easter weekend; late night scouring the streets for
dodgy bike dealings; crazy nights with old friends collecting naughty
and hilarious stories, using one hand to drunkenly balance on the back
of someones bike whilst the other sends out a "you'll never guess what
just happened to me..." text; wasting money at the fair because you
really want that kinda creepy looking 'I Love You' bear, leaving every
ride in physical pain from laughing so damn hard; hell, even hangover
days curled up on a friends sofa sobbing at The Lion King while he runs
out to buy English tea and pancakes.
Despite all
the neglect I have given (am giving) my thesis. I guess there is
something I'm learning from finally getting down some words and
introducing concepts of narratology and narrative theory. Life is a
narrative and your 20s are about writing yours. You can't go back and
change it but you can learn from your misinterpretations of previous
chapters, your mistakes. Just don't read the last page first, don't ruin
the twist, it's the best part.
