Moving Back Home

(I’ll probably write an identically-titled post in a few years when I move home out of failure to find a place, rather than my current contract expiring)

Today I moved out of my university halls, and am now chilling at the rent-free paradise that is my parents’ sofa, slowly coming to terms that first year is well and truly over. Like, for real.

Really for real.

It’s an odd one this, because being a student is a kind of pseudo-adulthood: we pay rent, but get a painfully small (NB: not every post has to be a Socialisty postboost from the student loan; we cook for ourselves, but are surrounded by takeaways and parents who’ll cover us if we can’t be bothered; we have complete control over our lives, but are bound by education, and in some cases employment. Being at home provides strangely different bits of pseudo-adulthood, in giving us the chance to get a job, but removing the obligation to get a job because we’re living at home.

Because whatever way you slice it, this year has been a year of halves and randomness; I’ve flitted from societies to socialising to studying to writing, with no real plan apart from wanting to ‘keep busy’. And instead of summer providing a kind of rigidity or normality to my life, it’s just twisting it in different ways; I’m not able to commit to finding a flat because I’ll be at karate one day, working another, and a party the next, all things that could slot seamlessly into a term-time timetable.

Looking at it from a purely logistical point of view, therefore, there’s not much difference between term-time and holidays at this point in my life. The people around me and the things I’m doing are different, but I’m still a rudderless stolen dingy pissing about with sports he’s not very good at, friends he can’t tell if he’s attracted to, and vague references to Wordsworth that he could have made more explicit but couldn’t be bothered to read the frakking Prelude yet again.

I quite like the randomness though, at least at this point in my life; there’ll come a time when I have a job, and a significant other(s?) to build my life around, but I don’t need to impose a schedule on an existence that doesn’t necessarily need one. Sure, I’ll plan revision, and work timetables, and the rest of it; but why have an ordered summer when you could drop it and enjoy it?

And as a side note, I’ll be nineteen in eleven minutes. Holy shit.


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