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I once had a teacher who told us that kids can only concentrate for as long as their age in minutes – so he gave our group of mostly fifteen year olds little breaks every quarter of an hour. Being younger than all of my classmates, I took great delight in waiting until fourteen minutes was up and then goofing off for the last minute before the break – protesting that according to his own theory it would have been impossible for me to concentrate for a single second longer.
Well, I still get in trouble for sassing my teachers, but at twenty years of age I can concentrate for a full thirty minutes of fingers-racing-across-the-keyboard productivity before I have to sidle into Scott or Chelsey’s bedroom, throw myself dramatically onto the bed and declare ‘I’m boored’, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing with my liiife’ or, a current favourite ‘I’m dropping out of uni to be a stripperrr’ . I normally complain for a while then announce that I’m ‘going back to my desk to cry quietly into my laptop’, faff for a bit, and get down to another thirty minutes of work.
Or, I sit at my desk wondering if being a stripper would make me feel empowered or not.
Today, I decided to write this (priorities, people, priorities) because I realised something today while lying in the foetal position on top of my duvet trying to find the words to write my dissertation proposal.
What I realised is a terrifying and horrible thing to know – but here it is:
These are the best days of my life.
Last year, if someone had told me that my University years would be the best of my life, I would have said ‘I really bloody hope not’. But here we are. I’ve made a life that exists in the space between the Royal London Hospital on the Whitechapel Road, and a house just off Victoria Park, and it’s really really good.
 I mean, a part of me really hopes that that’s not true. I’m excited for whatever comes next after graduation, I’m excited to travel and find a job (I’m lying, I’m not at all excited about searching for ways to sell my labour for money until I die) and I assume that eventually I’ll get married (gonna be the best day ever – get your tears of happiness and wonder ready to go)  and I’ll have kids (and that’s s’posed to be, like, excessively good although based on my own attitude as a child – see examples of sass above – I honestly can’t figure out how) and that will all be good. But it won’t be good in the way that this is good.
And that’s my thirty minutes up.
Big Love,
PV x