Dr. Phil, Octomum, and boys doin' the twist (Jennifer)

I don’t care about other people’s medical afflictions; nor do I expect them to give a furry rodent’s behind about mine.  In my family, the attitude to serious illness is ‘give it a rub and get over it’.  

(Seriously.  My father once contracted a leg infection that caused his entire leg to turn black, and periodically complained of it being ‘sore’.  The rest of us ignored him for three weeks or so, after which time he sought medical attention, and was advised that the leg may have to be amputated.  It wasn’t, but the story remains a good one nonetheless.)

 I digress.  My point was that in the sphere of the First Year Blog, bodily health is largely irrelevant.  That said, I will wholeheartedly embrace this opportunity to indulge in some hypochondria.  Actually, it’s not; I am popping positively herculean antibiotics, and I still look like Amy Winehouse (pre-assault charge).  About ten days ago, my mother and I both got some odd virus which left us completely sapped of all energy.  No problem; I managed to catch an excellent Dr. Phil episode featuring Octomum Nadya Suleman (weird), and didn’t miss any tutes.  Bonanza. 

But then I developed this disgusting cough.  I didn’t want to skip class because of the 80% attendance requirement, so my question is this: where do you draw the line? 
Obviously, it’s fricking rude to splutter through a lecture or tutorial.  Do it, and everyone will hate you.  Even the guy in front of you who’s been audibly scoring every girl that walks past him based on the appearance of her arse.  Yes: should you cough or gurgle in a lecture, you will out-leper even him.  Hard times.    

 Other than that…university is just like The Gilmore Girls, when Rory goes to Yale circa season 4.  All our tutorials feature totally fascinating intellectual debates, and everyone just quotes Chomsky ad nauseum and hangs out in the library with our coffee and MacBooks.  Sometimes there are parties in Florida, where we get wasted, but ultimately learn important life lessons about friendship and boys doin’ the twist.  And of course all of this is funded by our rich and aloof, yet well-meaning grandparents.  

In reality, I’m strangely titillated by behavioural neuroscience.  Completely unexpected.  Granted, I’m a cynic, but I expected first year psychology to be all about De Bono and his stupid hats.  On the contrary, I’m finding it stimulating and surprisingly applicable.  Sweet! 

 French is très engaging–we’re studying World War II—but I remain unreservedly intimidated by my fellow French fries.  How to explain?  Um, said classmates are evidently French.  I mean, they kick frog arse.  I’m like, “Bonjour, I have un beret.”  Yes!
Japanese, on the other hand, is a cakewalk.  A silent cakewalk, however.  The tutes are quieter than an Auslan class.  It’s terrifying. 

 Other discoveries of week four:

 1. Melbourne Uni is pretty in some places (i.e. the Old Arts and Botany buildings; the Asia Centre; that underground carpark with the gargoyles), and not-so-pretty in others (note especially the East Berlin chic of Redmond Barry. Mmm, communist architecture!).

2. Donut King coffee is quite sufficient when your pockets have been bled dry by the hipper, tastier Castro’s.

3. It doesn’t matter how old they are, people still like to talk at unreasonable levels when conducting mobile phone conversations on public transport. Older people will claim it’s just adolescents (Yeah, GOD, she’s just so random, like, she had, like, eight thousand Cruisers and she was s-o-o-o-o-o-o wasted! So random!!!! LOLOLOLOL, etc. etc.), but this is erroneous. Everybody loves to discuss their colonoscopy / lesbian niece / promotion / ear hair. Age is no boundary.

 I’m going to make a cup of tea, write a Japanese essay, and watch Weeds.  What can I say.  Life is wild.