The many things that become severely important when trying to study!

As I sat at my desk, trying desperately to convince my wayward mind that I in fact really did want to be doing my assignment, my eyes came to rest on a picture of an iMac that hung from my cork board reminding me of the sweet days that would soon be upon me, and any chances of concentrating on something that was not an iMac, were dashed.

My visions of 24” screens, Quad Core 3.2GHz Intel Xeon Processors and sleek packaging that draws me close to weeping with anticipation, were blinded by a startling solution. Not only could I get out of my hot box of a room, and the guilt that follows me around the house whispering softly in my ear every time I sit down to watch an episode of the Amazing Race, but I could also be doing something directly related to my education thus silencing my guilt completely. I jumped onto the Internet with a speed that normally accompanies the arrival of a new DVD in the mail, and found that there was a free Art Show in Fremantle, on which I could base my shortly due Critical Analysis on. I felt a sense of accomplishment usually reserved for after I finish cleaning the house, and proceeded to rifle through my closet trying to find an outfit most closely resembling that of a young, funky yet slightly nerdy art critic.

Putting aside my disappointment at finding a closet full of jeans and t-shirts, I headed towards Fremantle with a smile on my face and Traveling Wilbury’s in my ears.

As my first 30 minutes at the Art Centre passed with only displays of old Merry-go-Round horses and examples of the cells in the old insane asylum in sight, I began to wonder if I had in fact come to the wrong place. The plethora of old people wandering the grounds seemed to confirm my concerns as I expected to be girt by appropriately dressed, young, arty, Fremantlians. Although I was pleased to be the best looking person there, the lack of an art show ate at me like a flesh eating bug. I wandered the grounds trying wretchedly to look like I belonged and wasn’t in fact lost and finally stumbled upon the exhibit I was looking for, that was tucked away right at the back, unsigned and so vague in it’s actual location that I thought they must have done it on purpose to make it more creative. Or to drive off the stupid people, as their displays were so mind blowingly interesting that it was only safe for intelligent people to view. As I found the majority neither mind-blowing or particularly that interesting, my thoughts were filled with worry that I wasn’t as smart as I professed to be, as I sauntered back to the car, finding the outside surrounds far more engaging than the exhibit itself.

My thoughts swiftly turned to food, as I realised how hungry I was. As my blood sugar dropped, my thoughts turned more often to orange juice, jellybeans and hash browns and before I knew it, I was indicating and pulling into my old favourite hangout, the local organic store. Now when one is working full time and earning a decent wage they can be forgiven for indulging in expensive organic produce, but the knowledge that I am now a poor student loomed over me as I tentatively entered the store, wondering if I would set off the ‘poor people’ alarm. The silence and lack of security guards tackling me to the ground shouting, “Can you afford to be here Miss!!” set me at ease and a comforting fondness palliated my tense demeanor. After completing my initial circuit of the store I reviewed my purchases and calculated roughly that to pay for what I had stashed in my basket, I would have to somehow get pregnant, give birth and sell my child on the black market, all in the next 5 minutes, before the old Nonna in front of me finished unloading her San Pellegrino and Pasta Lensi. I again used my superior math’s skills to calculate the odds of accomplishing that feat and my answer caused me to return all but three essential items in my basket. I progressed through the checkout with my drastically desolate purchases and was surprised that I found myself cringing at the exorbitant total as I was quite aware when I entered that I would be using up a weeks worth of icy pole money.

I traveled home, munching on my bio-organic licorice rope and sipping my organic fat-free choc milk, whilst Rod Stewarts voice skipped from the back to the front speakers every time I went over a bump in the road. I opened the window and with my mouth full of licorice, exclaimed to the world “Bring over some of your old Motown records”