What to do when someone completely ruins your entire university career

Some people may've spent their day helping the world move one step closer to curing cancer, some may've learnt about how the world came about, I however, at the ripe old age of 20, learnt that my lip genuinely quivers when I try to stop myself from crying. Who's winning here? Probably not me.

I swear this time I am not being dramatic. This is not like the time I turned my phone off for three days to avoid telling someone that I didn't "feel the same way", or that time I was unable to get out of bed because the aftermath of finishing reading the Twilight books and facing up to the crippling reality that I would never find a sparkly vampire who would rather die than be without me, was all too much. This time I am in super serious existential trouble.

The kind of trouble that makes you want to call your mum and sob down the phone to her for a while, before realising that perhaps you should've opened with the line: "I'm about to start crying, but it's not because I'm pregnant". But I digress, for I have found myself in a completely unforeseen predicament (that does not involve a pregnancy). Upon meeting my new dissertation supervisor for the first time, I was told that the way I write does not flow, and needs a lot of work. Ok, so this may not seem like a big deal, but for me, the world ended. I instantly felt like throwing up and crying all at the same time - kind of like a drunk first year who's still having the time of their life because they have not had their life's work crapped on.

It was extremely difficult not to do this while I was still in her office

I'm trying to describe this in a way that is not pompously egotistical, which I'm realising now is kind of difficult, but the simplest way to put it is like this: in school, some people excel in sports, some excel in music, I somehow, was rather gifted at writing essays. It's like a party trick but more boring. Throughout school, college and about 60% of university I was led to believe I could write essays; just last week I was told that academically, I write 'really very well'. And considering this new supervisor was reading the same piece of work, I have to question what happened. Did my choice of words insult her? She circled the word 'sound' rather vigorously which makes me wonder if there's something deeper going on. I also noticed (while concentrating on a spot on her desk so as to try to stop myself projectile vomiting), that there were no personal touches - is this woman even who she says she is? Is she an impostor who showed up to stomp on the dreams of final year students who are only just starting to figure things out?

I am insinuating nothing...

Who can be sure? But she definitely doesn't think I can write. Or I can, but it makes absolutely no sense when I do. And it would appear that I have attached so much of my self worth onto the knowledge that I can write, that I now feel as though my life purpose has been struck from me. Kind of like how Troy felt in High School Musical 3 when Gabriella went off to Standford without him. *Starts humming the tune of 'Right Here, Right Now'*. Obviously, he fixed that by stalking her to her college and dancing with her under a tree, but I don't think that would work in quite the same way for me.

When life tragedies such as these occur, I find immense comfort in the words Katy Perry spoke to me (and about twenty-thousand other people) this past summer: "whatever you're going through, just know that Katy Perry goes through crap too".

But for real you guys, I am dealing with this just fine.
~ Eleanor xo

The person you become in a nightclub

Mindy Lahiri is goals

I don't know about you guys, but the person I turn into when I enter a discotech is largely down to the kind of mascara I'm wearing. If it looks as though I'm having trouble blinking because my eyelashes are so heavy, I'm probably wearing what I like to call: my slutty mascara. Or as some people call it, Maybelline Scandaleyes mascara. Or as my google search has just pointed out, Rimmel Scandaleyes mascara. If you ever wondered why I'm not a beauty blogger, I think you just found your answer; I don't even know what brands I use. Let's just gloss over that minor mishap, after all, I am currently drinking the most expensive vanilla latte in existence because the dick-wad barista decided to overcharge me and I'm so livid I can barely see. But I digress; my point is, this Rimmel mascara (nailed it) guarantees massive fat-ass lashes that look the bomb in photos. So much so that I haven't de-tagged myself from a truly atrocious photo that appeared on Facebook last week simply because my lashes are killing it and I want everyone to know. #TrueStory #Blessed.

So yes, slutty mascara = I've made an effort, I'm excited and I'm ready to partay... except in the case of last week when I had what can only be described as the worst night-out ever. Clearly the guy who thought it was hilarious to come up to me and mimic my 'resting bitch face' knew, even by midnight, that tonight was not the night he was getting laid so gave up and began acting like a giant douche-bag to soften the blow.

On that same night I made a new friend in the form of a blonde fresher, I'm going to go ahead and assume she was a fresher simply because she couldn't stop swaying and then couldn't seem to comprehend why I was drying my arm, even after I told her twice that someone had spilt their drink all over me. Eventually it seemed to click and she reacted as though I'd told her I'd been shot. Which to be honest, is a very fair reaction seeing as my new Zara top took the blow. Vodka is for drinking, not for pouring over brand new £30 chiffon Zara tops. Or Primark flats; but I lost that four quid simply by buying the shoes, let's be honest.

I'm not being a nightclub hater; the only things I really hate on are wine gums and incense candles *tries not to vomit*, because there are some great times to be had: you can weasel your way around getting a much drunker friend to buy you a beverage of some kind, maybe even a double if you're feeling adventurous, you can scream the entirety of 'what makes you beautiful' into your BFF's face as she does the same to you, and you're pretty much guaranteed to get some if that's what you're after. Unless of course you're one of those people that refuses to believe when someone tells you they aren't available. Basically what you're telling me is that even in my nightclub finery, I could never be anything more than a hump-and-dump situation. Yes, I may be wearing my slutty mascara but that's where it ends, my friend. And if we're being honest, if someone decides to make up that they're not on the market just so they don't have to get with you, maybe it's time you went home, ate a pot noodle and had an existential crisis of your own. Still, who can really say chivalry is dead when the guy finally stops telling you "you're lying" and trots off to try his luck with one of your friends. Forget holding a door open, this is what a gentleman looks like.

Seriously you guys, all I want to do is dance to Taylor Swift and wear sweatpants while I'm doing it. Kind of like a really hip grandma. Is that so much to ask?

~ Eleanor xo

PS, while googling synonyms for 'hump and dump', I found some amazing alternatives: "wham bam and thank you maam", "nail it and bail it", "smash it and dash it" and the king: "tap the ass and hit the gas"

What it's like being 7311 days old (or 20 years and 1 week)

As most of you are probably well aware, it is terrible. You see before you a girl with a chipped manicure, rocking a 'just-taken-out-plaits' hairstyle, who possesses a pink iPod nano with Ashley Tisdale's unfairly overlooked debut album, 'Guilty Pleasures', ready to blast through her car stereo on the drive home from work. It's possible we have an epidemic on our hands. Or a pandemic. Or just a general emic because I don't really know what any of those words mean... Let's just go with 'code red'. Or perhaps more fittingly, 'code grey', because that's what I've been fearing I will find stacked on my head when I look in the mirror every morning after I wake up.

Truthfully, on the day after my birthday I really believed I'd woken up with wrinkles. But as it turned out, I'd just fallen asleep with my make-up on and decided to smush my face into my pillow so as to make myself look as unattractive as possible. At least there's still part of me that's lazy enough to be classed as a teenager. I can't remember if this was also the night I had a dream where my neighbours ginger cat bit me on the face. Not that this is relevant, but as a certified old person, I'm now supposed to bore you by going off on strange tangents.

The day itself was obviously a lot of fun - as birthdays should be! I was awoken at six in the morning by an interesting rendition of 'happy birthday' sung by my mother; who also, being a total joker, decided to sing the line "happy birthday to someoneeeeeee" instead of inserting her own daughters name. Classic hilarity from Mrs Potter. We then preceded to play a game I would like to call "Mum can you stop telling me how much you think I'm going to like each present it's practically the middle of the night and my eyes aren't able to fully open". My parents gave me a silver star charm for my Thomas Sabo bracelet; receiving this gift is a moment I will probably always remember, obviously because it's beautiful but also because when I opened it, my mum looked me straight in the eye and went "because you are a star". Couldn't sing my name in the happy birthday song though, could she?

This all went out the window when four days later I picked out a truly gorgeous rose gold Marc Jacobs watch that would be, as we say in our family, my 'main present'. I'm still so in awe of it's beauty that I keep forgetting it is actually a time telling device. Brains AND beauty, what a catch. And just to blow this whole thing even more out of the water (I don't think I've used that saying right), the rose gold on the watch matches my rose gold iPhone 5S. I cannot tell you how much of a first world white girl I feel. It's an exhilarating experience to say the least.

Once I'd got past my midday "oh my god there's something wrong with my knee I can't move I've officially reached old age this is the end" anxiety attack, I was able to continue celebrating myself - with more presents (shout-out to my adorable best friends who proved once again just how well they know me *cough* chocolate fingers *cough*, and to my boyfriend for the really sweet gifts of my favourite things - including a new MASSIVE Yankee candle that the pyromaniac inside me can't wait to get back to uni and burn baby burn), and a Smarties birthday cake - courtesy of my boyfriends family because they're the sweetest people ever. Sadly the day ended with me in tucked up in bed early, ready for work the next day - and for those of you thinking to yourself that I would've done the same thing even if I didn't have work early in the morning, to you I say, shhhhhhh.

Now it's a whole week later and the world looks no different (which is good because it means I'm not losing my sight), and to be honest, I don't really feel any different. I still have trouble getting up in the morning, I seem to be getting worse at making toast, and I'm just as atrocious at driving as ever. I did voluntarily clean my room yesterday though so make of that what you will.

Thank you so much to everyone who wished me a happy birthday and/or sent me cards and gifts; you guys are the best.

~ Eleanor xo

PS. You'll be pleased to know I completed 9 of the 19 things I'd planned to do this year. Most disappointing of all was my failure to keep my cactus plant alive. Better luck next time. Maybe.