This makes NYC look easy

You know, I’m not going to lie. Part of the reason why I got so excited about my admission into Oxford wasn’t just because of the cache that a degree from this institution carries, or that it would provide me an opportunity to stretch myself and live in a different culture for a year. Oh no. You see, those of you who’ve read my previous blog know that I did not have the best luck with dating in NYC. I didn’t dress well enough, I need to drop about fifteen pounds to look at the height of my hotness, am too quirky, and often times have a nasty habit of putting men in their intellectual place—all in all things that do not make me competitive in the dating pool. Especially when going after the same five Jewish I-bankers/lawyers who the rest of the city went for.

So I welcomed my entrance into England. Each time I’ve come to this country the guys find my stereotypical Americaness adorable, I look much hotter than the average English girl, and I’m even thinner than her too! With a fiery personality, an American accent, and a decent wardrobe, I would be unstoppable.

Or so I thought until I landed in Oxford.

Let’s apply the laws of genetics, shall we?! If the women are busted, what would make me think that the men wouldn’t be busted too?! My only experience with English people has been in London. And let’s be real, even a busted guy looks hot in a well tailored suit through the haze of martini number four and the promises of entrance into Anabel’s.

It is slim fucking pickings here. And the off chance that a guy is good looking?! He has a girlfriend because, evidently, the British are serial monogamists. So, the short fat Greek kid who constantly hits on me is beginning to look real good at the moment. Even if the only words out of his mouth is to tell me how much Jewish girls like anal sex and the CEO’s he’s had dinner with.

I think I had a better shot with Craigslist in NYC. Even if it is filled with men with herpes looking for a quick one night stand. At least there aren’t illusions about what it really is.

And the problem that I encountered going to college in the five college area—an area with two women’s colleges and a resulting situational lesbianism problem—is beginning to rear it’s ugly head. The busted think they can get away with being jerks.

On Friday night a few friends and I were looking for a party. And because this is Oxford, and everything closes at 1am, we were finding an incredibly difficult time to find a place where we could kick back, rest our feet that had been victims of self inflicted masochism via pointy heels, and maybe meet some chill guys.

We meet up with a few friends on High street and they tell us about a party at Univ (University College). Evidently, their parties were not restricted to the 1pm curfew that plagues the poorer colleges like mine. I’m sure you’ve been in that situation before, just when you are about to give up hope and call it a night, you are saved by a divine intervention from Bacchus.

As we start to make our way over, the guys get side-tracked by the Kebab van. As an aside, the Kebab van has led to my waistline’s demise. The epitome of the post-drinking munchie, a typical order is seasoned chicken on top of a bed of fries smothered in cheese and garlic sauce. Sounds disgusting but it is soo fucking good—especially after downing a few pints of beer. However, I am not longer allowing myself to consume them as I have pants that I intend on fitting into. Very hot Theory skinny pants, but anyway.

So, we lose the guys to the Kebab van. And being polite gals who are desperate to find a place that was still serving alcohol, we wait while they order. Then we wait as they chat. And we wait as they are picking the chicken and swapping stories about the evening and Fresher’s week activities whilst stuffing fries in their mouths. It’s been about ten minutes and we’ve still been waiting.

I have a plan.

Let’s go to Univ on our own. If a party is still going on, then we will be sure to get in. I mean, I was wearing a tight tank top, and I was with two other cute girls. And a sweet German guy, but his presence really doesn’t factor into the plan. Ok, maybe to play body guard.

We walk over to the college, and sure enough we see a few guys standing around a room. Me and Erin knock on the window. The guys don’t hear us. So we knock again.

A pudgy acne kidden fifteen year old looking kid who is half-balding peaks his head out the window. Erin and I point and smile at ourselves, and motion that we want to go inside and party with him and his friends.

Now, let’s take a moment and process what is happening here, shall we?! You know, let’s play the role reversal game on this one. I am acne ridden, chubby, balding, seventeen year old and two hot obviously older women are knocking on my door asking to party with me and my hobbit looking friends.

This is the shit that porns are made out of.

Erin and I are not surprised when he motions that he is opening the door to the college. As we see him leave the room, we run over to the entrance. When we get there, Erin and I are standing front and center smiling, as I carefully allow my sweater to drop down just a bit to give him a glimpse.

“So, we hear you guys are having a party, and we’d love to party with you!” I tell him, fishing for an invite inside.

“Yea. How do I know you go here. Show me your fob [Oxford keycard]”

I fish for the keychain, and think to myself, that I am giving into a pimply troll.

I show him the fob, and it isn’t good enough.

Frustrated, I add, “You know, I think you can tell we didn’t fly from the United States to crash your party and jack shit from your room. It’s obvious we’re students.”

As I’m finishing up my sentence, the porter of the college comes over and tells the guy that he can no longer stay in the door way. It’s either in or out.

He smiles, and tells the porter, “Oh, I’ll be heading in then.” And then bids us Good night as he shuts the door in our faces.

I was rejected by a seventeen year old with an acne, weight, and thinning hair problems.

All of the students here are under the age of 23. Maybe if I am lucky, they are 24, but they haven’t had any work experience so they have no clue just how badly their souls will be crushed when they leave the ivory tower.

I have a fat Greek kid hitting on me and trying to impress me with his salary back in Boston. But much like the playground, he thinks he is winning me over by complaining how much he needs to get laid and poking fun of me.

And my only claim to anything normal was the physics PhD cum writer, but I probably ruined that by being drunk. But there was something deeply startling about how obvious repressed he was—it sucks having to play the aggressor and having someone ask permission to kiss!

But, interestingly enough, unlike NYC, I have no desire to find this boyfriend and to settle down. I am finding that the idea of a relationship repulses me more and more as I continue to meet people who just don’t measure up. Because, a relationship that sucks with someone who sucks, is still a relationship that sucks. And with advances in sex toys like the ones found here (I have a small addiction to this one), what is the point of throwing myself into something, just so I can say I have it—especially if it doesn’t make me happy?

So, back to the blog. Back to my studies, as I collapse into bed and hope with the calmer week ahead the beer belly and acne will both subside.