I hope my horoscope is true this week

I think we all have figured out by this point in time that when Shannon is left to her own devices for four days of unstructured time, things get a little out of hand. Absinthe drinking, three guys and me in a twin size bed, 5am Irish jig dancing, and of course the lost passport—which was underneath my bed the whole time. I guess I learned a valuable lesson, never invite three Irish men back to your dorm room for some after hour absinthe drinks.

This weekend took quite the toll on me, so much, that as I was waiting for my teammates outside of Merton College, hunched over in my hoodie with my hands in my face, that some man passes me and tells me, “Such a pity you have no money.”

Excuse me?

Oh yea, that’s right. He thought I was homeless.

“Uhm,” I laugh, “I’m actually just waiting for my friends.”

“Oh, well I would have bought you a cup of coffee.”

Exactly. Because, when I look like crap, I really look like crap.

Perhaps looking so rough that a pedestrian thought I was homeless should have told me that maybe today was not the day to revaluate my commitment to the rugby team. That perhaps, eating a big breakfast really wasn’t such a good idea, before heading off to practice on some fields that are a twenty minute walk away from my dorm, and a ten minute walk into town—with no bathroom available.

Having stomach problems, I leave practice early in search of a toilet since the bathrooms at the field were closed. I walk into a house turned into a neighborhood pub, and very meekly ask the bartender if I could use her bathroom—dressed in dirty sweats, and caked mud all of my hands (it was tackling practice today). She points in a vague direction, and I walk towards the back, and head up the stairs, where I am greeted by a large dog barking. Seems that the upstairs of the pub is their home, and I took a wrong turn.

She redirects me towards the bathroom, in the opposite corner from the staircase to her home. Now this is where it is an embarrassing moment. See, I had the post drunking shits, the loud, slightly disgusting kind. I stopped into this bar during prime Sunday Roast time, the English’s answer to the New Yorker’s brunch, where they are serving food. A lot of it.

The bathroom, only has one door, and it is right next to the dining area, no small hall way to act as a sound and smell buffer, no series of doors to act as an e-coli proof cell. No barriers.

I have to admit, that I almost decided to try another bar, but I was so desperate for a toilet, that I put my sense of shame on hold and took up residence in the bathroom for about fifteen minutes.

A very violent and noisy fifteen minutes.

They had to hear me, especially since the bathroom was in the middle of the seating area.

When I got out, I tried to fix my hair, wash my hands, make it look like that I really did not just spend fifteen minutes fighting a war with my bowels—when in fact that is what I really did.

As I was leaving I faked smiled, and ran out of the bar, only to put my cell phone to my ear and call my mommy as a distraction from my embarrassment.

Thank God the toilet flushed.

And in other news, since it looks like it is taking the college to process my student loan checks, and I drank all of my safety money, looks like I am re-master cleansing. Saving money, and losing weight! Well, and I’ll treat myself on game days to 1 quid kosher lunch on George St. Yes I know it is wrong pretending that I keep kosher for heavily subsidized lunch, and I know that I am going to hell for bringing my gentile poor student friends, but dude, 1 pound lunch! I mean, how could I not share the wealth?

But in other news, I know my posting has been erratic and crappy when I do post. First of all, as you know, this isn’t a forum for my pontifications—the school newspaper is now—but instead a way for me to let my friends know how I am doing, and tell them what life is like for a student at Oxford.

Seasonal depression has hit me once again, with me laying in my bed watching bad bootlegged movies on the internet, not doing any of my work that’s piled up, floating by because that is what I know what to do best. Hence why I have been MIA returning emails (sorry Corn), calling people, and all that fun stuff—I just can’t leave my bed. You know its bad when you are watching the Mighty Ducks and cheering on Coach Bombay. Hopefully the Master Cleanse will knock out the toxins, and fasting will create the high that helps me deal with the lack of sunshine.

This time, sans ciggs.

Try running around a rugby pitch then tackling with smokers lungs.

And I am back to reading my one book a week resolution. This week, Tropic of Cancer.

It’s so frustrating not having complete anonymity on this thing, because I really want to write about my weekend and pontificate why I am a perpetually single girl, but, it looks like it will have to wait a bit—it is far too personal for people at college to know what a relationship fuck up I really am.