Humanities degrees are a misadvertised fantasy

The one shred of hope that got me through many teenage struggles and moments of hardship was the prospect of university and all that it represented. To me, and I’m sure to many others, university was emblematic of a well-earned fresh start.

I remember telling myself that what remained of my student loan would be spent on cultivating the freshest outfits the West-Midlands had ever seen. What was left of my spare time would be spent reading about all the non-course related things that I thought would develop and expand my mind.

I would finally be the version of myself that I could be impressed with and, at the risk of sounding like a complete narcissist, one that a passing outsider might be slightly envious of.

What remained of my student loan would be spent on cultivating the freshest outfits the West-Midlands had ever seen

Needless to say I fetishised this daydream far too much, because looking back that’s exactly what it was- a dream. Flash forward to current day, I’m sitting here in worn out, Adidas jogging bottoms – please forgive me Anna Wintour – and wondering why I have no inspiration, nay motivation, to flesh out the essay that has lain dormant as a plan for a good fortnight now.

I recall looking at university prospectuses full of beaming students, sprawled on grassland surrounded by a diverse circle of friends. In hindsight, I should have been suspicious as to why token minorities of all varieties were exhibited in these glossy pages, because the truth is it’s all one big sales pitch.

Flash forward to current day, I’m sitting here in worn out, Adidas jogging bottoms

Universities are fundamentally businesses, selling those highly priced certificates under the marketing ploy that I will feel more competent and skilled after my purchase.

Well, here I am, an English Literature student, two years into all things modernist, existentialist, colonialist, feminist, and all the rest of the ‘ist’s, mulling over how I spend the average university day: I get to the library at 11, I read and write until 7, I go home to a reheated frozen meal, and then I sleep.

(Disclaimer: for the purpose of my self-pitying argument I have neglected to inform you that copious episodes of The US Office can be found wedged into any 30 minute windows of time that I may or may not have).

I get to the library at 11, I read and write until 7, I go home to a reheated frozen meal, and then I sleep

Perhaps this is just a concern typical to the humanities student, but the reality is that I pay £3,000 a term for an eccentrically dressed seminar tutor, with questionable facial hair, to offer me his subjective conclusions on a poem that a thousand other scholars on JSTOR have expressed more originally, more articulately and without the added distraction of a vibrantly printed waistcoat.

University has become much like the overpriced ZARA coat I bought last winter. Sure, it looked amazing on the mannequin and I was absolutely convinced that I needed it but now… well, now it’s just an impulsive purchase that that sits in the back of my wardrobe, basking in all its regrettable glory.

University has become much like the overpriced ZARA coat I bought last winter

Whilst this may sound hyperbolic, I guess the crux of my frustration lies within the fact that once again, anticipation has proved better than the reality.

University has made me more ill than I’ve ever been, feel more inadequate than I’ve ever felt, and most significantly, made me feel more lost than ever before. But hey, second year is almost over so I guess I’m in too deep now – I best quit complaining and get on with it.