Terrible, Terrible First Impressions.

When I was younger, I had a rather large group of friends. I've since trimmed down my social butterflying considerably but, in my late teens and early twenties, I was known to flutter like there was no tomorrow. I love throwing people together with good food, good booze, lively conversation and incredibly bad dancing (the dancing is non negotiable). Needless to say, with these innate hostessing tendencies afoot, I didn't anticipate any problems making friends when I moved into my university halls.

I was very wrong.

Boohoo. Dawson so sad.

So, being Pakistani I was, obviously, about 6 hours late moving in to my flat. By the time I rocked up in all my tardy glory, everyone was already settled in. We were sectioned off into apartments of 5-6 students on a corridor of about 20 flats. It seemed that everyone on our floor had been on a gap year or worked for a few years after sixth form / college. The girls in my flat were really lovely, they hailed from all over the country and made me feel right at home. We had cups of tea and chats and then resumed unpacking our lives into our teeny tiny bedrooms.

Now, when it came to getting to know everyone else in halls, things got a bit tricky. My flat were lovely but they weren't the most outgoing people so, the task of knocking on doors fell to me. One of the boys next door and I bonded over Lord of The Rings and Joss Whedon shows (shut up, I'm cool) and we became fast friends. He is still one of my favourite people today. 

As I made my way down the corridor, meeting new and interesting randoms, things seemed to be going quite well. Then I came to a massive flat of glamazon looking women. They invited me in and, after a few long, lingering looks up and down my person, they were satisfied and we had a few drinks and made the usual small talk. After a bizarre ritual of complimenting each other's clothes /  hair and establishing who had a boyfriend and who was competition, I was told that we were friends now and that we would be going out as a big group the following night and that I must wear heels on said night outing. To this day, I'm still unsure exactly how this happened but, I had unwittingly found myself smack bang in the middle of a Girl Squad.... and they were ready to stomp the shit out of this town.

Yahoo.com

As flattered as I was by this concept, the whole Plastics Vs the Normals dynamic isn't really me. So, I spent the rest of the night meeting all the other people in our building and doing the usual first night at uni thing, in a much more relaxed and less clenched fashion. The next day, I was making my way back from a meeting on campus and I passed the glamazons in our hallway (they move in packs, you see). They all stopped and said hello and we exchanged more compliments on clothes and hair and started talking about our plans for our big night out that evening. As we were talking about more clothes and more hair, a beautiful Asian girl approached us. One of the glamazons turned to me and said, "Oh, this is our new flatmate, she arrived this morning. You two would really get on". Then the new girl, incredibly composed and serious, extended her hand to me and said, "Hello, I'm Shaba".

At which point I promptly interrupted her in a Jamaican accent and shouted:

"SHABBA!"

Massappeal.com

And that was the day my squad goals died. 
A horrible, fiery and yet glorious death. 

And then... silence. There was nothing but silence. Following my triumphantly declamatory contribution, this crowd of beautiful women just stood there staring at me, expressionless... and yet still somehow rather judge-y. Then, more silence. And more staring. The Grim Reaper went by ringing a bell and pushing a tumbleweed with a stick but, still, nothing. 

 So we just stood there, in some bizarre ocular Mexican Stand-off.

Popkey.co

Staring intently at one another while somewhere, somehow, halfway across the world...

a reggae musician dropped dead.

(probably).

Well, I don't know about you, Internet, but that was some of my best work. And if these broads didn't find it gut-bustingly hilarious and immediately break out into a resounding chorus of *Mister Lovermaaaan* then they were never going to be my people. So, after a little think between blinks, I decided I must fall on my proverbial sword (which was plastic and covered in goggle eyes, obviously). It was time to bid farewell to these Regina Georges and extricate myself from the situation.

Giphy

And that's exactly what I did. Without breaking eye contact, I slowly made for my front door, cavalier and ass backwards. Take that, beautiful women with no sense of humour. Yes, that's right, I'm judging you. Judgey McJudgerson is in the building and she is incredibly disappointed with your lack of appreciation for 90s Jamaican dancehall artists (hearmenow). With that, I banged into the front door of my flat with my bum and did one of those awkward turn things whilst still trying to maintain my withering stare, but also trying to put the key in the lock at the same time. Then I disappeared in a cloud of smoke into my flat, enigma that I am, lost to these women forever.

Ok. Byeeeeeeeeeee.

From that day on, we never spoke to each other again. Whenever we saw one another in the halls, me and the Fembot army alike, just politely nodded then hastily went on our way to go and do anything else.

I had such a great time at uni and, as luck would have it, amassed my own army of wonderful, eccentric friends (who all think this was hilarious, by the way). But, for me, that particular hallway on that particular floor in that particular halls of residence, will forever be haunted by the memory of Shabba Ranks and the bitter death of unappreciated comedy.

wingsoffireanon

If a joke falls in a forest of glamazons..... do they even make a sound?
NO THEY BLOODY DON'T .

*Le sigh*

My Life As An Imposter

Twitter
Facebook
Fin.

Liked This? Of Course You Did! Subscribe to Receive Posts by Email