Irish college life for guys and girls is basically a chaotic sprint between trying not to fail your degree, paying criminal amounts of rent for a freezing, mouldy gaff, and getting absolutely twisted on cheap cider four nights a week. Your average day is spent either sleeping through a 9 AM lecture because you’re hungover as fuck, or sitting in the back of a lecture hall staring at Hinge, before heading straight to pre-drinks in a crammed student kitchen, talk absolute shite, and get smashed enough to hit a sweaty dive club where you’ll end up shifting someone in a sticky-floored corner or making a new best friend in the smoking area over a borrowed lighter; from there, it’s a late-night run for a dirty spice bag or garlic cheese chips, followed by pulling someone back to your single mattress on the floor—where the walls are so paper-thin your housemates can hear every wet shag—only to wake up at 1 PM the next afternoon, check your bank account to see you’re down to your last fiver, suffer through the ultimate stride of pride past your judgey flatmates, and immediately start texting the group chat asking who’s up for doing it all over again tonight.
