Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice. Chuck Norris sleeps with a nightlight - not because he's afraid of the dark, but because the dark's afraid of him. Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.

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I think I might be Chuck Norris (almost). I stopped a revolving door.

My friend and I were in the revolving door at our university library, and by some miracle of inevitable bad luck that's always sitting my shoulder waiting for the most (in)opportune moment to strike, the door just stopped. As it turns out, it was my fault. Oops.

I couldn't decide which segment I wanted to be in (it's an important decision, ok), and as the segment ahead of me almost disappeared, I decided that I wanted to be in that one. In I leapt. Unfortunately, half of my bag and scarf decided that they wanted to be in the next segment. I didn't realise this until the door stopped and my bag almost suffocated me.

Naturally, I panicked. I'd broken the door - to the library. Now nobody could get in. Everyone was going to fail. Nobody would get an education. South Africa would be robbed of its future intellectuals, and it was all my fault. Also, I was trapped in a door. I would never sky-dive, do the Inca Trail or own a Mr Bean-type Mini. I was going to die in a revolving door in a library.

Thank goodness for friends. As I mourned the loss of my and South Africa's future, in between awkwardly smiling at other people who were now stuck because of me, my friend Abbey (who should clearly be an engineer or firefighter or something) calmly suggested that we push the door until the wall separating the two segments was at the entrance of the door. We did this. And, it worked. South Africa's future was saved - thanks to Abbey!

I hate winter and I hate wearing shoes. I do like whining, though. Unfortunately, I usually have to choose between bare feet and staying warm. At this time of the year, particularly in occasionally Arctic Grahamstown, I pick staying warm (and by warm I mean alive). So, I decided to buy some slippers.

If I was going to wear shoes all the time, even inside, they were going to have to be a rather kick-ass pair of pantoffels (that's Afrikaans for slippers - isn't it just one of the greatest words of all time).

When I saw these, I had to get them:

These are the only pigs I'll put on my feet.

While I was paying for them at the counter, the lady next to me asked if they were kids' or adults' slippers. Did she not see me paying for them myself...with money that I got out of my own wallet, which had a driver's licence with my face on it? Of course they were adult slippers!

If "grown-up" slippers are not permitted to be farmyard/superhero/Spongebob themed, then I refuse to grow up. Ptsh, don't tell me what to wear people...my shoes are not an accurate gauge of my maturity and general incompetence at adult life.

As we've discovered, I'm a rather distracted driver. Successful adults, however, take road safety seriously. With this in mind, I made sure that Dandelion buckled up before we headed anywhere. 

In an attempt to be a responsible driver, I insisted that Dandelion wear a seatbelt.

Fortunately, there are others in Grahamstown who recognise the importance of road safety.

This gentleman is clearly succeeding as an adult - he knows that you have to fill up before a long drive.

Besides being safety conscious, grown-ups should also be well-read. So, off I went to the library.

Maybe donkeys aren't as dim-witted as we thought.

It seems that wherever I go to in order to fulfill my goal of becoming a successful adult, there're always donkeys there. Does that mean they're more accomplished grown-ups than I am? Perhaps...or maybe all successful adults are just asses.

I have a new life plan. Let's see how long this one lasts (the last one was concocted less than 24 hours ago). Generally, these plans are just variations on each other - less "I want to be a ballerina" versus"Marine biology is my calling", and more should I do a fourth-year of journalism studies, or an honours degree in politics?

For some reason I've had a very uncertain week. It might be because my brother's starting to apply to universities and the conversations I've had with him make me doubt my present and future. Or, perhaps it's because I'm getting to the end of my university degree, and this just happens to everyone. The only thing that I can be certain about is that I expected adulthood to deliver on the assurance front. 

Aren't age and certainty directly proportional (look at me getting me high school science out for you guys)? I genuinely thought that the older I got, the more certain I'd be about life. It seems that I've gotten it the wrong way around. Either adulthood leads to uncertainty, or I'm doing this adult thing wrong (it could be either - someone let me know please). 

I feel as if the only person who understands this problem is Hannah Horvath. This is problematic because she's a fictional character...or maybe it's ok on account of Lena Dunham's exceptional writing (I've been watching a lot of series this week due to the ridiculous amount of work that I have). Actually, Descartes probably relates to being flooded with doubt (yeah, that's how unclear I feel). 

As a writer, I know that this post needs a conclusion, but I'm not quite sure how to end it (see what I did there), so here's a video that a fellow Writing and Editing student suggested that's relevant to my general lack of confidence this week:

P.S. This post was written straight after I showered, still wrapped in a towel, because we all know what happens in showers...clear and distinct perceptions!

As if Hannah Horvath couldn't get any more relatable, she came up with this beaut of a one-liner (in response to Marnie's particularly mature order to "grow up"):

"Excuse me, I am grown up. That's why I cooked all this food!"

Preach.

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Clearly then, I'm a grown-up too (well more in the way that Hannah is I guess, except minus the weird, possibly sociopathic, ex-boyfriend, e-book deal and kick-ass tattoos). Yeah, I'm a bit jealous that she has those things (excluding the strange ex-boyfriend of course). 

Why yes, I did make this vegan cottage pie all by myself (didn't even have to phone my mum for help). 

Basically, I made this. It looked amazing. It tasted pretty good too. Ergo, I am an adult. Thank you Hannah Horvath for that epiphany.

Blood was spilled in our kitchen last night. Surprisingly, the incident did not involve peeling or chopping vegetables. Unsurprisingly, it involved me.

Calm down, it wasn't that kind of blood-related incident.    Source:http://www.killerfilm.com/articles/read/scream-4s-mask-maker-spilling-beans-about-movie-37542 

I did not open the door for a strange person in a mask. Nor did I investigate the strange sounds outside, which only exaggerated the eerie atmosphere created by the constant rain. Also, my flatmate and I were not having a pillow fight in our underwear before said blood was spilled.

The blood-spilling was actually rather uninteresting and meagre (sorry Tarentino fans). While getting the scissors out of the drawer in order to open up a packet of sun-dried tomatoes, I slammed my finger in the drawer. A good chunk of skin peeled off my finger. There was a bit of blood. See, not that eventful.

In stereotypical youthful optimism I'd like to point out that, while my finger is pretty gross-looking at the moment, I did end up with some amazing pasta.

Those red-bits are sun-dried tomotoes - not blood.