As a result of Week 5 blues, I am currently sitting on my bedroom floor eating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, listening to Snow Patrol and contemplating all of my life choices.

It’s some of the best procrastinating I have ever done. Last week I had four essays to write in five days, it was my 19th birthday and I still managed to spend a considerable amount of my time lamenting the EU referendum result (it hurts, it actually physically pains me). And to top it all off – Trump (hereafter known as ‘He Who Shall Not Be Named’) won the election. People actually voted for him. So I sit here. Trying to ignore the stresses of Cambridge life for just a few more minutes, savouring every second before the bubble swallows me up once again, and reality descends upon me like an ocean wave, dampening my spirit; drowning my soul.

The past term as a Fresher has been... interesting. Especially in terms of my personal and spiritual development. For example: I had to skulk back from Lola’s on the first night of Freshers’ because my dress split at the back to expose my M&S comfy knickers. I set the fire alarm off by burning Weight Watchers’ extra thin toast (tastes exactly how you’d expect, never again). I managed to tip two litres of milk over my bedroom floor. My lovely next-door neighbour voted for Brexit and it’s taking me some time to adjust to the fact that genuinely good and kind people didn’t vote Remain. Last night, I passed someone doing a work-out in his room, stopped for a little too long to observe his ab crunches, lost concentration and fell down a small flight of stairs.

I’ve phoned my mum at least four times a day since I’ve arrived. I miss my dog. I dressed up as a witch for Halloween and a stranger outside John’s told me I could ‘turn him into a frog, anytime’. (What does this mean?) I’ve dreamt about the anthropology of remote Polynesian islands. I didn’t sleep at all on the night of the election, and cried to my mum about ‘Hillary’s time’ being stolen. I’ve sat on my windowsill, attempting to reassure myself that there hasn’t been some massive mistake, and that Cambridge actually wanted me. Me. Average me.

Yes, my first few of weeks at Cambridge have provided an opportunity for me to discover ‘who I am’. On this clichéd, metaphorical journey, I’ve discovered that I am deeply disorganised, incapable of going to sleep before 1am, incredibly impulsive and lazy (see: spending loads of money on a lifetime Union membership; yet to pick up Union card a month later), and that I’m generally just awful at adulting.

It’s like having a new job. I’m excited and eager to work, but at the same time I just want to stay in my PJs all day watching Netflix, because there is just a tiny little something about unemployment that seems appealing when you know you have a mammoth two-hour Sociology lecture to attend. I wonder if Theresa May feels the same way?

Both myself and Theresa have had to adjust to a new kind of life over the past couple of months. We’ve both had to face our demons, laugh at the jokes of posh boys from posh schools at said receptions and dinners and reassure ourselves that there is a place for us within this ‘Establishment’.

I suppose this is the time where both of us must prove ourselves – to discover the kind of student, or prime minister, we will become. Week Five was my judgement day (well, week). After Theresa’s first 100 or so days in Number 10, following her miraculous and opportunistic ascent to the zenith of British politics, it is also perhaps pertinent to reflect upon her PM Fresher experience. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what she has achieved. Sure, she has reminded Britain that it is possible for a female to rise to the top of the greasy pole, but I’d argue that she hasn’t done anything inspirational, per se. Has she been procrastinating too? Having said that, her catch-phrase, ‘Brexit means Brexit’, is perhaps catching on despite its naff-osity – which I feel is actually quite the achievement.

But with such an ineffective opposition leader, it could be said that, so far, Theresa has not had to prove anything. I feel that we Freshers of Cambridge, in our 40 or so days here, have arguably been tested and scrutinised far, far more than she has. From our fellow students, to Directors of Study and supervisors, we are under constant pressure to prove ourselves, to impress, to connect, to think and remember and to ‘be ourselves’.

White female voters have turned their back on women of colour

So as Week Five becomes a distant memory and you attempt to recover from the pressures of Cambridge life, you must remember that Cambridge wants you. Average you. Glorious, disorganised, passionate you.

Because you do have something to contribute to this little place. It’s so easy to feel that you don’t belong, that you’re not good enough, that everyone else around you is dancing effortlessly through life while you’re sat on your floor eating Reese’s and feeling frumpy. But eat the goddamn Reese’s; split your skirt on the way to a nightclub; tip two litres of milk over your bedroom floor. Just embrace it, because if He Who Shall Not Be Named can win the US presidency, you can for sure write this essay, arrange this play or solve this maths problem.

Just storm through the rest of term with the knowledge that you, unlike Theresa, were chosen to be here.

You – 1; Theresa– nil