Normally, I procrastinate. By procrastinate, I mean that I get my work done eventually, and always before the deadline. Lately, my concept of procrastination has transcended this definition and I procrastinate to whole new levels.
Case in point: I had a Shakespeare paper due today that I have known about for a couple of weeks.
It was to be a short assignment-- 8-10 pages, in rough draft form, on a topic of my choosing.
I chose to write on the significance of clothing and clothing imagery in king lear.
fucking. simple.
right?
wrong.
I put off the work, and put off the work. I convinced myself that I had a thesis. I assumed that there was 8-10 pages worth of semi-coherent rambling on the subject stored somewhere in the depths of my thick skull. Well, maybe there was. Or should I say maybe there is, because I haven't written the paper yet.
As of 5:00 p.m. today, when the paper was due, I had my NAME written on a Microsoft Word document saved as "Clothing--Lear". The cursor blinked intermittently all afternoon, taunting me, daring me to hit a cohesive series of keystrokes and complete a functional sentence.
Let me rewind.
At 1030 p.m. yesterday evening I had a shot of espresso after having consumed various other forms and amounts of caffeine all day. I decided to start my paper after ignoring it all weekend. By midnight I had begun and erased several paragraphs. I had gone for a walk to clear my mind. I had sat in the living room with the rest of my housemates, talking about how none of us were actually doing work. All of this is completely normal. By the time 1:00 a.m. hit, though, and I had nothing to show for my entire weekend-- which was supposed to be spent writing this paper-- I broke down. I called aaron in tears and asked him to save me. I asked Ali to stab me so that I could go to the hospital and get out of work for a few days. I considered throwing myself down a flight of stairs or inducing some minor but moderately serious injury. I considered committing a crime and the delightful prospect of incarceration: free food, reading for pleasure, no student debt... I waxed melancholy on the fact that I am paying 52,000 dollars a year to be miserable...
Alas, I was not able to enact any of these logical (at the time) proposals. After a couple of hours of sobbing, a bout of stress eating where Ali and I stuffed our faces with junkfood, and a little bit more crying, I fell asleep with nothing more than my name on the page at approximately 3:00 a.m.
I planned, at that point, to write what I could between 2:30 and 5:00 p.m. today. In fact I VOWED to do my work, I promised myself that after a few more weeks of this HELL I could be out of here. I promised myself a month of alternately substitute teaching at EHS, sleeping on my family's couch, and watching Lifetime movies. Last night I even had a dream that Bill Oram (the shakespeare professor) was going to have me executed by firing squad for not turning in my paper. Heading up the execution exercise was Kevin Rozario (why? well never know) dressed in a motley mixture of various military uniforms. Amongst the ranks of people with guns aimed at me (all of this took place on the side of Neilson library) were Michael Thurston, Doug Patey, Michael Gorra, Nora Crow, and Tony Bennett (?). Clearly this dream was a sign from either God, my ancestors, or...Tony Bennett...that I need to do my work.
None of these promises worked. The dream did nothing to shake me awake. I remained steadfast in my procrastination. I held fast to my apathetic grandeur, becoming a beacon for all of those who want to become less responsible...
At 8:00 p.m. tonight, I still had nothing more than my name on the paper.
Hours later I have only a few pages done, and that's all he's getting.
Lesson here, kids? Don't go to Smith. In fact, don't go to college. Become a plumber. Or an HVAC specialist. Shakespeare is small beans and is best avoided.
