Salutations, Republic! I was going to talk about the innovative method of contacting intelligent extra-terrestrial life by launching buckets of fried chicken into deep space, but frankly I’m not in the mood for serious scientific discussions.
This mood thing has been something of an issue, naturally for the end-of-semester season.
One of the questions you hear a lot from family members and non-university friends is “How was your week?” The usual reply is something to the effect of “fine”. What that means is that either you have no memory of the last seven days, or that you’d rather be talking to someone else. But this week, “fine” just won’t do…
Because this week has been the most depressing arrangement of misery I have experienced in my academic career. I’m not simply stressed, no… I can no longer afford such frivolous pleasures. I am done. The mere recollection of the last seven days gives me heartburn. This week has been so perfectly dreadful, that not even suicide seems like a sufficient solution. If tomorrow the press tells the world that there is an asteroid the size of Pluto inexorably headed for this cursed hapless ball of cosmic garbage, it would not only be a solemn testament to the existence of God, but also to that He is, in fact, of the merciful variety. For this would not be judgement, but an act of love; not murder, but euthanasia. We are not a victim but a patient, with an illness beyond cure and suffering beyond mitigation. And heaven on earth will reign only when the dead ground is silently precipitated with the ashes of the freshly incinerated living…
<takes a deep breath> So erm… yeah… that mood.
But this abysmal emotional state has come about almost exclusively by virtue of my own choices. I’ve left everything till the last possible moment, and signed up for my presentations in a way that they all converge on the same week. And that’s because when it comes to college work I’m motivated only by the most powerful force in the universe – panic. I’m not one of the people who can sit over a book for 3-4 consecutive hours and actually study, three days before the test. I can’t do it. Well, I mean, I can, but I’ll have twelve nervous breakdowns along the way.
Unless I feel the impending apocalypse breathing down my neck, I will hopelessly procrastinate. And if I attempt a task in advance, I just end up wasting time daydreaming about doing all of the things I could be doing instead. Like for instance, examining the imperfections on the wall, or taking a five hour bath – far more exciting and important than 10-20% of my semester grade.
Unfortunately, these 3-4 hour study sessions are unavoidable, since that’s what’s needed to do well on the tests. And no amount of dividing it up into sections will change the fact that for the duration of the experience my face hole will be gushing expletives at everything I don’t immediately understand.
So those of you who feel the same way – congratulations on the ability to feel anything at this stage. That is an achievement in itself. And for those who are on the outside of the experience – you know how my week has been by my bloodshot eyes with bags under them, so don’t ask out of politeness. You know what would be more polite? Pizza. Speaking of which, donations in the form of coffee, green tea, dark chocolate ̶c̶o̶c̶a̶i̶n̶e̶ and, of course, pizza are appreciated like never before.
Stay strong, Republic, this too shall pass and so will you!