Here’s a recipe for a perfectly adequate disaster of an essay:
1. A really awkward introduction with no legitimate thesis.
2. A body paragraph that uses lots of fancy words but actually presents no worthwhile information.
3. Same as the one before, but with less fancy words and more semi-colons (in an effort to compensate for the lack of fancy words).
4. A body paragraph that might as well start off with the sentence “Allow me to baffle you with the following bullshit…”
5. A body paragraph that simply says, “This is body paragraph number four. Now would be a really good time to write words.”
6. A conclusion that accomplishes nothing.
I don’t know about you guys, but I smell an A+.
Me: What’s up?
Kathryn: Procrastinating. You?
Kathryn: How bad?
Me: Math. AP Euro. Anatomy. It’s not looking good.
Kathryn: I’ll say.
Kathryn: I’ve got this huge debate in sociology. Tomorrow.
Me: How much do you have done?
Kathryn: Nothing. Like, nothing nothing.
Me: Yikes. How long have you had to work on it?
Kathryn: Three months.
Me: That is a level of procrastination I can only aspire to.
At a bookstore. Trying to write my essay on King Lear and failing fantastically.
Merry Christmas, everyone! Boxing Day is upon us and I’m in bed, eating chocolate and playing Pokemon Crystal. (The next time I see a Golbat, I’m going to punch a baby. God forbid this happens in a nursery.) I have presents (new boots, a nice coat, a couple of books) lying in a tragically unorganized heap on the floor. I could put it all away and prove that I’m not hopelessly lazy. I could do that, but I don’t really wanna move. Besides, I’m being stalked by Suicune. This is serious business.
Today was just fraught with productivity. I cleaned my room, and I cleaned the bathroom, an event so rare it should go down in history. I did all my homework. I loaded the dishwasher. I finished Oedipus Rex. I made chicken for lunch. I finished outlining my novel for NaNoWriMo.
No, I didn’t. Lies. All lies. That entire spiel was what I pictured myself doing today. In actuality, I sat on my butt, ate Apple Jacks out of a thermos with a soup ladle, kicked around some wayward clothing items in my room to make it look like I made an effort to clean it, then watched three straight hours of Jerseylicious. I felt my IQ plummet. But, hey, did you know Olivia’s dating Tracy’s ex? Now you do!
Why “the twixter”? From Dictionary.com:
Main Entry: twixter
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: a person stuck between childhood and the adult world, often living with parents
Example: Ah, the life of a twixter!
That, and when you say it out loud it sounds like Elmer Fudd saying “trickster.” So. Yes. Now we can move past the complexities of my username choice. (Dig deep, people. Dig deep.)
I was sitting here, wishing I had some alternative means of procrastination (I’d already beaten my high score on Minesweeper, organized my sock drawer, stared into the depths of my open fridge for a solid two minutes, and wandered aimlessly around the house — yeah, I can procrastinate like a champion) when it hit me. A blog. A wonderful project that was sure to devour hours of my time. Okay, maybe not hours. I’ve been at this for all of twelve minutes. Still, it’s better than Lang. Having reeds jammed underneath your fingernails is better than Lang, but you know what I mean.
The problem here is that everyone’s Facebook statuses have changed to some variation of “well, better start that Lang homework.” Seriously. I just counted six people. I have this sudden mental image of everyone sitting in a circle at some kind of rave/study party, getting their Lang work done in style, eating pizza and balancing fizzy drinks on their textbooks, snickering and saying, “Let’s all change our statuses and make everyone else feel totally inadequate! Thank God we didn’t invite Elodie. She’s probably procrastinating like a beast, thinking those annotations are just going to write themselves.” And here I am, alternately blogging and playing Super Smash Bros, and I’m like, “Up B… up B… up B… LAND MINE!… crap!” So, um, yeah. Maybe I should get started.