Monday, March 29, 2010


The paper looms. I've written barely two hundred words. It is due tomorrow. I get off work at 8:00 p.m. Let me clarify though, I work in a fitness center which basically puts me sitting in front of a computer, with little else to do. I've been here for five hours now. I've written two hundred damn words. I have no excuse. I take it back; I have excuses, but they aren't legitimate ones.

There is nothing challenging about this class. Which is the very reason that I should be making A+'s on every fucking test and assignment, instead I find myself zoning off during class. It is a senior/graduate level class, but it is at what I'd call a sophomore level. We skim the surface of the works; the professor simply explains what is on the surface of the poetry. We do not delve and questions which do so are not properly answered. Yet, instead of rising above, I find myself sinking.

I do research on other very unrelated topics. I find amusing blogs to scroll through. I make phone calls. I proof-read papers for other people. I write letters. I click a pen.

This is true procrastination.

Who in their right mind takes a class about 16th century literature? More to point, what religion-hating moron takes a class about that subject? It's all about religion. Are the protestants right? Are the Catholics right? Maybe they should all kill each other to figure it out. In their spare time they can sit around and write sonnets about not having sex and courtly rules. Let the fun times begin. After we read this riveting material, we come to class to hear the professor lecture to us about how much more intelligent people used to be, how amazing this shit is, even though most of it sounds exactly the same. She even reads the text verbatim at times.

I can now name the seven deadly sins. Try not to be too jealous.

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