So I've never been in quite this much trouble before, and for someone perpetually on the precipice of procrastination-prompted failure, this is really saying something.
And yeah. In case you're wondering, the essay I am currently (supposed to be) writing for my philosophy class is as long-winded and fulla-nothing as the first sentence of this blog post.
I'm suffering a devastatingly inconvenient case of Senioritis. Though if the NYTimes and my most recent piece of Duke mail are any indication, it could be Swine Flu (cue Dean's Excuse). I've deactivated my Facebook account four times. I've finished my second Jimmy John's and am awaiting reinforcements. I've read every single FML post and the refresh button hasn't yielded anything new for the last half hour. This brings me to the Chronicle. This is a cry for help.
Like most of the non-graduating population, and the fourth of the graduating class for whom GPA still matters (i.e. the unemployed and those yet to apply to law school), I am on a caffeine and phenylalanine trip -liquid, pill and gelatinous form (those tiny 5-hour energy drinks are adorable, but for the love of Godzilla, heed the instructions and discard any remainder after 72 hours).
I am writing because I want to vent about things that don't matter. There is no better kind of distraction. Here we go: you would expect seniors to have more patience for the sentimental absurdity that gets flung around this time of year. But instead we get unjustifiably frustrated about our anticlimactic end and respond to all of the gushiness people upload onto Facebook with 1) creepy-crawly feelings, 2) tears, 3) relief about imminent escape, 4) fervent desire to confess something Profound About Our Duke Careers.
Speaking of which: I have recently decided to renege on the terms of my senior column. For anyone who read the thing, I am committing this major breach of columnist ethics not (merely) because I am a coward, but because I realize that the crush to whom I am supposed to be 'fessing up my feelings is not really the object of my affections.
The crush is a stand-in. The crush is a cop-out. The crush-thing truly amounts to me wanting closure and instantiating it in the form of Some Guy. Some guy whose physique and carefully molded hair closely resemble the natural gifts of a certain Greek hero. Fans of Troy will know to whom I am referring.
Just kidding. About the Greek hero thing, I mean. All of this is my way of trying to entertain you and myself as I enter the dark 24-hour abyss that is my personal Hades. Here on the backpages of the Chron, I am at least Producing Something (read: junk), and if I squeeze my eyes and click my heels three times, I can almost mistake this for Being Productive. Feel free to leave derisive comments. If I get a readership here, I will know I am procrastinating in style, i.e. with a sympathetic audience of friends similarly in danger of Epic Finals Failure, and I may take that as a signal to post a follow-up.
Signing off,
Jane
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.