Three thousand words on the religious aspect of the French-Huron relationship. Can anyone write that much in a single night? I thought I could. I’d written essays in one night before. I thought I could do it again.
I made a mistake. I should have started earlier but I didn’t. The night comes and with it the slow realization that I will not be able to finish. It kills any desire to keep writing before I even reach the thousand word mark.
So I throw the time away. I browse the same websites, over and over. Masturbate in bed. Twice, three times. And stare at the alarm clock. Roommates are playing Counter-Strike on computer, and the sound of machine guns and explosions carries into my room like there was a guerrilla war right in our suite. So I go out for a walk into the tunnels. I come back and take a long hot shower. I watch the news. I masturbate. I stare at the alarm clock. How much time do I waste just lying there, waiting for semen to congeal? The alarm clock says nine minutes. I get up. I eat cheddar and crackers, washed down with a root beer and followed by a few mint chocolates. I brush my teeth. I come back, sit, open up the essay document and stare at the text, trying to remember where I left off.
And I still can’t write. Brain rusted up, I suppose. I can’t summon that high-ho tone, flapping starched coattails, that I need for this kind of essay. There is no desire and no motivation to get it done. The love of writing has shriveled into a self-loathing bundle of dislikes. Because there is no real hate. Just a sour stomach and a hollow head, wondering where the skill has gone, wondering why it was ever needed. The inability to write a structurally sound analytical history essay will be the end of good writing. Or maybe just the end of the lazy, the dumb and the weak.
But if this is what you want, then this is what you’ll get. Eventually. You will get long. You will get pompous. You will get convoluted. You will get a synthesis of jargon. You will get an analysis that should take two pages, scraped out into five. You will get a can of worms uncorked and boiling over ten pages, double-spaced. I’m sorry. I can’t write it all in one night. I’ll write it in bursts. I can’t start writing the night before, I realize that now. I’ll take a day or two, and make it good. But how can I make it good when I know I’m late?
This is the life of a procrastinator. Good night.
I'm a bit of a procrastinator myself. Am I ever this bad? Um...