Graduation Scavenger Hunt

A couple days ago I (gasp) applied for graduation. According to the ticker at the top of this page, I am about 28 days early. ... Or 2 years late. Depending on the way you look at it.

The process of applying for graduation led me on an Alice in Wonderland round of adventures. I started at the registrar, line No. 7. Wrong line. I was rerouted to the bill collector upstairs, who is either the Queen of Hearts or a lady straight out of a Seinfeld episode : buffont hair, glitter claw nails, a real witch's wart on her check. And the whole time she processed my graduation fee, she was singing along to 70s easy listening in a Jersey accent ... or yelling "Off with their heads!".

Along with my receipt, Ms. New York gave me a "how was your time in college?" survey and a golf pencil. I checked "highly dissatisfied" on the "how long did it take you to graduate?" box. But I also felt guilty doing so, since the tardiness is my fault, not the university's.

Back downstairs to registrar, line No. 10. The college worker took my receipt, my survey and my golf pencil and gave me a different receipt, this one said "congratulations" on the top. Except that my name, which will appear on my (gasp) diploma, was misspelled, so I had to go back to the registrar, line No. 7 to fix it. Then to another building to pick up a 70-page thesis format manual. And finally, to the student gym to sign up for yoga. The yoga classes are not a required portion of the graduation process, but i figure that after all this stair climbing and form filling out-ing, i'll need to stretch a little.

Concluding Anxiety

All I have to do is write the conclusion. And yet I am trapped at a coffee shop staring at a blank page and feeling the bile rise in my stomach.

Ok, the page isn't exactly blank. I have an outline. But it doesn't do much good. The entries say things like "results," "implications," and "future directions." But, there is nothing under those headings. So now it's time to figure out what exactly are the implications of this 200-page document.

(Photo by Thomaseagle)

LIFE AFTER THESIS: working stiff?

For the first time in maybe a month, I set my alarm clock. I also got out of bed before 9 a.m. And I did all the things that I used to do in the morning when I lived my old life (shower, dress, put on deodorant, etc.). Even though I'm more or less productive as a thesis writer, there is something to be said about making oneself look presentable. It just feels more productive. Anyway, the point of this makeover was not a part of my newest psychological trick to be productive; it was for a job interview. Today, I peeked back into the "real world," if only for two hours.

There is something comforting about going to an office, like a freed prisoner returning to the safety of his old cell. And if I was looking to settle down, said job would be perfect (great salary, benefits, steady, etc..). But it is neither exciting nor soul-nourishing, and I probably will turn it down. After suffering through my thesis for so long, I need to do something amazing. I can't sacrifice myself to the gods of commerce yet. Or can I?

Parabolic Compass by Leonardo Da Vinci

Deadline Dilemma: Part II (the possible solution)

Maybe a complete and utter disregard for personal hygiene proves to my professor how much I care about my thesis. I am so absorbed in the abstractions of deep thoughts that I cannot be bothered to lower myself to the trivialities of mere mortal bodies. Will he buy that? Or should I just douse myself in perfume and call it a "French" day?

Deadline Dilemma: Part I (the question)

I'm meeting my adviser in 1.5 hours to discuss my exit plan and to turn in a portion of my thesis. I haven't taken a shower in several days and I still have to put some (MAJOR) finishing touches on this paper. So do I use the next hour and a half to bathe or finish the paper? In other words, which is more offensive to a professor: an unfinished paper or BO?

Escape-ism

At the end of the horrible day (as described in the previous blog), I called my parents. They took my depression more seriously than I did ("No, no, I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound. I'm getting better"*) and booked me a ticket home for that very night (using frequent flier miles). I threw the contents of my lit review and a couple T-shirts in my suitcase and raced to the airport. It was an exhilarating drive, and I had a calm, end-of-the-world feeling.

As the plane took off, I watched the city that has become my jail shrink into black night. I ignored the under-knowledge that it was a false escape and concentrated on the airplane magazine. Finding that inane, I turned to one of the library books I'm rereading in order to complete my thesis corrections. Even though I was taking my problems with me as literal carry-on baggage, it felt good to be going home. My real home, not my shared rental house in a college town.

Note: I'm on a roll with another example of Banksy's genius.
*This doesn't mean I'm suicidal. But it is a butchered movie quote. Can you tell which one?

The down- and upside of local coffeeshops

The downside of local coffeeshops
Two very skilled pianists are playing a frantic (though technically perfect) duet of “It’s a Small World After All.” The ill-advised Russian tea cake I just ate has given me a sugar rush and now nausea. And I’m trying to pound my way through my horrible, deplorable thesis in spite of sickness and those infuriating tinny refrains. ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

The upside of local coffeeshops:
The random witty guy sitting near me heard my sighs and asked how I was doing. I complained about the song, and he called the pianists a “cover band” and said they played the soundtrack to the Disney ride just for me. It made me laugh. I guess you just had to be there.

Bad Student Bad

Today I am too tired (hungover?) to dare write any big blog entries for fear that they would be unintelligent. I don't want to disappoint you guys. So what crazy nocturnal adventures put me in this condition? To find out you will need to check out my other blog:

buttout.blogspot.com

Sorry, I don't mean to be sarcastic. That was just the exhaustion talking. See, this is why I shouldn't be allowed near a computer until I recover. Which begs the question, if I'm too tired to write snarky comments about procrastination, then how in the world can I write my thesis? The answer: not well. I've glued my butt to this chair all day long. I have suffered. And I have made little progress.

(This painting by Banksy illustrates how I feel today.)

Thesis Progress: Is it a bad sign that I've been too embarrassed to tell a bunch of strangers my stagnated progress?

Yuck

You know that disgusting feeling you get at hour 12 of a cross-country road trip? It's the body's rebellion against confinement, lack of blood circulation and road snacks ... and the byproduct is a queasy, lethargic feeling where everything aches. That's how I feel now. Of course, I'm not in a car, but at my kitchen table studying. I can put up with pain, but the lethargy is hampering my productivity.

So how do I cure this? I don't feel like there is time to do a big yoga session; I should really just power through. But if I'm not going to be productive anyway, then no sense in forcing myself to suffer.

Signs My Thesis Has Taken Too Long #29,585,494

I like to study in a little outdoor area on the side of my house. I'm there so often that birds and small woodland creatures (i.e., neighbors' cats) are no longer afraid of me. In fact I can't get them to go away. I'm like the graduate student version of St. Francis of Assisi, except that I offer no message of hope.

Thesis Progress: Working on the corrections I do have; hope to pull a miracle (since I'm apparently a saint) and finish them all by tonight. But it's doubtful, and my procrastination isn't helping.

I HATE DIABLO CODY

No, I am not justified in hating her. It is purely spite and jealousy. But as I sit here, forcing myself to do something I don't want to do (my thesis), so that I can get a degree in something that the Editorial Director of Playboy told me to my face will NOT forward my career, I can't help but think that there is a new law for aspiring intellectuals:

master's degree = bad career choice
stripper = good career choice

Oh why oh why did I pick the wrong one? Why did my dad push me towards higher education, when I could have sold my body to achieve my dreams?

Ms. Stripper Pen Name is doing what she loves, while my career lies fallow. And her success story really pisses me off -- it tells the world once again that in order for women to be recognized, they have to use their sexuality. Yes, Cody is smart, talented and hardworking in her own right. And Juno was a great movie. But does that not make her situation all the worse? If smart, talented, hardworking and funny women cannot have writing careers without showing skin, then what is left for the rest of us?

I found this photo on her myspace. Just look at her with that retro tattoo, milky cleavage and smug expression. What a bitch.

IN THE NEWS: Why none of us can get a job

Strangely enough, this article is the bridge between my former life (a cross between TV shows "The Office" and "Entourage") and my current one (too boring for television)...

And do you think it's depressing that this kind of entertainment is privileged in our society at the expense of good writing? I do.


television

A Unified Theory of The Hills

Pretending to be yourself isn't easy.

By Troy Patterson
Posted Tuesday, March 25, 2008, at 2:54 PM ET

---

The Hills (MTV) is about the lives—the square-one jobs, the rock-stupid romances, the pricey-looking highlights—of some young women living in greater Los Angeles. These are, principally, Lauren, Heidi, Whitney, and Audrina—though Audrina, being a brunette, might not really count. The Hills, one supposes, is the lives of these women in the most complete way that a television show could be. These are real people pretending to be themselves and making a virtue of banality. ... Read more>>

lost things or lost cause

Thanks to a kind fellow blogger, I discovered that Antony is the Saint of Lost Things. Unfortunately, when I finally reached his offices, his secretary referred me to St. Jude. As I walked down the block to Jude's office (all the saints' offices are lined up, kinda like embassy row), I assumed that St. Jude must be in charge of "success in education" or "extraordinary intellect and achievement" or at least "graduation gown fittings." But before I arrived, I saw the sign:

WELCOME to the offices of

St. Jude: The Patron Saint of Lost Causes
& Desperate SituationsPlease take a number.

I just walked away, dejected. No reason to bother a leader of a religion I don't even belong to. Back to studying I guess. ...

But wait ... a SIGN! In the middle of writing this very blog, my roommate's girlfriend found and delivered two of my long lost backpacks*! Maybe somebody is telling me to keep the faith.

*If you really must know, a year ago I lent the backpacks to her friends for a camping trip and the friends subsequently disappeared...