A week of thesis

As I helplessly plug away at the Big Freaking Paper, I’m reminded of a saying Kyle and I used to throw around back in high school:

“Procrastination is like masturbation. In the end, you’re only fucking yourself.”

The phrase is true enough, although I can honestly say that the former is far less pleasant than the latter.

I haven’t exactly been procrastinating – I’ve been consumed by a bunch of other unavoidable obligations that have taken up all my time – but the paper is still down to the last minute.

So I’m about eight hours deep into this damn thesis today, and, instead of enjoying my spring break and catching up on some needed rest/reading/writing, I’ll be repeating the process for the next five days in hopes that I’ll be basically finished when I return to school.

The hardest part is that I honestly don’t care about the paper or have any interest in the outcome. As I’ve mentioned several times I don’t want to do it. A bit of advice – don’t EVER agree to completing a 40-60 page paper unless you’re absolutely fascinated in the content.

So every minute is a struggle to not think about how much I hate even working on the paper, let alone the roughly 900,000 activities I’d rather be delving into.

What’s worse, sometimes I let my mind wonder to the probability of completing the paper AND the other honors course I need to finish to graduate with honors, which is promptly followed by 15 seconds of hyperventilating, 5 minutes of uncontrollable shaking, and another 5 minutes of girlish weeping.

Anyway, I pretty much look for any excuse to take a short break. Today that was provided mostly in the way of VH1 and MTV programming.

First it was 30 minutes to watch Rock of Love II, a documentary-like foray into Bret Michaels’ epic search for love.

For those who don’t watch, the show shoves about 20 rocker-type chicks into a single house, and the women try to win the former Poison singer’s heart by partying their asses of, acting trashy, and slutting up as much as possible (In other words, they might as well change the name of the show to “Who can doink the rock star first?”).

I’d imagine the show is like an extended version of the backstage scene at a Poison concert circa 1988. I’m not sure how they find these uber-groupies, although I like to theorize that the show started when a tornado hit a trailer park, leaving a gaggle of moderately-attractive females in need of home.

Michaels, ever a kind-hearted gent, then took them all in and sexed them up one, and sometimes two or three, at a time as much as the women would allow.

The show is basically the world’s most intense study of white trash culture, and I love every damn minute of it.

Amazingly, Michaels hasn't found the real deal yet. Go figure.

A few hours after Rock of Love II, I took about five minutes to watch America’s Best Dance Crew.

Let’s get one thing straight – I loathe just about everything about the show. I’m disgusted by the premise, I hate the judges, and I don’t understand how host Mario Lopez went from A.C. Slater to the least manly personality on television.

Oh, and JC Chasez of N’SYNC fame is one of the judges, and I still throw up in my mouth a little every time I hear his voice.

But damn do I love me some Jabbawockeez.



So here’s to a day of hard work, and many to follow (probably in futility).