Wednesday, December 14, 2011

An Oxymoronic Statement

Oh, December, how long has it been since you’ve last flown by?

I think it’s funny, in an ironic and not so humorous sort of way, how fast December comes and goes. As cliché as it sounds, it seems  like only yesterday December 1st was staring each and every one of us in the face telling us there were only thirty more glorious days until December and 2011 were over.

I suppose the real reason behind December’s hit and run is the dreaded Finals Week. A person would think that after seven semesters of going through this process, I would be used to it. I would remember that Dead Week is named properly and my finals will slide by because I’m taming the exhaustion monster in between each test.

I say this because my roommates just told me to go back to bed for the second time today.

As much as I would like to just crawl back under my warm covers and not come out again until Christmas, I can’t. My mind just won’t let me.

ADD? Perhaps, ADHD?

No, not a chance. I just need focus. I need to be doing something.

Because of this my college dorm room, or rather my apartment bedroom, which by all accounts should be a pit during finals week, is spotless except for the shoes scattered across the floor from when I came back from lunch. My parents would be shocked to see that my bed is made and my clothes are actually put away instead of sitting folded in a basket.

Shocking, right?

I know my mind is semi-blown. When I go home in a couple of days things are going to be even worse because as time has progressed, I may have gotten worse. My work has become more meticulous.

However, in response to all of this, I am still a procrastinator.

Iconicity scale? The awkward little red needle is sitting on about an 8.5, pushing 9.

A procrastinator who has the unexplainable need to focus—that has to be one of the biggest oxymoronic statements out there. But, for clarification’s sake, I need to state that I’m only a procrastinator when it comes to writing a paper and usually it isn’t my fault. Well, it is but it isn’t. I write better under pressure. It reminds me of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon. Several in fact, but the one I’m thinking of explains my mind explicitly.

Of course there are always the moments during that last-minute panic where my muse is gone anyway. All I have to say is that the next time it goes, I hope it take me with it. Hopefully somewhere nice. England. France. Italy. The list of possibilities is endless. 


  1. at least you actually fold your laundry in the basket. half the time i don't even get that far.