My procrastination tactics are getting considerably worse.
On Sunday morning, I re-arranged my room, browsed Victoria Secret for clothes that wouldn’t fit me, stalked craigslist for apartments I can’t afford, and bought music on iTunes that no one wants to hear in downward facing dog. I swept the kitchen and stopped mid sweep when I started to get angry. I had the sudden urge to chuck the broom across the room, so i left the heaping pile of dust next to the refridgerator, slipped on my running shoes, and ran in the pouring rain while screaming at the top of my lungs the words to Lily Allen’s “F*** You”. This was an unfortunate day to be procrastinating because the following day was my proofreading exam which, if you haven’t already caught on to, grammar and the correct usage of commas, em dashes, apostrophes, and hy-phens is (or is it ‘are’) not my forte.
Along with poetry. Dear sweet baby Jesus, I suck at poetry. All these 20 year olds in class are churning out poetic images that make my professor shut his eyes and say ‘mmmmmmm’ . When I read my poem, his head cocks to the side, one eye raises and I think his left leg even starts to twitch. I don’t blame him. But I don’t get what Joel (prodigal poetry guy from California) is referring to when he speaks of the cathartic process of poetry. I spent a whole therapy session last week restoring my self worth because of my failed poems. And even that was not cathartic.
“Oh but at least you have nonfiction” some might say.
No, no really I don’t. You know why? Because of people like Patricia Marx who write side splitting witty books that I was supposed to have written by the age of 25. Instead, I am killing cockroaches in my bathtub, confessing my infatuation with prick Artists who want nothing to do with me, and spending inordinate amounts of time drinking alkaline water while staring at the zits on my chin to see how quick they will shrink from this apparent miracle water.
Things are not going as planned.
Also, I received my midterm grade for The Form and Theory of Poetry. I hid under the desk when she tried to hand me the dreaded slip of paper that let me know despite the FIVE hours i spent scanning ONE poem, I pretty much still suck at life. My professor wears too much aqua, crosses her eyes when she teaches, and speaks in incomplete sentences. I think that she is having multiple conversations in her head at once and forgets to invite her students to the roundtable. I understand her frustration. I have so many inner children that I am on emotional welfare. But, this is not faring well for my grade. Also, she is very product oriented. She threatens us with her yellow highlighter. I sit there with the same look you would have when a five year old throws a temper tantrum. Seriously? I thought this was college. Ok…that was me ranting and with my blog history, i will probably get thrown out of The University for writing about this on my blog. I will also be told that I am narcissistic and should go buy a journal.
(She sighs, looks out the window at the red shed and looming gray skies, and resolves to devote the rest of the day to The Power of Positive Thinking).
“I have so many inner children that I am on emotional welfare.”
you with words,
brillance.