Excitement and apathy

Crikey, it’s been a while since I last wrote, a whole month in fact. Apologies to those who faithfully follow my blog (haha), I’m sure you’ve been eagerly pining for my return.

Well, this is only a quick one, I’m afraid. I won’t do you the injustice of not explaining my absence though. My reasons are fairly pathetic, ironic, or valid, depending on who you are. Basically it is that time of the term again where essays need to be written. Those arseholes of essays. The use of the not-so-harsh-as-one-that-might-have-been word ‘arseholes’ there might have been because I was seeking a word better tuned to my new found love-hate relationship with the relentlessly merciless intellectual enlightenment form. Yes, I did just imply I don’t actually have too great a problem with essay writing. Why? It isn’t just because the only thrills in my life at the moment are looking forward to the time when the central heating comes on, or when I discover a half-drunk stale Fosters buried in the fridge. Although I am currently writing two four-thousand word essays at a time, which might initially sound like an extraordinary act of insanity, I promise I haven’t resorted to jumping from a fifth storey window or drunkenly crashing my car into a lake yet. This is because I have worked out an ingenious and highly efficient system to in fact minimise the impact essay writing has on my life. Because after all, I’m so busy all the time, being a student and all.

I am going to bore you with the details, since I am ironically procrastinating writing essays today. Ha. According to my somewhat limited mathematical skills, I have calculated that if I start writing a month before the deadline I only need to write 133 words per essay per day. This means I can ramble and bullsh*t for all of about half an hour (it does take that long to write that many words thanks to having to sift through piles of text to try and find some random quote from some radical intellectual which instantly makes personal arguments completely valid, no matter how much other bullsh*t they contain) and then continue on with my life. As it happens, I normally average more than this per day, meaning I have nearly finished both essays, some twenty days before the deadline. Yesss.

Despite this, this time around I have picked questions which I actually find more stimulating than watching anti-climb paint dry. For one module, I am writing about people who write about writing itself, which, after five minutes or so, makes my head explode. For the other, I am writing about the butch-ness of Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) in the Alien films. At least with regards to her nearly being semi-naked and waltzing around shooting phallic sadistic aliens with massive guns in the first two films, nearly makes something else explode. Say no more.

I can see this is quickly becoming a not-quick post, but I’m not going to go back and edit it or delete bits, because, quite frankly, you should be interested in every aspect of my massively exciting life. With regards to the short story, I will admit it has rather taken a place on the back burner, writing 266 academic words of an essay a day takes a phenomenal toll on one. It will, inevitably be released, and it will, inevitably, no matter how much time I end up spending on it, be utter rubbish.

Anyways, there’s not much more to say… of course, having about -£500 in the bank, I don’t have much else going on, although last Friday night, of which I mostly cannot remember, must have been a particularly exciting night, because on Saturday  I awoke in an incredibly awkward contorted position and aching in places I never even knew could ache.

Perhaps I should go back to watching anti-climb paint dry after all.

When something next happens in my hectic and chaotic life, you’ll be the first to know.

Peace.

Return of the procrastination: the inspiration strikes back… or does it?

I don't care(Yes, I did just use a crummy film reference, but I’ll get to that…)

Well, it seems that in the epic battle between procrastination and motivation, procrastination is Muhammad Ali and motivation is Frankie Cocozza (if you watch reality T.V. you can see why I’ve used him, I’m sure, if not, think of a teenage rock/punk star wannabe with stringy legs in skinny jeans and begrimed untamed hair and who probably has multiple STDs). In other words, motivation is more than very much dead. Yes, if you had cared enough to see my latest post, you would have learnt, from my new ‘Hot Press’ section (designed to inform the faithful readership of new and exciting developments, plans and ambitions in both my blog and my life that everyone should know and care about), that I intend to upload my first ‘official’ piece of literary work – if you will – at some point in the not-so-far off future.

English: Bust portrait of Muhammad Ali, World ...

Win.

To get to the point, right now I couldn’t care for much, it’s too bloody cold in this stupid mouldy student house so that not only can I see my own breath inside on a regular basis, but I have about twelve layers on, over my thermals. And the snow isn’t deep enough to actually cause any kind of disruption to the humdrum routine, and that irritates me at the moment. My bank account seems to continue p*ssing itself down the drain even though I literally do nothing to utilise my already measly financial resources. For some reason, which I cannot for the life of me explain because I have done nothing out of my ordinary lay-about activities, my body aches from my twatting left little toe to the outside corner of my right eye. All this has only exacerbated my procrastination. Hence, and to finally arrive at the main subject of my post, I have taken a little longer to write my ‘short story’ than I had intended. Still, it is making progress, and I have surprised myself in learning I have written the equivalent length of an entire essay in my short story in less than two days, which is about fifty-eight days less than it takes me to write an essay. That must say something.

Already hacked off with most of the values and outlooks that many in their ivory towers seem to take on the world (interpreting anything from anything  – such as the theory that the author of a book is entirely irrelevant in any context – and insisting their own theories are relevant to everyone’s daily lives and those who don’t agree should be condemned to the far corners of the world of Academia), I feel I would like to express myself fully – when I’m not ranting to my Mum or mates, particularly one or two long-suffering house mates – via the medium of writing… By that I mean non-academic writing. Writing which isn’t writing about other writers’ theories about other writers who write about the many anxieties in their life story. Yes, that sums up my degree. Sometimes I would rather grate my face with an industrial lemon zester.

Also, if you were indeed wondering, I have no idea why I picked that title for this blog post, because looking at it now it seems almost total sewerage. Other than a semi-pop-culture/inter-medial reference to a world famous space opera franchise which helps to objectify the two ends of the spectrum which determines a person’s ability to induce or produce something, as well as having a very vague level of appeal to a wide audience, it serves no other relevance to the post. But, thanks to my non-existent care, I don’t care.

Frankie Cocozza

Fail.

I will leave you with a more detailed update of the writing situation. I imagine I should have it finished in the same length of time it took for the events in a far far away galaxy to be told by a Mr. Lucas, or there abouts.

In all seriousness, watch this space, when my motivation finally does return – which I guarantee it will – it will only be a matter of time before you read the greatest piece of writing on this blog in all of history.

________________________________________

For your amusement whilst continuing to be doing things you shouldn’t be doing but are doing to avoid doing things you should be doing: http://www.wimp.com/procrastinatemuch/  (My life summarised in under two minutes).

Back to reality

Greetings.

A happy New Year to you all.

Just a quick one today, as I can’t really bring myself to write an essay at the moment. Hope you’ve all had a fat, lazy and indulgent Christmas and can remember at least some of New Year’s Eve! I didn’t write at all over Christmas because for the first time in a long time I have genuinely been busy so that I have felt tired in the evenings not because I have stayed up for 27 hours being idle, procrastinating and wilfing; and procrastinating over wilfing, but because from the actual crack of dawn I have been up and actually doing stuff. How things change! Since the first week of me being home I’ve been working. Working in a warehouse. Working my arse off more than ever it seems – I am going to be utterly zombified when I return to Uni! Ah well, it’s all part of the many fibres in the rich tapestry of life.

It seems only right to talk briefly about both the cultural memes that everyone talks about this time of year, and also those specific to this year, in fact. New Years resolutions? None. There, that’s the first one over with. One of my things in life nowadays is try to have few regrets, we learn something from everything we do, and unless we’re stupid, the lessons we learnt will mean we won’t do that thing again. Or we will be technically ‘insane.’ Also, 2012 is supposedly, to those who are of either a more gullible or less rational nature, the last year in all of time. So why not live it like our last? But shouldn’t we do that every year; since no one knows when they are going to die? I can tell you for one, if the world does end this year, it won’t be due to the designers of the Mayan calendar running out of parchment or sensibly thinking that their civilisation could not possibly survive for over a thousand years, nor them being restrained by the physical impossibility of writing to infinity, but it will be because of the breeding of stupid people.

Anyway, I’m off to make some lunch.

I’ll do it later

Garfield 'I don't do mornings' Morning all.

There, that says it all. That’s not intended to be a joke or sarcastic or even some light casual form of humour highlighting the improper usage of time specific greetings in any way. I genuinely thought it was morning when I wrote that, before suddenly realising ‘no, you’ve been asleep for what most other people call morning. Morning is from 12am till 11:59:59am, despite the fact a nuclear war couldn’t wake you, time and space doesn’t wait for you to wake up, because you are a lazy mofo.’ So here I am shocked that it’s already half past three and all I have done is eat some supermarket brand Shreddies, shower, made a cup of tea that would even put hairs on Chuck Norris’ chest, but which tastes like what I imagine stinging nettles to taste, half eaten a sausage roll, and crafted a pathetic excuse for a peanut butter sandwich using ancient bread that crumbles like my Mum’s pastry. That is genuinely all I have done.

On the odd occasion I miss being at work. Not only is this shocking and wrong, but it’s also ironic. When I am at work, the last thing I want is to be there. But I am occupied and doing something that might one day vaguely help mankind in some way, and I am getting paid for it. Still, I would quite like to not be there but somewhere where my relentlessly lazy existence doing whatever I want whenever might be noticed and result in some benefit. At Uni’, when I have exhausted literally every means of keeping oneself occupied (and I mean every means) , I am very occasionally drawn to wanting to be made to move my arse and go out and do something, and the first thing that comes off my head is to be at work. But this never happens. To be fair, I do write up lecture notes and do perhaps read a word or two of the reading I’m supposed to do, and ponder the difficulties of future essays, but overall a massive amount of the time is spent literally doing what some like to call ‘f*ck all.’

In a more polite – and accurate – sense, one might call it the practice of procrastination. For those of you not versed with the definitions of common studentisms, I will quote you the Oxford English Dictionary definition of procrastination, because I am an English student, and it makes me look like I do things properly, and the OED is boss:

procrastination

Pronunciation:/prə(ʊ)ˌkrastɪˈneɪʃ(ə)n/

noun
[mass noun]
the action of delaying or postponing something:
  your first tip is to avoid procrastination

Phrases
procrastination is the thief of time
proverb if you delay doing something, it will take longer to do later on:
 maybe TV and procrastination really are the thieves of time

And this, my friends, embodies the entirety of most students’ existences whilst at University. Like chlamydia, it’s an awkward disease that unknowingly infects a large majority of students. It’s a case of promising yourself that you will ‘write the introduction to that essay’ or ‘plan that assignment’ or ‘read some of that article I should have read last week’ or ‘go and make dinner because it’s 11:30 at night and you’ve been hungry for the last 7 hours.’ It suits every part of our lives to the letter… or is it just me? It gets really bad when one thinks ‘I should stop watching TV and go to bed in a minute.’ Mix procrastination with sleep, and, either way, you are destined to be chewed up and spat out by fail itself.

Indeed, I have deadlines looming on the distant but inevitable horizon and some 10,000 words to somehow spew out in a creative and professional manner before Christmas, and I am using my time procrastinating to write this blog, when I should really ‘write the introduction to that essay.’

I think I’ll stop now and procrastinate later…