Executive Dysfiction

| September 18, 2017 | 0 Comments

The essay—okay. The essay should technically be done tonight. Technically. But it’s really due tomorrow at 11:15 a.m.

This is a train of thought that should be stopped at the station. I know this. Nope, I should say, we’re not moving in that direction. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

But, see. The essay is really due at 11:15 a.m.

I work awesome under pressure. Like, the best. And I’ve even got a real life plan this time! I’ll do some research tonight and write a bomb-ass outline. Then, I’ll wake up early tomorrow and bang out 8 pages easy.

This is airtight.

“Do you think this is a dumb idea?” I ask my roommate, because she is a slightly more rational human being than I am.

She looks up from her episode of 30 Rock, blinks at me, and says, “You’re going to wake up at 5 a.m.?”

This is a critical part of the plan, yes. “Yeah.”

She squints at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m not a child masquerading as a college student. When her results come up as inconclusive, she sighs and says, “Make sure that outline is over a thousand words long.”

And I do write the thousand word outline, because bullet points are infinitely less intimidating than actual sentences, and Dysfunctional Me is infinitely happier when she can pretend she’s not doing actual work. I toggle between pages about the impact of women in NASA during the Space Race (a fascinating and infuriating subject, especially when you start digging into the Mercury 13, but I digress) and YouTube videos of Texas State University’s Legally Blonde (they have weirdly professional camera quality for a college, but I digress again). When I finally sleep, it’s 2 a.m.

This is excellent, my brain says. We’ve got this on lock.

Logical Me tells my roommate that if I’m not awake by the time she gets up for her 8 a.m. to please either pour cold water on my head or push me out of the window or anything else she can think of that would wake me up. Luckily, we do not have to fall back on this plan. I wake up at 5 a.m. with my alarm feeling like death, and somehow manage to drag myself out of bed. Clothes get put on. A laptop is grabbed. And then I am downstairs.

The thing about Dysfunctional Me is that she was not lying when she said that we work best under pressure. But that’s only because when the pressure finally gets to be too much, she vacates the premises and lets common sense take over. She’ll pop in at times to give her usual useless suggestions (“Hey, why don’t you go check if there’s The Martian Fanfiction? You like that movie! And it’s about space so I mean you’re technically still on task-”), but for the most part she vanishes, uncomfortable with the idea of having to help solve the problems she was ignoring.

The essay gets done at 11 a.m.

“I am never doing this again,” I vow for the sixth time this semester (I have, as of my writing this, had to write six essays this semester) as I go to print it out. It’s only as I’m about to do it that I realize that the title of my paper is still “Insert Cool Title Here” and that none of my sources are cited. Which. Yeah.

featured photo credit: Piyushgiri Revagar IMG_6773 via photopin (license)

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Category: featured, Poetry, Prose and Comedy, Reflections

Isabella Amorim

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Isabella "Izzy" Amorim's hobbies include writing for Culture Shock, spending inordinate amounts of time in BU dining halls, and purchasing children's tickets at movie theaters with her baby face. Play the system, kids.

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