Perverted by Language

Procrastination: a user's guide

In preparation for this, my final opinion column, I've taken any number of prefatory measures. I am, after all, a professional. More precisely: two cups of coffee, one medium house no milk no sugar from the York Street Willoughby's ($1.33, paid with exact change—there have been other cups, similarly intended), along with some of the blackest sludge the Morse dining hall has ever dredged out. Four newspapers, two magazines, assorted online journals and entertainments—from which I've retained little to nothing, but the letters felt good when they brushed up against my eyeballs.

Four albums listened to for research purposes, then tossed on the floor of my room, perfect for stepping on. Two meals, extended. Seven trips to the bathroom. One shower, doubly extended. Two teeth-brushings. One conversation with Joey Ax, MC '01, over a Herald article he's supposed to be writing. Zero substantive ideas. It's called procrastination, folks, and I recommend you get acquainted with it—it'll come in handy over the next few weeks.

It'll only get more challenging when finals approach, so be prepared. After all, the stakes are higher (though honestly, only slightly). My tactics will be stepped-up accordingly—strategically. First, there's the essential long-range planning, meaning managing to do nothing when there are no classes to keep me "busy." Perhaps a movie, a book, a little TV? Don't be pre-fucking-posterous. I plan to be panicked over everything I have to do—there always has to be an edge of panic, because what's the fun without the crushing guilt and self-loathing?—and thus, have no time to do anything even remotely fun. It sucks, but it's the truth: procrastination doesn't mean going out and getting drunk every night. It means doing things only incrementally more interesting than what you're supposed to be doing, just because you're not supposed to be doing them. But those increments add up, so stick with it.

The next stage in the mission is sleep deprivation. Last year, in the course of everything-avoidance, I managed to get down to two or three hours a night—and those were demon-plagued hours, as I tossed and turned with nightmares and a gnawing sense of dread—impending doom, even. Upside: the dreams were almost psychedelic, because they knew they had to fit into a quarter of the normal time. Better yet, sleep-deprivation means you'll get to watch your body disintegrate when you're awake. I've had my heart palpitate, body parts fall limp, my brain shut down in the middle of a paragraph, and violent, bruising attacks of sleep in the strangest places. Have you ever had a nap punch you in the face in the middle of seminar? It's worth trying once, certainly, if not semesterly.

Then, of course, step 2a: caffeine addiction, which only exacerbates the effects. Once you've run through the large black coffees and the double espressos, I recommend a trip to Krauszer's. The French vanilla there, while barely caffeinated, has enough melted plastic in it to make me feel like I'm going to die. My head starts buzzing, my face gets hot and red, I need to sit down before I collapse on the floor. How can you say you've truly procrastinated if you haven't stared Death in the face an hour from exam time?

I have two finals and a 15-page paper due a week from today. The night before, with luck, I'll be writing e-mails for two hours, listening to my suitemate talk about how much work he has to do, browsing Friday's newspapers at 5 a.m. I'll take a nap from six until eight—or rather, I'll toss and turn while my heart beats 200 times a minute.

And then, an hour of crunch-time cramming. No time to worry, no time to spazz, just steely concentration and an iron will. Then: Bam! You're there. Final lesson: the art of bullshit. Fill up precious, precious space with repetition and unnecessary, superfluous, extraneous, hypertrophied poly-verbiage. Then scram. You're done, so take a nap, eat a meal, pack your bags, get on a plane, and don't look back. But for now? A record effort in a record time—732 words, 59 minutes, 37 word counts, dot on deadline. It's probably the caffeine-demons speaking, but I think it's A-material.

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