Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Here’s a sobering post for you, gentle reader. Secondhand Rants should, as a service to collegiate and post-collegiate demographics, start a Trauma Center for readers who’ve fallen out of the White Ivory Tower. No, I’m not talking about trauma due to a lack of school, but trauma because of school.

I woke up today having dreamt one of the most graphic dreams I’ve dreamt in a while. You’ll be able to empathize with me, this much I’m certain of, because you’ve doubtless had the same dream–perhaps even multiple iterations of the same dream–in the past.

2 PM, a rainy afternoon, and I’m standing in the departmental office. I suddenly remember that although my paper on Siberian monks is due at 5 PM, the damn thing is nonexistent. Cripes above! What to do, what to do? I decide to play the ol’ absence game (and damn it if I can cook up an original excuse via e-mail), thereby purchasing me another day or so to craft the paper, but lo and behold, there’s my professor in the office! And what is she doing? Why, she’s collecting papers from the stinkers who actually work in a timely fashion!

She waves to me, sees that I’m obviously hale and hearty, but I’m already gone. I curse the Fates silently while I book it to the library, concocting a trenchant thesis along the way (before reading any source material, natch) and calculating how long research will take. And Lexis-Nexis and EXAC, so help me–even these two search engines made an appearance in my nightmare.

Oh, the humanity! Having recounted all of this to you, I can only say that if I were a smoker, I’d be reaching for my noose right now.