honest to blog

Ferrari co-wrote Procrastination and Task Avoidance: Theory, Research, and Treatment and co-edited Counseling the Procrastinator in Academic Settings. The portrait that emerges from these books is pathological. Procrastination "merits extirpation," it is a "nasty, unattractive" part of human behavior, and its "illogicalness is its salient feature." Procrastinators are noted for their "impulsiveness," "lack of persistence," and "lack of self-control." Self-reflection "is generally not a strong point with procrastinators," and willpower "is a vital weak point" in their character. Sure, we sound like those FBI psychological portraits of serial killers or pederasts. Fortunately, our malady prevents us from carrying out any nefarious plans that we might have. – Emily Yoffe (www.slate.com)

I’m an acute, borderline-lethal procrastinator. There, I admit it.

In the course of life in general, I have been postponing tasks till the very last precise minutes. There are countless nights, or early mornings, where it spills tears and blood with recurrent fabric tearing and epic nervous breakdowns; all because some assignments haven’t been finished or pages haven’t been studied. They were ugly. Did I ever make a promise to take a detour and walk on the straight path of righteousness? More than I could remember. Any changes whatsoever? Maybe some of the papercut variety.

Writing a blog entry such as this is one of my favourite procrastination tools. Which I’d have to say has been a topic I planned to write on for several months. I just never got around to it. What? Suddenly everybody else is saints now? Even the bible mentions something about that willing-heart-weak-flesh thing. Yes, I do realise the ramifications of my pathological demon has been, is, and will always be terminal. It’s just that…gosh…thinking makes me hungry. Feels like Pringles. Be back in a sec.

*insert hotel lift music here*

So you think our kind of people is just ones hellbent on coming up with creative excuses every time an urgent task have been dropped gracefully on our laps? Well, pardon our savage ways, but alphabetising vanity products, watching repeated ads and counting paperclips have always had a way in making reports and essays seem pale in comparison. And besides, isn’t beating your own high score at minesweeper an excellent way to build up the self-esteem needed to start on those important tasks at hand?

There is an assignment due at the end of this week. My home internet connection has been all but alive for a few weeks already. So there’s no way I could update myself on the latest antics happening across the pond. Maybe I should do some laundry? Nope, I used that already. I do have some journal materials I could have a decent start with. But I think I’ll do it tomorrow night. No dramas. Besides a girl like myself could always use a little more sleep…

I’m not wasting money shopping. I’m just assisting Australia’s economic development (De?).

I’m not doing accounting. I’m just doing something created by some people who didn’t think that the world was complicated enough (De???).

I’m not recording our conversations for blackmailing. I’m just recording our conversations for future references.

I’m not blackmailing. I’m just employing underhanded methods to bring about a revolution for the betterment of society in general.

I’m not a polygamist. I’m just kicking it old-testament style.

I’m not consciously committing a sin. I’m just trying to be human.

I’m not coaxing you into taking up a shady gig with questionable morale. I’m just giving assertive encouragement; thus preventing you from looking back into the past when you’re in the future regretting that certain road you didn’t take.

I’m not stalking you. I’m just obsessively in pursuit of studying you.

I’m not bribing the officials. I’m just bringing about a mutually-beneficial sophisticated compromise for the welfare of either party involved.

I’m not trying to make you miserable. I’m just affixing the much needed antagonistic intervals into your monotone little life.

I’m not dictating the objectives of your life. I’m just assuming with extremely limited resources the kind of person that you actually are.

I’m not a drama queen. I’m just giving a passionate quality of epic poetry to an otherwise mundane occurrence.

I’m not gossiping. I’m just performing a thorough creative-explorative examination to an otherwise unconfirmed story.

I’m not leading you unto some disturbing materials on the web. I’m just sharing some friendly virtual fun for some personal entertainment at the expense of a friend whom I really care about. And I don’t want to suffer alone in the misery of my newfound knowledge.

I’m not leading you unto a horror movie that might give you a heart attack. I’m just knowingly recommending an “intense” kind of reality distraction to give you a heart attack.

I’m not a chronic procrastinator. Come to think of it, I’m just an easily distracted, reality-challenged, phenomenally pathetic excuse of a perfectionist…hmmm…

Been more than a week since I went all legal and stuff, though it feels like things come and go really fast one can barely gulp down the fact that life is not all academic and concurrent endeavours of capitalism. So there, I managed to put the good news and the bad news under one long inconclusive sentence. But I reckon that an additional year on this piece of polluted earth would warrant a little reflection. What have I done? How have I made a difference? What have I learnt? Who am I?

In retrospect; I have long been wasting time romancing the living room box, contributed to some virtual statistics, not much, and still mostly carbon-based. My God, I obviously have no idea. The older I get, the more the world strays from making sense. The more I know, the more questions start popping continuously out of nowhere. The more I live, the more I wish that life won’t just throw those questions back at me in such a blasé manner.

They say something about life being a journey and not a destination. Maybe they say right. Or maybe I need more figuring out. Funny, isn’t it? Trying to figure out how to figure something out? Maybe the answer will come when I least expect it. Maybe it won’t. Maybe one’s just chasing a certain horizon that seems somehow inert. Or maybe one’s just looking for something to get all worked up about.

I do realise that there will always be a certain extent of regret. Some of those things I wish I have done, people I wish I have talked to, strangers greeted, roads taken, alleys ventured, kisses given. Or even e-mails sent for that matter (tongue strictly in cheek). All those choices that I’ve made, somehow I just can’t imagine how different things would be had I not chosen the paths I’ve subconsciously chosen; like a butterfly effect, all the possibilities ad infinitum. Sometimes I wish that I could just please everybody, but I learnt that I can’t, quantum physics won’t allow such nonsense. I guess I AM the choices I made. Whether I like everything about it is kind of an idle consideration beside the point. Whatever done is savvy. And that’s a good place to start.

But I’m an official young adult now and this thing I know is true; if internet and hot water, or lack thereof, makes it to my personal list of daily staple checklist, then I still know nothing of real life.

And if experience is life’s greatest teacher, then I still make one damn cute little padawan.

Have you ever been addicted to something so much it feels like you’re being swallowed hard and whole? To childish, asinine stuff like substance, person, emotion or a certain state of mind, you name it. So addicted to it, you’ve even reached the point of losing the ‘high’ that you get when you first discovered that object of your desire. And not that it matters anyway, because despite the initial shortfall of contentment, you just keep coming back. And back. And back.

Of course you feel the guilt, the shame, the disgust you sense in the entirety of your whole fucking self. You blame you for being so weak. You blame you for giving in so easily. Before you turn your back on the universe and try punishing yourself so. Then you make a promise to stop, to regain the control you once had over your carcass piece of a being. Still no matter, falling is nevertheless easy. It’s always the same you recall, that after a while, the elation started fading. You have to work more, hurt more, to get to that place you once able to comprehend. And it’s always the same afterwards. Subsequent to the soar, you continually plummet into that desolate abyss of dismal nothingness. No matter how much you hold on to that place. It only pulls away. Then you started counting; force a rhythm to your breath. Still. Nothing. Funny how you keep on clinging unto it anyway. Maybe the void has become a state so known and familiar. Maybe it feels empty. But it’s emptier without the emptiness. The blissful asphyxiation intoxicates.

Why, it’s only your conscience at the pedestal; all for the sake of prostituting your soul. It’s so very special, or so you justified. Marking your words on the witness stand, the rest of you follow suit. Your logic a mere static. Your rationale drained. Consequences be damned. Your repetitive self-persuasion getting less and less convincing the more you try thrusting it into your silly little head.

And so you reach out your hand. But now you’re not sure if you still want out.

In lieu of a birthday speech last night, I offered a blog entry to the housecrashers instead. And dearly beloved, I have no idea why I did that. In lieu of something cramped with pretentious vocabularies and jokes that ironically only make sense to me (yes, as a matter of fact I’m actually aware of these stuff), I’ll just write something, like, nice.

I remember listening to a song dozing off with my headphone on when housemate started banging on my room door like crazy. Thought she wanted to show me something on TV. But I opened the door to a bunch of human outlines in a dark hallway. If I remember correctly, things started to make sense only a few minutes later. Were there flashlights? Cause they usually overwhelm my sensory nerves. I hope there are no photographs of me standing there like a moron for a long time. Fingers crossed. They made good collaborative efforts with housemates I’d say. Remind me to suggest them making an album together in the future. Now I just wished that I had not looked all slumber-inclined for my photo op.

And for the record, I may have unintentionally maintained my poker face throughout the whole thing (except when the cameras are flashing, duh…), but I truly was enjoying myself. And of course I noticed someone just cut his hair. But wonderful gestures they did. Wonderful feelings I had. The guests even washed most of the dishes! What more could a girl ask?

I’m grateful. These people are Godsend. Thank you for making the end of the beginning of my 21^st year a special one. Thank you.

Funny how Tuesday mornings are gradually turning themselves into some tasteless case of Russian roulettes. Forget schedules and all, commuting to work is having more issues than Time magazine. The bus and train are always too soon or too late on this particular day in the week. And last week, train just had to go emo at the station.

The train staff gave a 19 minutes verdict before the train is set to be up and running again. “Take a bus to Caulfield station, they have more trains there,” so he advised. I’m the civilian, so I took it up. Along with some fellow stranded passengers I waited for the bus. A few short minutes into, another city train arrived. We were all like, when did the last one leave? Like, did they just invent a train so ghostly quiet it can sneak away without anyone noticing?

For Ford’s sake, I was in a dilemma right then. A fraction of the troop decided to hurriedly withdraw into the station. The train was crowded, I rationalised. I wouldn’t get in anyway. So I decided to wait for the bus.

Huge mistake.

The bus I got onto reached another train station right at the same time another train arrived. I went for the next one. Same thing happened. Train always decided to arrive right at the same time the bus reached the station. On the most optimistic note, I missed at least two trains. When I alighted at Caulfield, a senior citizen boarded the bus condemning how “nobody seems to know what they’re doing around here.”

I arrived at work 40 minutes late and spent the rest of the day trying to guess if my supervisor is concocting a plan to have me medium rare. It was my third time.

The bus drivers always make it a point to drive slower on Tuesdays. A lot of people also seem to take it upon themselves to not have a Metcard ready, thus purchasing them on the bus. Without preparing the correct amount of money, of course. And for freak’s sake, even some paper girls just don’t see how walking a short, single bus stop away won’t actually disrupt their shiny hair or alter a thread on their clothing. Supervisor’s phone was lost on a Tuesday. My phone credits just had to run out on another. And how? Some mothers just have the nerve to travel with her baby-carrying trolley at this hour of the day. Damn.

Oh well, so you really wanna get to know a real person underneath it all? Simply put him or her on a Tuesday morning public transportation network.

Cheerio.

There are always times when suspense is not the best virtue of them all. Like with a band-aid plaster on a previously wrapped wound. Those suckers are better off ripped than peeled away slowly. Or when you’re about to swim in a cold sea or swimming pool. It’s always better executed with a thoughtless dive rather than a gradual tip-toe, or testing out the waters so to speak. No pun intended.

And so when I was looking for an internship at the beginning of the semester, I found it extremely difficult to just get over myself and call up some companies. Overcoming the psychological impediments or the infinite supplies of idiotic what ifs was such a cross to bear. Think I’m just not fond of introductory phone conversations.

In my current internship program, one of the tasks given obviously involves, you guess it, calling people up. So much for the communication ability incremental to any person trying to make it in the marketing realm. But what I learnt, and learnt not too well, is that it’s imperative to just spare the suspense and get jiggy with it. So what if I had to repeat some names over and over again? So what if some person told you to hold and apparently hung up after some pretty long minutes? So what if I had to have a face-off with some snobbishly protective personal assistants? So what if the apparent Westpac office you’re calling turned out to be a Commonwealth? (Uh, awkward?)

All in all, sometimes it’s wise to just skip the suspense and leap oneself into the cold water. We’re formidable creatures made to adapt anyway. Spontaneity can be rewarding they say. So long as you don’t forget to smile and say greetings in good spirits.

And on a completely different note, girlfriend was just asking me the other day if I’d actually date a guy version of myself.

Dudette, I don’t think dating somebody who’d spiritually contemplate any gig that enables one within fondling proximity of Nick Valensi (with questionable intentions) would be such a great idea.

Savvy?