Going into my senior project challenge, I knew the project would test me, would stress and stretch me. As I sit an type this right now, my eyes are drooping from exhaustion, and my stomach is clinched with anxiety. Writing. Writing must happen. Writing has been happening. I’m writing right now, but these words – they don’t count.
I’ve just spent the last five hours crafting an essay of over 1000 words. These words don’t count. The discussion posts I will complete before this day is over (which are due today) will not count, either.
It was not my goal to write 50,000 words this month. My goal was 25,000 words, but with all of the words which aren’t going to count, it may end up being 50,000 words.
I’m not behind, but if I don’t do the writing that counts today, I will be. The thing is, I’ve done nothing but write.
This is the point at which thoughts of setting my hair on fire, and running screaming down the street seem like a good way to release the tension clawing my gut. I doubt voluntary self-emolation will be a valid reason for not completing my assignments on time for my professors, but it might have them contacting the psych ward of the local county health department. Maybe I should just save myself some time, and skip the self-emolation and find a corner to drool in?