how to procrastinate. free expert advice. (now updated!)

Maybe you've been writing a paper for a month, and maybe for the past two weeks you have only had to finish the very last section that would take a day's worth of concentrated hard writing.

So its Sunday, your PI returns on Thursday, and you know she is expecting this review you started writing from what feels like birth. (How surprised the doctors were as you exited your mothers uterus with a mini type writer just a tappin' away about DAMPs and fibrosis.)

Your week is looking really busy, so Sunday is kind of the last day to really have giant swaths of time to do nothing but focus solely on writing. So here is how I recommend preparing for a day of intense uninterrupted writing:

First, sleep in until noon. No way to mentally kick off your day like dragging yourself out of bed in the afternoon feeling like you've been hit by a bus. This should be followed by strawberry waffles and an episode of little house on the prairie. On every commercial break, explain to your boyfriend that you absolutely must leave. like. this is it. you really gotta go. But oh.my.god. I think Laura's brother in law is dying. Sad shit.

(interesting tidbit, Shannon Doherty played a little girl on that show - your bf will probably try and argue with you and tell you that it is so not her -but don't worry, after checking on IMDB, you are right as usual)

So when little house on the prairie is over (a whole hour for these episodes too, really) - somehow time has slipped into 2pm. and then Gladiator actually has the gall to come on. So as you are saying goodbye - slowly, find yourself sinking back into the couch, eyes glazed, mouth slack... Gladiator is a stronger timesuck than little house on the prairie, imagine.

2:45 pm - yes. You are now off the couch, but you should probably smoke a clove before you actually hit the road.

3:05pm - Finally, you get the eff out of there to go write this paper. you are READY TO WRITE LIKE A CHAMP.

3:10 pm - oh shit. Wendy's sells strawberry milkshakes. de-licious.

3:40 - get home. god who made such a freaking mess in your room?! Blame your roommate. You certainly can't write with all this ridiculous clutter.

While cleaning, you may as well get all those bills written out that have been sitting on your desk for who knows how long, because you accidentally found them when you moved your old dead laptop, package up some mail you've been meaning to send out, and hell, when *is* the last time you swept the kitchen floor? While your sweeping, marvel over the amount of cat hair you sweep up, contemplate saving it to impress your roommate.

About this time you will remember your friend's baby shower gift that needs to be wrapped, its been sitting in the corner of your room so long its started to double as furniture, search for wrapping paper - no time like the present! (hah, see what I did there, present? yup. incredible)

Okay, this is when you need to get serious. Quit goofing the eff off. Sit on your bed. Open your laptop. And remember you haven't downloaded off of emusic in awhile. Try to very quickly make good on the 50 tracks you pay for monthly in one foul swoop, and maybe spend fifteen minutes trying to find Kangaroo by Big Wu, because this 4 minute song kind of rocks your world the two times you've heard it on Sirius. oh wait, speaking of creating queues, this will remind you, you had some very important things that needed to be added to netflix.

I wisely suggest you appear to be very startled when you realize its 5:30. you *really* need to start writing. But you promised you would get cat food today, and you certainly don't want that hanging over your head while trying to write....better run out and grab a few things - oh, and that pet hair brush you have been meaning to get for months? They sell them beside the cat food.

So now the cat is thoroughly brushed, the brush is thoroughly cleaned. What can you really do now except blog about procrastinating while continuing to carry out the said subject manner? Because now its 6:27 and you just yawned 143 times in a row. You'll probably be in bed before too long. This now leaves you maybe a couple of hours of writing. Don't forget, you still have to eat dinner and shower too.

Way to go you slacker. You just wasted your entire day. Hope your proud of yourself.

I am not a zoo animal.

I have been asked literally, super seriously, and no exaggeration here, at least 10 times, how old I am, over the past month. I get this once in awhile sure - but 10 times in a month is ridiculously excessive.

I don't know if its the fact that I'm a waif with a giant head from the prednisone, or that I look young and then confuse people when I speak the language of genius, or its all a giant coincidence (banking on the genius hypothesis)..but let me tell you how simply shocked each and every one of them was to discover I am 25.

Their ballpark?

14-16. Never older than 16. A whole decade off? honestly? I mean, its one thing if someone guesses 80, and your 70, and maybe you also smoked your whole life, lived on the streets, abused meth, and never wore sunblock....but come on - 15 and 25 is really mistakable? This is not a one time occurrence either. I have a pretty significant quota of inquirers here.

For example - Monday, registering for my umpteenth CT scan of the year (im having a litter of mutant aliens for children at this point), the guy behind the counter kept like - *looking at me* - like maybe that pizza I just scarfed made it into my hair/eyebrows/etc (this is unfortunately, not uncommon - and guess how pleased the CT people were that I ate, when somehow I forgot after my last 100 scans, that you aren't supposed to)...so anyway... this guy returns my insurance card and barks out at me. 'So how old are you anyway'

'25'

guy flips, '25? NOOooooo. no. no way. (chuckles, shakes his head, looks around in disbelief -anyone else catching this freak show?- looks back at me.) Really!? But you're so little! I thought you were 14... 25!?'

sigh. monotone. 'yeah. crazy. i get this all the time.'

guy engages ALL 5 employees behind the counter --'GUYS, guys, hey...guys, how old do you think this girl is!? (no time for their response) this girl is 25.....*twenty five*.....She's so little I never would have guessed!!

(mass hub bub behind the counter as they all strain in their chairs to take in this sideshow, who is either a lying sack of crap or a pure genetic anomoly, apparently I fall into some extreme category to warrant this reaction over and over - they are now just as shocked, talking amongst themselves about me, in front of me ---hey guys maybe you could be a little more rude? I don't feel awkward at all.)

...I thought she was 14! I thought my daughter was older than her! She is in 9th grade!'

so then, inevitably, this is always followed by the 'you'll appreciate it when you're older' speech.

'thanks. I'm sure I'll really like it' (not if I have to listen to this BS for the rest of my life)

So I turn around to take my seat in this gigantic ass waiting room to find, everyone, in the gigantic ass waiting room, is also looking at me. All that was missing was the requisite cricket soundtrack. Had I the balls, the right mood, the right amount of alcohol, this would have been the perfect time to break out an MC Hammer dance, the Meatstick dance, a little Michigan J Frog. But, I was pissy after spending my day getting various intravenous transfusions for hours on end. Or. maybe. I was in a great mood before the counter scene come to think of it. But at this point I kind of wanted everyone in sight to contract syphillis. in their mouth.

(but what makes these people ask in the first place if they are always so certain I am in fact, 14? Obviously you aren't certain, b/c these conversations always have the same pattern, I get a shocked look, a few comments of a disbelieving nature, followed by a little arguing b/c I might be lying and/or dumb, finally they concede the truth, all the while shaking their head)

I think my own return questions need to be prepared.

Yeah, I'm really 25. and how much do you weigh. Only 240? Crazy. Here I was thinking you were at least 290, I mean at the very very least. Hey. GUYS! (I will not restrain from pointing wildly) Guess how much this chick weighs. Didn't you think she was way fatter. Isn't SO. WEIRD. You'll probably never appreciate being fat like I'll appreciate my youthful glow when I'm 63, but maybe you shouldn't wear horizontal stripes, like, ever again.

The age question often doesn't get under my skin to this extent. The radiology experience however, was beyond called for, and its been festering in the back of my head. In case you know, that wasn't noticeable. Maybe when I manage to push beyond this plateau of 93 lbs that Ive hit, and cannot get past, regardless of how much I stuff my face, people will not feel the need to ostracize me. (granted, unintentionally)

Until then, be prepared to be called out on your own freak show.