Perhaps you might know that I’ve been trying to complete my thesis over the past year or so. Borne out of my innate indolence it’s taken me much longer than it rightly should have and I’m afraid I think it’s not as thorough and as excellent as any graduate thesis should be. Now, it’s come down to the wire and I’m supposed to find out whether it’s at all defensible.
I’ve been dealing with the stress in various ways. I’ve alternately shirked thesis work and pulled all-nighters, and I’ve been consuming books like a college spring-breaker doing tequila shots: slamming them down one after another. I devoured C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy (Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, That Hideous Strength), Jane Austen’s novels (yes, all six of them), and now I’m working on a stack of Agatha Christie murder mystery novels that I paid P40 for each. I really wish I could put all this effort into thesis work instead of play, which is what reading fiction is to me.
Unfortunately I’m singing this lament too late. My adviser is supposed to get back to me on whether I can now go out and look for my firing squad — er, I mean, my thesis panel. I just want to curl up on my bed and cry. Oh, the suspense!