Guilt, Lash

Dear Inner Voice of Criticism and Reason,

I know. I have been a very naughty girl tonight. I know I said that I’d finish the first draft of that story I’m working on, that I’m really enjoying writing, tonight. “Monday night!” I declared, in the hearty tones of one devoted to getting stuff done. “I’ll type up what I’ve written by hand so far and finish the fucker! Then I’ll sit on it for a while and redraft! I am so clever! I am so ahead of that first of August deadline! I laugh in a cocky manner! Ha HA HA ha!”

It seemed so plausible, too. Smack bang in the middle of a week off I’m giving myself after the end of a mentally, emotionally and phyiscally gruelling semester that witnessed depressive episodes and tearful threats to drop out, before I begin to work on my thesis in earnest. Play time! Time to write those nagging stories and poems and enquiry letters that have been left in the wake of my demanding, mountainous Uni work. It all seemed so easily organised last week.

“I will work on it Monday, and knock that fucker to the ground,” I said. “Sure, Beloved Father is visiting, but I will get up early and work on it before he arrives, and surely his visit will only take a few scant hours of my writing time. Besides, now that I am over the Teenage Embarrassment Stage, hanging with my dad is fun! And cool! And always involves a free lunch at the eatery of my choice! What’s not to like about kickin’ it old-school with dear old Dad?”

It was not to be. Still recovering from the physical side of the Great Drain of Semester One 2005, I slept in. Not seriously, but enough to put me slightly behind the eight ball. Feverish typing was offset by hanging out with my housemate, and the siren song of the washing machine and its promise of clean towels. I’m not quite sure where the morning went, but hey I got some stuff done! Brownie points, right?

So, Dad’s visit ended up taking up the entire afternoon and a great portion of the evening. Not to worry. I can at least get some more work done! Yay me! I am strong, I am invincible, I am caffeinated!

But it all went to hell in a handbasket, didn’t it? We had to hang out in Jo’s room listening to the dodgy eighties CD she bought for her sister as a joke 21st present, didn’t we? We had to dance around to “Footloose”, didn’t we? We had to follow it with several CDs’ worth of happy-making music of dubious artistic merit, didn’t we? We had to get out our hairbrush microphones for “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and every song thereafter, didn’t we? Oh, sure, I wasn’t the instigator of that last one, but did I back away when I realised I was far more used to the Cake version of “I Will Survive” than the Gloria Gaynor one? Oh no, I did not. Did I shy away from belting out “Hit the Road, Jack” in its entirety? Oh no, I did not. Did I resist the pressure to get down, get funky and assorted other activities not at all related to the banging out of Great Literature?* Oh no, I did not. Did I laugh my arse off, fall over myself in the name of “dancing” and enjoy myself thoroughly? Oh yes, I did.

So as you can see, O Voice of Reason, I may not have a legitimate reason for not having finished my story per se, but it stands as a reason I did not complete my self-assigned homework. What’s that? Why didn’t I finish it in the time after the hysteric giggle-dancing ended? Um. I had stuff to see, people to do, blogs to read. You expect me not to chuckle over Stu’s latest email? You expect me not to get my daily dose of the wonder that is Perez Hilton? What’s that? You do? Oh. Surely you jest? No? Oh.

Well then.

Whilst I would argue that your threat of a vigorous spanking is hardly the sort of thing that is likely to send me to my keyboard in a panic-induced horror, your threat to remove all chocolate, coffee and assorted other pleasures from my life until I get the damn thing written has been taken on board. From now on, I will be a good girl. Starting tomorrow. After I’ve had a leisurely lunch with Deirdre and done my shopping and gone to the library. Pinkie swear. Honest to God. What’s that? Atheists can’t say “honest to God” and expect to be taken seriously? Oh. All right then. I’ll swear on a deity I do believe in then.

Honest to Britney.

There, that ought to shut you and your goddamned, sorry, britneydamned carping up. I’LL DO IT TOMORROW. Shit, bitch, can’t a shirker get any peace around here?

I’m on it. Totally.

And if you still have doubts, I invite you to remember my past history of efficiency when it comes to forcibly removing little nagging voices in my head with a cotton tip.

I’m glad we had our little talk. I feel like we understand each other better now.

Send my best to the Self-Doubt Voice (be seeing her again shortly) and the Voice That Lets Me Walk Out of the House Looking Like That.

Regards and/or cotton tips,

Aimee

*Actual story may be neither great nor literature.

3 Responses to “Guilt, Lash”

  1. Tess Says:

    Heh. Good luck. 🙂

  2. Liah Says:

    I found a bottle of Procrastinator brand wine tonight. How appropriate for SWOTVAC. And no, I did not let the fact I have an exam tomorrow stop me from buying it and drinking it!

    Happy procrastinating!

    Liah oxox

  3. Aimee Says:

    Hey Liah! 🙂

    Was Procrastinator any good? I don’t mean in terms of wine quality, I mean in helping you achieve its title. Should I buy some to aid in thesis and short story work?

    Good luck for your exam!

    Thanks Tess 🙂 It’s coming along!