This was my submission to Another 48 Hours. Go there and check out the other entries... they're pretty rad. And yes, It is 6am, and no I didn't sleep tonight. Last night. You know what I mean. Not until I get my essay in...
I am my own grandpa… oops, I mean antagonist.
Case and point: I am sitting in front of a stack of books about the history of BC’s Chinatowns. Ideally I should be flipping through them, productively making notes and forming the skeleton for my essay. Actually, scratch that. Ideally, I should already have completed the skeleton, and I should be at least halfway through the essay - due tomorrow, 10:00am.
Those books remain untouched in front of me. In the past 48 hours I have successfully: watched 6 episodes of The Wonder Years, 2 episodes of That 70’s Show, and 3 feature films; eaten 4 cookies, 1 doughnut, and an average of four meals per day; come down with the UBC Residence plague; knitted a toque; and finally, made almost 100 dollars worth of internet purchases with my credit card.
My inner antagonist has convinced me that all of this was a good idea.
As children we are taught that every one of us has a little devil sitting on one shoulder and a little angel on another. I have a very distinct memory of a Little Lulu cartoon where the devil tries to convince her to play hookie from school. On a side note, the devil and angel get in a wicked fist fight – but that is beside the point. The point is that this story is a lie. I can’t find any evidence of an angel on my left shoulder.
I mean, if she’s around, where is she? If she existed then in the past 48 hours I should have successfully: finished my English essay, complete with a perfect MLA-style bibliography; done all of my laundry, including towels and bedding, and folded it nicely into my drawers; identified the source of the mysterious odor that has been haunting my room since Thursday; and finally, perhaps too optimistically, started studying for my first final, to be taken in 8 days.
Not once during any of those EIGHT HOURS of television/movie watching did a pang of guilt hit me. I didn't experience a single moment of panic about the fact that I would have no pants, underwear, or socks to wear on Monday. The vague thoughts I had about the possibility of writing my essay were fleeting and completely unmoving. Jiminy Cricket has left the building, folks. I now have 15 hours with which to write an 8 page paper, do 5 loads of laundry, and sleep off the Totem plague.
And I know I should. I know it. But I still don’t feel it.
It appears that my angel is the one playing hookie.