The End of Time

This past week has been a great example of something that I find utterly… itch-inducing about college: the┬ásimultaneous┬ádragging-on and obliteration of time. I spend most of my time worrying about things that are far enough in the future that I cannot do anything about them (family health issues, my post-grad employment prospects, registering for classes in six weeks when the course atlas isn’t even out) while also freaked out about the things that are approaching faster than I want them to (the timeframe to write my 100-page thesis, the end of the weird cocoon of the last few months, registering for classes in six weeks because the course atlas isn’t even out). Time–at least for me–never, ever passes normally in college. As a result of my particular cocktail of neuroses, this means that I’m pretty constantly anxious about projects that exist in the collegiate timeframe.

I realize that this is a weakness, but I really love short-term projects where I control a large part of the process. I like having a clear beginning and end date and am happy forging a path to connect the two. But when we get to something like my honors thesis–a 100-page document of original research which I have to have written and defended by mid-April–I’m at a loss. It’s a huge project! I want to be working on it so it can be done by February!

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Coping Mechanisms

It has been an anxious week.

There’s nothing bad happening. I just am overcome–as frequently happens, particularly when my mind isn’t occupied with school and three jobs–with a creeping sense of existential dread. I blame my impending move to a new apartment. It’s the first time I’ve been in non-campus housing, and the idea that I might actually have to set up my utilities is causing me to stare feebly, sadly into space.

It’s not that I can’t do it. I am aware that, objectively, calling Georgia power is Not That Hard. It’s just that sometimes things seem to be a Bit Much on the adulthood front, and then I stick my head in the sand and spend another six hours looking at dog photos. As you do.

But eventually I run out of adoptable, house-trained, under-40-pound dogs to look at on the internet. And then I revert to my secondary, far less healthy coping mechanism.

My name is Emily, and I am freaking myself out by searching on LinkedIn.

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