revision is a dirty word
It's the 1st of June, and we all know what that means. Up and down the country, millions of young people are in the midst of exam fever- waking at four in the morning, panicking about the chemical formula for glucose, conjugating verbs and god knows what else. And whilst many duly revise, working hard and achieving that semi-transparent glow of those who spend too much time in front of a computer, there are also those who stick two fingers up to their notes (provided that they have any) and instead fill their time with other relentless rubbish. Welcome the procrastinator.
But I'm worse than your average hormonally challenged 16 year old, wringing their hands over a poxy maths paper. Oh no, I'm worse. You see, I should know better - I've scraped through both GCSEs and A-levels by the skin of my revision tolerance. Never one to hit the books, I spent most of my teen years doing what I considered far more productive than long division - smoking cigarettes in the park, seeing my boyfriend or generally getting up to things that I still dare not tell my mother about.
Now at the ripe old age of 21 and as a second year university student, I definitely should know better. Like my contemporaries, I should be fighting over the carrels and dictionaries in the library, but instead I seek the comfort of my living room. You see, I'm a born procrastinator. And now, far away from the comforts of home and the supervision of my parents- who although largely absent would once in a while intervene and force me to spend a day doodling in front of my english books- I have found whole new ways to be counter productive in my student house. The endless pile of washing up has disappeared as I and my flatmates can suddenly leave no plate dirty for more than 20 minutes, as long as it keeps us from staring dispassionately at notes that we can't read anyway.
Largely owing to the fact that I no longer have the option of doing laundry to fill my afternoons and that my room is the cleanest it has ever been, as well as that bastard crazy frog advert having driven me from TV, my procrastination hobby of choice, I have turned to blog as my solace.
But I'm worse than your average hormonally challenged 16 year old, wringing their hands over a poxy maths paper. Oh no, I'm worse. You see, I should know better - I've scraped through both GCSEs and A-levels by the skin of my revision tolerance. Never one to hit the books, I spent most of my teen years doing what I considered far more productive than long division - smoking cigarettes in the park, seeing my boyfriend or generally getting up to things that I still dare not tell my mother about.
Now at the ripe old age of 21 and as a second year university student, I definitely should know better. Like my contemporaries, I should be fighting over the carrels and dictionaries in the library, but instead I seek the comfort of my living room. You see, I'm a born procrastinator. And now, far away from the comforts of home and the supervision of my parents- who although largely absent would once in a while intervene and force me to spend a day doodling in front of my english books- I have found whole new ways to be counter productive in my student house. The endless pile of washing up has disappeared as I and my flatmates can suddenly leave no plate dirty for more than 20 minutes, as long as it keeps us from staring dispassionately at notes that we can't read anyway.
Largely owing to the fact that I no longer have the option of doing laundry to fill my afternoons and that my room is the cleanest it has ever been, as well as that bastard crazy frog advert having driven me from TV, my procrastination hobby of choice, I have turned to blog as my solace.
posted by adulescent at 3:20 AM
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