The disastrous ramification of procrastination.
Here I am, sitting on my bed with my laptop open, with the AC humming, a pillow to support my neck; I’m comfortable. I see the word ‘disastrous,’ and I think, I must write something about this. (For some reason, that word caught my attention.) So I do what I always do best, let my mind wander. You see, thoughts, they hit me out of nowhere. It’s like that. I can’t force it, so I wait patiently.
The word disaster immediately pinged on procrastination. Well, well, how’s that?
It fascinates me, procrastination. I do it, my sibling does it, my friends do it. We know it’s perfectly bad for us, and we just can’t seem to get away from it; it’s like an addiction of sorts. And strangely, we’re addicted to the bad things. And, oh, how they destroy us every time. A sick beauty.
It’s probably what smoking must feel like, or alcohol, to an alcoholic. I wouldn’t know. But I know enough to know it gets so bad until you can’t ignore it. Like trying to walk on a sprained ankle until it just refuses to cooperate. So then you have to deal with it. It’s not nice.
(My mind wanders for a bit, here.)
Here’s what Wikipedia has to say: Procrastination comes from a Latin word “procrastinare” that translates to – forward (pro) till next day (crastinus). It is the avoidance of doing a task that needs to be accomplished.
So there you have it, mates. Forward till next day, well done. Takes courage, it does. Who else would have the courage to put things off until the very last minute? Racing against the clock to beat the deadline, such brave souls. ‘If tomorrow comes.’ Sidney Sheldon even wrote a book about it. Different story. (Although in her case, a little procrastination would’ve done her more good than bad.) Sigh, I digress.
Anyway, that’ll be the extent of my quoting things, thanks Wiki. You could always Google (that’s a verb, now?) ‘procrastinate’. The psychology of procrastination, the negative impact of procrastination, how to overcome procrastination. I’ll spare you all that.
I am the worst procrastinator I know. Which is really ironic, because I’m a bloody perfectionist bordering on ‘control freak’ tendencies. And that makes a lot of sense, does it not? Sure it does, why wouldn’t it? It is a ‘if you don’t try, you can’t fail’ sort of thing. So, I put off, because it has to be done perfectly. And then it’s too late, so I slap things together and finish my project; no time to review, so, I can’t be bothered. “The cat closes its eyes, lapping its dish, and it thinks the world can’t see it.” (A culture thing, sorry. Doesn’t sound great when you translate it.)
When I started this blog nearly a month ago, I thought I’d write so much. All my works on WordPress, isn’t that nice? I publish some blog posts. Hurray! I guess I can slack off for a few days. Oh, no. Now I have tests all week (one more coming right up this weekend). So I’m gasping, trying to juggle it all. I come back on WordPress a week later, guilty, frustrated, but mostly, knackered.
In school, I was the kind of child that studied at the last minute. I got away with it because I got brilliant grades. See that? That’s the birth of bad habits. And when the weeds grow, they’ll consume every other healthy thing on the way. So, I turn in my homework, the one I managed to finish on my drive to school, my father constantly reprimanding me on my laziness. The teacher gives me a knowing look, as I hand it over; a disapproving nod. I see the others, meticulous handwriting piled over mine. Girls draw stars and hearts. The boys have underlined the end of every topic. I look at my dirty scrawl. I cringe in horror, hoping they’ll let things slide.
I grow older. High school now. Not enough time so I stay up late. I have to write that English essay. Unfortunate, because I actually enjoy English, but not the work that comes with it. I watch television, I eat, I contemplate life. It’s 10.30.pm. No problem, I just need three hours. I start two hours later. I’ve scratched sentences so many times. I run out of papers, so I attach one from my notebook. Sloppy.
It’s med school (already?). Too tired to lift those eyelids. Nodding off on a lecture of road-traffic accidents, straining to see those histopathology slides, why do they all look similar? (Maybe if I studied a bit more…) “You can hand over your case sheets now.” I drag my feet to the professor’s desk, I haven’t slept in 40 hours. He’s probably too tired to look at my papers too. A careless nod and he dismisses me, and I go back to my place and put my head in my hands.
It’s just ‘damage control’ from here. You try to salvage as much as you can and move on. A silent prayer, shed a tear; swear to do it better next time. Yawn. Guess I’ll start working on my seminar tomorrow (better, next week). Rhinomanometry, if you’re wondering.