flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
. . . which is why I teeechnically shouldn’t have graduated the honours program. I meant to finish it, I really did, but I had to go talk to the dean with it only 25% complete and the end of the year fast approaching.
N: I have a ton more research and notes for my thesis, but I don’t think I can finish it in time — I’m only on page 50 and I still have about three times more to say.
D: (visibly blanching) You know this is undergrad, right? Write your book on your own time. Just give me what you have so far and I’ll look over it.
N: But it’s all from different chapters! And I don’t have all the appendices yet!
So he called it done and let me graduate. I’m not well. It’s not even a recent thing; I distinctly remember an all-night panic attack over an essay on kangaroos for kindergarten. In my defense, three sentences seems like a lot more at 6, and I did draw a very nice kangaroo and nearly got all my d’s and b’s facing the right way.
Am I oversharing? It’s been a long day.