Postcard from Thesis Hell
I always thought that writing my version of Thesis Hell would be unfair to other seniors. This thesis topic seemed to come relatively easily to me, I don’t have to subject myself to experiments or other people in any way (I don’t envy science or psychology majors), and I’ve historically been able to pound out pages when crunch time came around.
Now I sit here two weeks away from a draft deadline wondering where the fuck all the time went. I look back at the last couple semesters and remember writing some thesis on occasion. But mostly I remember intense games of Mario Kart, a disappointing series of Lost episodes, discovering that Jack Bauer’s dad is actually a farmer who once owned a talking pig, and seeing Titus Pullo bite out someone’s tongue (it’s not tv, it’s HBO).
For those of you that don’t know, my thesis advisor is not just hard to get a hold of, he’s in Venice for this entire semester. My lone contact with him was via iChat a month and a half ago: he sat in a London hotel lobby while I tried to look studious and stressed down in the IMC. Last week I churned out a few pages and completed what I thought would be the first draft of my second chapter (don’t rush to congratulations yet, the first chapter is far from finished—I like to go out of order like that). I sent along the draft to my thesis advisor, asking for some feedback, to which he responded, “glad to see this new draft of ch. 2. Looking forward to discussing it and the rest of your thesis in a couple weeks.” Well, thanks for the help.
The most impressive product of my efforts over the last month was a batch of fajitas I made on Friday night (and again on Sunday), the most eloquent writing I’ve seen since February is not on my laptop, but on the walls of the bathroom just mere feet from my thesis desk, and I am seriously contemplating switching my major to ultimate Frisbee. That’s allowed, right? Not to mention how disconcerting it is to see your advisor’s face on your buddy list (his icon is his picture) when you’re not doing your work. I freaked out about this for a couple of weeks before I was merely encouraged to block him. A bold strategy, we’ll see if it pays off for me.
I can take comfort in a few things, though. At least when I need to vomit, the bathroom is just a few feet away so I don’t risk permanent damage to any of the library’s collections. The weather is starting to get nice, so I can begin to procrastinate on the front lawn instead of being holed up here in the library. And when my advisor tries to participate in my orals via iChat and asks a damning question, I can just pull the Ethernet cord. How many seniors have that advantage?
God, I’m fucked…
Now I sit here two weeks away from a draft deadline wondering where the fuck all the time went. I look back at the last couple semesters and remember writing some thesis on occasion. But mostly I remember intense games of Mario Kart, a disappointing series of Lost episodes, discovering that Jack Bauer’s dad is actually a farmer who once owned a talking pig, and seeing Titus Pullo bite out someone’s tongue (it’s not tv, it’s HBO).
For those of you that don’t know, my thesis advisor is not just hard to get a hold of, he’s in Venice for this entire semester. My lone contact with him was via iChat a month and a half ago: he sat in a London hotel lobby while I tried to look studious and stressed down in the IMC. Last week I churned out a few pages and completed what I thought would be the first draft of my second chapter (don’t rush to congratulations yet, the first chapter is far from finished—I like to go out of order like that). I sent along the draft to my thesis advisor, asking for some feedback, to which he responded, “glad to see this new draft of ch. 2. Looking forward to discussing it and the rest of your thesis in a couple weeks.” Well, thanks for the help.
The most impressive product of my efforts over the last month was a batch of fajitas I made on Friday night (and again on Sunday), the most eloquent writing I’ve seen since February is not on my laptop, but on the walls of the bathroom just mere feet from my thesis desk, and I am seriously contemplating switching my major to ultimate Frisbee. That’s allowed, right? Not to mention how disconcerting it is to see your advisor’s face on your buddy list (his icon is his picture) when you’re not doing your work. I freaked out about this for a couple of weeks before I was merely encouraged to block him. A bold strategy, we’ll see if it pays off for me.
I can take comfort in a few things, though. At least when I need to vomit, the bathroom is just a few feet away so I don’t risk permanent damage to any of the library’s collections. The weather is starting to get nice, so I can begin to procrastinate on the front lawn instead of being holed up here in the library. And when my advisor tries to participate in my orals via iChat and asks a damning question, I can just pull the Ethernet cord. How many seniors have that advantage?
God, I’m fucked…
posted by Fish at 11:02 AM
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