Unless one has been blessed with immaculate time management, chances are that some degree of procrastination is inevitable. Unfortunately for me, that degree is quite a high one. If I could have one wish in this world, I’d probably choose to be organized over getting to meet Joseph Gordon-Levitt, which is saying something.
Even worse, procrastination is BFFs with disorganization. I try to get in between them and break up their friendship, but they always find ways to cavort behind my back. I know this because I am that annoying mooch that asks what the homework is on a daily basis because I lost the piece of scratch paper I wrote it down on. Upon my request, that day’s victim will reluctantly hand over his or her planner. Ignoring my jealous desire to violently rip out the color-coded pages, I nonchalantly hand back the planner and avoid looking down at the tornado that is my backpack.
This being said, it is no surprise that half of my time is spent looking for worksheets due the next day. You would assume that my 20 percent on a Spanish binder check would have taught me a lesson, but I’ve been defying the limits of notebook pandemonium for 3 years. Another third of my time goes by engaging in activities that provide no stimulation to the brain. Even though the dreaded junior year of APs is well on its way, I frequently find myself back on the couch watching a rerun of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.” The only benefit of doing that is the short-lived joy I extract from flipping the pillow over to the cool side.
At other times, I’ll find myself occupied with greater levels of nothingness. Why would I need academics when I could spend 20 minutes feeding my fighter fish? Which soul would dare perform a scholarly task when there are hand towels to be washed? I ask you all, is productivity more important than painting the fingernails in a brilliant shade of Rouge Red? I think not.
I truly cannot say what causes one person to be a procrastinator, and the other to be timely. It can’t be the way I was brought up; my mom is ridiculously strict and my dad’s mantra is “tick tock.” Therefore, I conclude that some fundamental mutation within me has caused me to value quality TLC over work. I advise you all, do not be ensnared by “Toddlers and Tiaras.”