Here’s how a chain of destruction works. It’s Saturday, late morning. It’s the first day the sun has really properly shown itself in about three weeks; you can feel the heat even when you’re sitting indoors, in shadow. You haven’t written an essay you have had two months to complete.
Yesterday you decided to ring the tutor and ask her if you could change from an interesting topic to a shitty-shitty-bang-bang one because, well, it would be a lot easier. You’ve got six months work of journal articles, studies, and pictures of human genitalia spread across your bed. You spent seven hours online yesterday and did not write one word.
This morning you and your partner went feverishly through clothes – ‘too big!’ ‘too ugly!’ ‘GET RID OF IT!’ (She, too, has an essay to write.) And you dusted because some lady was coming round to see your flat and value it.
You’ve now been online for about 1.5 hours. You logged into WordPress before doing anything else. You checked if there were any new comments (sob), looked at your stats (Google search: ‘stalkers instruction book’ brought someone to your page yesterday), looked to see if anyone had updated their blogs (fuck, no), and then went to tag surfer.
And there it began. A stranger’s diary intructed you to go to a page called ‘Typeracer,’ so you went. You know, trying to be amicable.
The next thing you know, you are feverishly inputting words at a rate of like 100 words a minute. You don’t stop to consider that at that rate, your 3,500 word essay could be finished quite quickly. No, you don’t think, you can’t think, because the only thing that matters is beating random strangers at typing quotes.
When you finally tear yourself away from that banal pleasure, you start writing this diary entry. A few minutes into it, you realise your mother has sent you an email with the tracking number for the package you’ve been waiting for. You have a personal grudge against the main postal service in your adopted country, and prepare to ring them with something that can only be described as gleeful rage.
Oop – update. You just got off the phone with them. You had a very polite rage fest at the nice lady, and are now on the phone line with the parent company. You realise you cannot wait until you move to your new place, because there is no tricky locked front door and the post office has no excuse for not leaving a ‘while you were out’ slip.
Okay, the main postal service says they do not have it. This is no surprise, as the post office in the country it was sent from said it was sent by Those Bitches In The Red Trucks. TBITRT told you that if the postal service didn’t have it, you could call them back and have an investigation launched. You plan to do this because TBITRT are, truly, bitches, and they have fucked you over one time too many.
You call back. The robot lady says, ‘I’m sorry. The office is closed. No one can talk to you until Monday.’
You are now on the phone with your mother. You have still not written a word of your essay.