So, being slightly retarded when it comes to scheduling my work habits, I agreed back in December to write a few entries for an encyclopedia that will be coming out late this year or sometime in 2006. It’s on the home front during the world wars in America, Britain, and Canada.
Anyway, the deadline for submitting the entries was March 15, which created a slight problem for me, since I would be partying hard in Brussels at that point (actually at that very point I was bored out of my mind at SHAPE headquarters and marveling at their seventies decor, but whatever). That meant I had to have the damn things finished before I left on March 9. And although I had two entries completed (well, more like one and a half), I needed more time to finish the last one. Thankfully (or rather because they probably deal with deadline-busting academics all the fricking time), they accommodated me, and all was well with the world.
So why am I babbling about this? I know, I know, I can hear your muttering now: Andrew, you could have just finished them in February or something, yeah? Rubbish. You have no idea how much procrastination stimulates endorphin production. The thrill of butting up against a deadline like some blood-crazy bull goring a matador in the crotch is just too desirable sometimes for one’s own good.
Being late with work gets you high, people. Think about it.
Anyway, I mention this only because I’m finished. My entries are done. The heavens can now open up, and Monty Python trumpets can pop out of the Pope’s arse to play ‘Taps’. It is completed.
Now to finish off the next pile of work that my advisers call a dissertation and my wife calls an albatross.