Post-traumatic stress disorder: A syndrome often seen after a stressful event. Symptoms include flashbacks, insomnia, and suicidal tendencies.

Readers, an apology.

I implore your forgiveness for my fortnight-long absense. I assure you, my reasons are valid: I was required to write a fifteen page paper for my Newfoundland religious studies class. Being absolutely incapable of any multi-tiered thought whatsoever, I wrote it about the psychology of religious conversion. Judging by the look of bemused horror on my prof's face during my summary presentation, I am positive he hated it.

This is not my main concern.

You see, in writing this paper, not only did I lose several nights worth of quality sleep and any semblance of a will to live, but I also experienced the soul-shattering defeat that can only be experienced while truly, honestly trying to succeed, only to be backhanded across the face by the street-hardened pimp of spectacular failure.

My story is as follows:

The paper was due next Tuesday. This was not a crippling issue, as it was the previous Sunday, a week and two days before the Tuesday in question. Having just been barraged with a gamut of papers, midterm exams, and grabby, unwashed biology lab instructors, it would have been positively foolhardy for me to even consider trying to write this paper, let alone actually doing it. I didn't even have a topic, nor could I think of anything that would possibly appeal to me: The course is on pre-19th century religion in Newfoundland, and I'm really not a fan of that era. People were cruel and unhygeinic in the 16 and 1700's. For me, nothing in history is even worth discussing before 1813. So, on that Sunday, I selected some topic completely at random and emailed it to my prof, making sure to accompany it with a syrupy paragraph about why this topic was so special to me. 'He's pretty good with emails,' I think to myself. 'He'll be back to me before the night is out.'

Five days pass.

'Sorry it took so long to reply,' came the message on Good Friday. 'Your topic is not really appropriate, but because you have so little time left to collect new sources, do it anyway.'

This would be fantastic advice for someone stupid enough to actually start researching a paper before the topic had been approved. However, knowing full well the topic I chose was complete garbage, I didn't bother to start researching it until he emailed me back. Seeing he decided to drop off the face of the planet for the better part of a week, it was less academic ambivalence on my part and more gross negligence on his. Also, it is Good fucking Friday. The library is closed. The day after tomorrow is Easter fucking Sunday. The library is closed. And tomorrow is Easter fucking Saturday, and...well, the library is open, but it is my goddamn day off. I more or less communicated this to him in the next email.

'Well,' he eventually replied, 'think of something.'


* * *

In light of these events --totally beyond my control, may I add-- I saw no reason to waste a good Saturday night worrying about it when I could go to my boyfriend's house and have a pre-marital sleepover.

'So I really don't know what to do for a topic,' I said to Boyfriend as we entered his living room via the kitchen. 'I don't even know where to begin to come up with a topic.' These words were spoken as I absently glanced toward the other side of the room.

There sat Boyfriend's Father, perched on the sofa, reading a book entitled simply, "Methodism in Bonavista."

You cannot make this shit up.

* * *

'So, Dr.______, I've finally got a topic: the beginnings of Methodism in Newfoundland. Got any sources?'

'Sure, check out my former student's master thesis on the subject.'

Length of master thesis in question: 324 pages.

'So, Dr. ______, what's your policy on paper extensions?"

* * *

On the Tuesday the essays were due, Dr. _______ addressed the class. "I know the papers were supposed to be due today, but some people," he glanced ruefully in my general direction, "were unable to complete them on time. So you have until next Tuesday. They are to be handed in when you do your summary presentation."

Fuck. I'd forgotten about that.

It should be noted that I am an appaulingly bad public speaker. I'm not a particularly shy person, at least not in large groups. I've acted since elementary school with a reasonable degree of ease and comfort. Yet, for some reason, whenever I approach a podium to speak on an actual academic topic, my hands tremble, I start dry-heaving, and I talk faster than a used-car salesman on methamphetamine. Not only did I have to sift through 350 pages of information to flesh out a fifteen page paper, I now had the burden of knowing that I would soon have to try to make it sound like a legitimate academic endeavourin front of a moderately sized group of people.

The week went by. I'd narrowed my topic down to the psychology of the Methodist conversions (shit is always easier when you can reference your old textbooks). I'd managed to have the body of the paper written by Sunday, two days before the new due date. Only the in-text referencing and bibliography remained. It was now 2 o'clock in the morning, and I was about 45 minutes of sleep deprivation away from auditory hallucinations and hysterical blindness. I emailed my project to myself to finish it at school the next day.

This, in retrospect, without undue exaggeration, was the worst thing I have ever done in my entire life. Let me explain.

The library at my university during the last week of classes is like Mecca during the month of Ramadan. There are roughly 86 million people vying for 120 computers, and are not above shooting or stabbing you to gain access to one. I got to the library a little before 9 AM on Monday and, by some act of divine intervention, got the last available workstation. I brought up my essay, started leafing through my notes to provide proper citation and, where that failed, improper citation that looked convincingly legitimate. Two and a half hours later, my paper was complete. I could have wept. Swelling with pride, I saved my draft and logged off the computer so some other poor bastard could suffer the fruits of their term-long procrastination. I went to wait for my printed copy to come out at the assigned printer. When I got there, a woman was standing there with a little pad of post-its.

'If your student ID is not on this list,' she gestured to the first page of the sticky notes, 'we've cancelled your print job. You'll have to send it again.'

Hmm, I thought. Certainly illogical and arbitrary, and it was wholly irresponsible to cancel our print jobs without asking when the library currently has the population density of Malta, but who am I to judge? I'll just print it again.

After murdering seven people and crippling another eleven, I was able to log on to another computer. I tried to open my file.

It wasn't there.

It wasn't fucking there.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking FUCK. I went and found the lady with the Post-its, and communicated the sentiments contained in the previous sentence, only with less fucks. She couldn't pawn me off on the tech support guy fast enough. After some dicking around he concluded that I clicked 'open' and not 'save' when I edited my file, and doing so results in saving to your temporary internet files, which we all know disappear into existential nothingness as soon as we log off our computer, which I'm pretty sure violates the first law of Conservation of Mass or something, but what do I know?

I'm just about to have a seizure.

My throat feels like it's coated with something thick and bitter. I can feel my cheeks simultaneously colouring and palloring. My eyes are stinging. Tech Support Guy is determined to make this situation Not His Fault.

'You should never save things in temporary internet files, you know.'

'It wasn't my intention. I did hit print, after all.'

'Yes, well, we could hardly foresee the circumstances.'

'I know, tell me about it: expecting my document to print after I clicked the little button with the printer on it? Truly I've asked too much of you already.'

'There's no need to use sarcasm.'

'I don't use sarcasm. I embody it.'

'Whatever. Listen, when's it due?'

'Tomorrow.'

'What did you lose? The entire paper?'

'No, the paper itself is saved in my email. I've just lost all the references and bibliography.'

'Well, I'd look at it like this: You still have time to do it again! I mean, you've already put so much time and effort into this. What's another few hours?'

It is about here that I begin to cry hysterically.

Perhaps sensing that his next few choices could likely affect the chances of his name appearing in an article in tomorrow's newspaper which ends with the phrase, 'before turning the gun on herself,' Tech Support Guy launches into action. He immediately finds me a computer in a secluded place, and hovers over me, asking me if I need anything every 7-8 minutes. I suspect I could have made him fellate me if I'd the inclination or genitals. Unfortunately, I have to leave to go have lunch with Jess before I can finish. I should make it clear that the 'unfortunately' refers to my not having finished my re-editing, and not my lunch with Jess. Lunch with Jess was fan-fucking-tastic. Anyway, I emailed my paper to myself, and have Tech Support Guy show me how to properly save it to my account (I click the save icon approximately 65 times for good measure).

Later that night, I go to Boyfriend's to finish off the re-editing and print off the finished product (my printer prints in blue and yellow, if the starts are aligned particularly in my favour). Finally finishing the bibliography for the second time in about 8 hours, I hit print and a piece of me dies forever.

'Please read the message on your screen,' prompts the smug, sing-song and possibly latently homosexual Printer Voice. Yes, Boyfriend has a talking printer. I, too, smell a sitcom. Clicking 'continue' does nothing to rectify the situation and causes the voice to call out again, starting again from the beginning every time I click the button: 'P-P-P-P-Please read the message on your screen." Not a bad hook for a House beat, actually. Anyway, Boyfriend and Boyfriend's Brother examine the printer and it is unanimously concluded that the printer is a piece of fucking garbage and has mysteriously broken between now and the last time it was used, approximately 7 minutes before I came over to use it.

Fuck this noise. It's going to be fucking blue.

For the third time, I send the assignment to myself and go home. At 11:18 PM, nearly FIFTEEN hours after I began its revisions, I am holding a hard-copy in my grief-gnarled hands. The text is cerulean. It is still warm from the printer and already the cover page is stained with ink, dirt, and what I believe to be my own blood. But it is finished, and that is all I care about. I go to bed, a broken woman.

And now that you understand the stress I've been under, I hope you'll forgive me for my AWOLness. Oh, and finals start next week and I've already wasted way too much time doing this post, so there's probably going to be another dry spell. Don't worry though: the longer time intervals between the posts, the better the content. I'll be sure to save up my misfortunes for your amusement.

Leeches.