Wall

 Finally the end of the first week of school after a period of mind decomposing, knowledge eroding, intelligence rusting holidays. I have that feeling of having run half a marathon at too fast a pace and coming to the sudden dreadful realization that I still have another few kilometers to go. And this isn't even a normal marathon, it is a marathon through a post apocalyptic world.

 The academic work that I procrastinated over the holidays has started to catch up. As a maddened blood thirsty hoard they are quickly gaining upon me, mindless and hungry like an insane army of the undead. Not even the shuffling type of zombies but the full on running type, their pale lifeless limbs pounding the ground in a frenzied rush to devour me. They had of course simply been the walking dead at the beginning of the holiday when they were first set but over time they have evolved and very soon, I suspect they will soon learn how to operate basic vehicles and become the cycling dead. Merciless lifeless hunters pedaling away at demonic speed.

It is often said that there is some metaphorical wall that any athlete will come up against during a run, at a certain desperate moment when they seem to have hit their limit and by overcoming this wall they will grow as a person as well as regain a certain energy and sense of momentum. If so, then perhaps there will be such a wall for me in my academic work as well, an opportunity for me to break through and become a generally better grade of human being as well as regain my educational capability.

 In fact, I am arguably the very best type of student since, in an attempt to improve as a person generally, I am deliberately conditioning myself to come into contact with that wall of desperation as soon as possible through procrastination and work avoidance. A risky strategy of self improvement that demonstrates my tremendous courage and great aspirations of bettering myself. Hence teachers, as individuals charged with the duty of encouraging the student's growth as a person, perceiving the nature of the student and understanding their motives, should see that I am in fact an exemplary pupil whose current mindset and behaviour should be highly commended not scolded or punished.

 Thus I rest my case, though whether the english teacher will accept my logic when inquiring after the distinct absence of an essay on Monday is another matter entirely and one that rests within the fickle hands of the sometimes cruel gods.

Lobotomy

 The date is the 19th of October 2012. The starting pistol is fired high into the air, simultaneously I spring forward athletically from my  braced crouching position, beginning my sprint down the long metaphorical road. My two fingers (because despite being of the new supposedly technology savvy generation, I never mastered touch typing and can still only competently type with two digits) dance swiftly across the keyboard, each aggressive tap of a key imprinting a pixel articulation of my thoughts onto the blank white screen before me.

 The clock ticks precious seconds away and as the ultimate countdown commences, to my relief I see that the end line, the deadline, lies just meters from my exhausted self. With a final burst of energy I propel myself forwards, the remaining few paragraphs flowing onto the page in a jumbled flood of words. The time is eleven fifty nine. Relieved I have made it, I click the beautifully vibrant button labeled "Publish". Feeling victorious, I close my eyes, I have successfully written and posted another bog within the day. Then as I open my tired eyes to look back onto the screen, a sudden ice age envelopes my heart and the exhausted yawn meets an untimely end half way up my throat. The red box stating "you are only allowed a maximum of twenty labels" lies smugly across the top of the page.

 Hurriedly I delete the one extra offensive treacherous miscreant of a label that now threatens to ruin everything I have worked towards. I frantically click "publish" again, the time is midnight, in the distance a clock presumably strikes twelve and I imagine for the few seconds it takes to load my online publication, the deep resonating mournful rings of the ominous metal bell. I grit my teeth in frustration and cast my eyes onto the screen in vain hope that blogger counts midnight, the barren no man's land between two days, to be the territory of the merciful today as opposed to under the occupation of the tyrannical tomorrow.

 I let out a slow sobbing sigh, the post is labeled as "20th of October".

 It has finally happened, on my last post, I failed to meet the deadline. I'm sure there is a meaning to the term "deadline". Presumably if you go past the deadline you become dead in some way, but as far as I know in most every day situations people aren't killed for late paperwork, unless there exists some evil organization skilfully covering up every unpunctual excel sheet or mildly tardy report related murder (Perhaps entitled League of Uncompromising Beaurocratic Employers or LUBE for short).

Therefore if you miss a deadline, you must be dead in some other slightly more subtle way. Perhaps you become dead to whoever set you the deadline. So as soon as you fail to meet the deadline, your employer or immediate superior or whoever it was that told you to hand in that file by six o'clock in the morning sharp, no longer looks at you with the level of burning passionate friendship that they used to. Instead your employer stares coldly at you, a certain emotional distance appearing between superior and subordinate, an invisible wall suddenly erected to severe the bond of mutual trust that had grown so strong between the two of you before that fateful six o'clock in the morning blunt.

 But in this instance I had set the personal deadline of one blog post a day for myself to keep and as much as I might try, it really is rather difficult to keep an emotional distance from yourself. Hence, if I want to become emotionally disconnected from myself, the only possible solution is to become generally emotionally unreceptive as a human being, this may perhaps be achieved by undergoing the great medical process of lobotomy.

 Goodbye dear meager wavering mirage of a readership whose existence is more than a little doubtful, the next time we meet, I may have become an empty emotionless husk of a human being but at least I would be a punctual empty emotionless husk.