"we did a lot of things wrong, but we did a lot of things right"

I am a masochist, not to be confused with fascist, even though they rhyme.
I don't know why I have decided that I enjoy the perverted pressure in writing research papers in the dwindling hours preceding their deadlines. Here are a few mediocre explanations:

1. I like to do things in and on my own time, which apparently, has lately been synonymous with "last second".
2. I don't like strangers with PhDs who passive-aggressively suggest to entire classes they should rearrange their entire schedules in order to encapsulate the life-altering importance of the assignment due on Friday March 4th at 5 pm, which is to be turned in to an unidentified (and ironically *nonexistent*) box or under the door.
3. I have better things to do- really. 

When I am an 80, I am more likely to remember that one time while I was writing a paper, my best friend called to tell me we were going to go get stuffed bagels and she'd be there in a second, and then when she got there and pounded on the door, and I answered, she demanded "do you have a gas can?" Then, as we walked down the block to quench her thirsty car, I made special note of the tie-dye and purple vans adorning her hungover body. And then I'll remember the car starting and her throwing it into gear and shouting "get in! get in! we don't have time to stop!" and how I had to run and jump into the moving vehicle. And then after getting bagels from a hole-in-the-wall we walked with a boy named Spike who wore glasses along the train tracks  to a park where the sneaky breeze convinced us to go back.  

And then I talked to a boy who lives far away, but he loves me, so it's okay...

And I did finish that paper, too, somewhere in the middle of all that life. But only because Mama didn't raise no quitter. 

And also because I'm weird and kind of do like writing papers. 

But make no mistake- I like boisterous best friends, bicycle boys, breezy days, and blueberry stuffed bagels WAY more.