you lose your kids you lose your wife :(
Posted: Thu Apr 17, 2025 3:40 am
((FUN FINCH FACT: I didn't think this through.))
Hi, I'm Soumitra Finch. I have decided to take Advanced Placement Research this year to earn a capstone diploma for God knows what reason and also to develop and answer a question about how indigenous art has influenced and shaped modern industrial and architectural design. And also because I hate myself.
This is what Soumitra, crammed in the library the day before his paper was due, thought he must have decided a year ago when selecting his senior year courses. He was blessed enough to have a free period at the end of the day, and he was locked and loaded to write his final draft. Four to five thousand words, due the next morning. He had an outline. And multiple drafts. it was all a matter of letting the words flow, but there was probably a clog in the system because, hey, those words were not flowing.
He had the title page down - prolificity at its finest. He opened Spotify, hoping that on his laptop it wouldn't lag as extensively as it did on his ancient phone. Noah Kahan - Stick Season (Forever). 30 tracks could do no wrong. Northern Attitude, first track, full locked into writing mode. But actually, on that note, he wondered if Clarissa liked Noah Kahan; she seemed the type, in terms of vibes. If not, he needed to, like, put her on. Wait, no, that sounded like he was getting her hooked on drugs. He didn't do that.
Oh, right, focus. It didn't take long to focus; it was like he was naturally gifted or something (be serious, though). He breezed through that abstract, actually. That was sort of just the last thing he remembered.
He woke up to You're Gonna Go Far. He'd listened to the album enough times to know that, hey, that was actually over an hour. But it didn't take a genius to figure out he'd fallen asleep, because ignoring the fact that he generally felt like shit and had a woefully unwritten paper, he sat in a sparsely populated room that suggested the day was over and he missed, like, an hour of window that he should have spent writing.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes that stung slightly for no particular reason other than the fact that the world was probably out to get him or something. This was fine.
Hi, I'm Soumitra Finch. I have decided to take Advanced Placement Research this year to earn a capstone diploma for God knows what reason and also to develop and answer a question about how indigenous art has influenced and shaped modern industrial and architectural design. And also because I hate myself.
This is what Soumitra, crammed in the library the day before his paper was due, thought he must have decided a year ago when selecting his senior year courses. He was blessed enough to have a free period at the end of the day, and he was locked and loaded to write his final draft. Four to five thousand words, due the next morning. He had an outline. And multiple drafts. it was all a matter of letting the words flow, but there was probably a clog in the system because, hey, those words were not flowing.
He had the title page down - prolificity at its finest. He opened Spotify, hoping that on his laptop it wouldn't lag as extensively as it did on his ancient phone. Noah Kahan - Stick Season (Forever). 30 tracks could do no wrong. Northern Attitude, first track, full locked into writing mode. But actually, on that note, he wondered if Clarissa liked Noah Kahan; she seemed the type, in terms of vibes. If not, he needed to, like, put her on. Wait, no, that sounded like he was getting her hooked on drugs. He didn't do that.
Oh, right, focus. It didn't take long to focus; it was like he was naturally gifted or something (be serious, though). He breezed through that abstract, actually. That was sort of just the last thing he remembered.
He woke up to You're Gonna Go Far. He'd listened to the album enough times to know that, hey, that was actually over an hour. But it didn't take a genius to figure out he'd fallen asleep, because ignoring the fact that he generally felt like shit and had a woefully unwritten paper, he sat in a sparsely populated room that suggested the day was over and he missed, like, an hour of window that he should have spent writing.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes that stung slightly for no particular reason other than the fact that the world was probably out to get him or something. This was fine.