An anonymous Bwogger speaks their truth and begs for forgiveness from their professors. 

Dear my various readings and assignments,

Quarantine has effected us all in different ways, but from what I’ve noticed in myself and talking to my friends is that our motivation? Oh, she’s long gone.

I know my professors put lots of hard work into crafting beautiful syllabuses to invigorate and inspire us, and our as one of my former professors put it, “teach us all to become good little NPR listeners,” but now that I haven’t left my house in six weeks, the concept of completing even the most menial assignment is daunting. I’m writing this post to avoid an essay that was due a week ago, in my mind discussion posts are optional, and I have become a master of the “I think that point is really interesting and reflects the broader issue of cultural divides in this time period” response in every Zoom breakout room. Ask me a question and my brain becomes so smooth, á la John Mulaney, the only answer I can think of is “who’s to say?”.

I truly believe that if I close my eyes I can’t see the assignments I have to do, the assignments can’t see me back, and that’s been my main strategy for the second half of the semester. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still freakishly stressed and worried and crave the approval of my professors, but now that I can’t lock myself in Milstein for hours, I see no reasonable or possible manner in which I could do any of them. This game I’ve created for myself is enticing, my options are the good ol’ time zone excuse, turning it in late and hoping they don’t say anything, leaving it to literally the last minutes (like to the point where I’m writing a five-page paper in 30 minutes), or my personal favorite, screaming into a Word doc a week after the assignment was due and assuming a coherent, compelling, and completed piece of work will emerge out of this firey pit of avoidance and procrastination. In another life, you would be sparkling and impressive products of a brain not smooth but full of wrinkles, filled to the brim with quotes, citations, and maybe even a clear line of reasoning, but alas, such a reality has been ripped out from under us.

Shifting my attention to my readings, I want to give my sincerest condolences to all of you: from the 60-page pedantic academic writings published in the 1920s, the New York Time’s best selling piece of postmodern feminist lit, and the various other groundbreaking and probably lifechanging readings that I will never read. It’s not you, it’s me, but also it’s you and I’d rather play The Sims or stare into the abyss than annotate you. Hopefully, our paths will cross one day in the future, but just know, even if our stars align again, I probably still won’t read you.


Me, who is trying their best but also isn’t really trying at all.

Image of the Bwogger writing this instead of being productive from the Bwog Archives.