Send me back to suburbia, before academia claims my soul

[Warning: Rant will ensue.]

Here’s a fact for you, I am sick to death of facts. I have a growing distaste for words I can barely lift with a forklift and metaphors you have to hurl an encyclopaedia, a PhD and two separate bi-lingual dictionaries at before you can even begin to understand what they might be getting at. Historians and their truths, lies and unknowns are getting on my nerves, as are the high and mighty in-joke’s that fly around in the reputably stale old world of academia. It’s not all that stodgy and stale most of the time, but I have a sneaking suspicion I’m playing in a sea of theoretical codswallop larger than I can handle. Post-structuralism, deconstructionism, superstructure, cultural hegemony, truth...

...or dare? No? Ok...

Nobody appreciates jokes in languages they can’t understand, or names of people they don’t know that espoused theories that they’ve never heard of but oh-my-you-really-should-know-that. Those kinds of intellectualities are why people don’t like the cultural elites that hide in their university offices dressing things up in big-big-words and arguing over the nitty-gritty and bemoaning common society before retiring to their books and fantasies. I belong to this less than heavenly world of pen and paper. I spend my time philosophising and hurling large, ridiculous words at people. I kind of like it. But right now I’m entering the final round of semester with only 2 essays to knock out and I’m about to start flatlining on the brain monitor. The realisation is fast approaching that I’m 99% sure I cannot remember a damned thing I’ve been studiously attempting to absorb all day because low and behold, my carefactor is speedily approaching 0 with 1/1000 chance of radical turnaround.

Disenchanted? Disengaged? Dis-dis-dissertation will be the end of me.