Waiting For The Ten Count

So my thesis is defended and I've made and submitted my revisions to my Dr. Supervisor. And now I'm in this metaphorical game of Perfection -- trying furiously to get all my odd-shaped pegs into their odd-shapped holes before the timer goes off and throws said odd-shaped pegs allover my dust and cat crap filled appartment. It's a world of never-ending deadlines. I have no problem meeting deadlines, but unfortunately, nothing short of a difibulator up the asshole will get Dr. Supervisor to sign off on something more than 5 seconds before it is due. This little habit of theirs causes me to experience heart palpitations, sweating palms, expressive aphasia, and dizziness. So much so that I'm either in love with them or desperately want to go all Ali on their ass.

It's like the defence was punching my thesis in the face and laying it out flat (Psyche! Boom-bai-ay!) -- but I'm waiting for the pasty-white ref to slap the floor of the ring ten times to see if it will stay down or get up for one last swing at my sense of autonomy and control.

I don't really like thinking of my academic life in terms of aggressive and violent metaphors. My second reader and chair of my defence committee suggested that "defence" is too militaristic and that the word should be replaced with "coronation." But what would I be queen of? No matter what, my royal advisor would always continue to undermine me at every turn. Refusing to write a reference letter until 3 minutes before it is due it like to refusing to sign a peace treaty until the enemy has it's troops all lined up with every gun and canon and a-bomb pointed directly at my heart. At best, I'm in a constant state of anxiety. At worst, my internal organs will be vapourized and replaced by a mushroom cloud.

So thesis, STAY DOWN! Because I just KNOW that Dr. Supervisor will have some purely subjective style changes for you and let you know about them with only an hour to get everything printed and bound at Kinkos and then driven over to the University. And then the gloves will be off.

Only they won't. Because unlike every single boxer that has ever entered a ring, Dr. Supervisor expects that no one will ever throw a punch. Start putting bail money aside now, Dear Reader...