Postcard from Thesis Hell

"Oh man," I say, buckling into my thesis safety seat. "What a bonerkiller."

That's right. Through all the hysteria, panic, and late-night naked thesis meetings with my advisor, one thing has remained constant: my thesis is a fucking bonerkiller. I'm sitting in a sauna with a bunch of other dudes, a boner comes out of NOWHERE and all I have to do is think "fall break deadlines" and BAM that boner goes the hell down. I try. I do what I can to maintain that boner, but there's no greater bonerkiller in the universe than my thesis and that is a tool to be wielded wisely and precisely.

You can't just drag your thesis into any sort of bonerkilling situation. You're talking with your grandmother and you get a boner? You're out of god damn luck, man. Kill your boner however you want, but don't include my thesis. My thesis has a bonerkilling power all its own. I won't have that being co-opted by any sort of hot-grandma action. The thesis is specific and well-defined, and none of that definition includes ANYTHING about grandmas.

What I'm trying to say is that doing a thesis is lame as hell. However, for all the times you wished you had a bonerkiller you will now have one. Just talk to your advisor and say "hey, I am not really interested in doing a thesis but I wanted a bonerkiller. Please just let me keep that part and never graduate. I promise to stick around the poolhall if that is a requirement." Then, if you ever need a bonerkiller, you are set for life. You could even meet the president. You could even write a book. You could even be a girl.