A Room of One's Own.

My Uni work is staring at me from my desk.

I know what it's thinking: that I've forgotten it. It's not the case; I always know it's there. It has just become my bete noir at the moment, and this is when it has reached the critical point where my entire theory will either, with a little gentle manipulation, be revealed as a work of career making genius, or of, well, utter crap. Should the latter be the case then I will just give up and drop out of society - move to Gokarna, India and send psycho-tropic halucinogens over the Internet (for a small fee) to a mailling list of dead beat pot heads looking for the next high. Well that, or become a bit sad and skulk off to my Supervisor's office to look for further encouragement, to make inappropriate jokes or have a mental foot rub.

There are two choices:

a). To throw myself dispassionately into the research, and with tremendous fortitude isolate the problems; in doing so forget my own personal problems and further my career?

or

b). Put the work in a drawer and spend the last of my wages on a night of lamenting in the pub, wake up sweating and anxious, then make outlandish promises to my self, regarding future working practice?

I'll let you know...