I am writing. My. Thesis.
And I don't like it. My writing. My research. My arguments.
If graduate school was a native tribe in Somewhere, South America, then hitting this wall is a rite of passage that means I have blossomed into a true graduate student. But, alas, I am still "student." I am so very tired of my research topic that I just want to scream. Every last little nerve in me wants to graduate and be done, so I will push through.
My next rite of passage involves swallowing the research that I bit off and can now hardly chew. It means saying "no" when people want to go out. It means sacrificing sleep so I can fit more hours in my day. It means less play and more work (but not all work and no play; we know what happens then). It means putting down my pleasure reading and picking up my thesis works. It means putting my Netflix on hold for a few months, as I have no time for movies.
Upon my graduation day, there will be tears. That is the next rite of passage within my grad school tribe. But the tears will be ones of joy. I will wear my cap and gown, shining (war paint and feathers would be way cooler and would probably better signify the journey I had to make in order to cross that stage).
Until then, I make my fingers type out the boring academic words that compose my master's thesis, dreaming about freedom.