Update: soul sucking in progress.

I sent this picture, along with some others of my study center, to Fbomb and SlackerP yesterday. That was my low point. I was so out of my gourd from studying that I resorted to taking pictures of my room. It was ugly.

Now I stand on the other side of my torts exam though. Rather than telling you about it, I thought I'd sum it up with some post-exam correspondence between Fbomb and I. This is really how we talk to each other; this is how far down the spiral we are [edit: re-reading this, it actually sounds like it's just me that's down the sprial].

From me to Fbomb right after test:
"done w/ torts for the rest of my life. it was a good first test to have b/c i have no idea how i did. you just spew info for 3 hours. i typed 18 pages. i read none of them. it could be good, or it could be an F. we shall see. "

Fbomb response:
"awesome!! congrats. i'm super jealous. "

Me (apparently so delirious that I sent essentially the same email to her twice)
"no more torts. ever. it's a good exam to have first though. i have no idea how i did b/c there was so much more than you could cover. i have no feelings at all about it, other than that i pray to god i didn't fail."

Me (back in the library now, getting antsy)
"umm...aren't you supposed to be entertaining me?"

Fbomb (in her defense, she sent me gratuitous good luck emails last night)
"i'm sorry i'm in panic mode and i'm jealous that you're on top of everything and know what you're doing and are doing everything the right way and i'm a fucking mess wading through this shit totally blind with no study groups to tell me what i'm supposed to be doing and i'm the most fucking retarded person ever if somebody doesn't tell me exactly what to do and when i will fucking self destruct. off to memorize my 70 page outline for my CLOSED BOOK MOTHER FUCKING EXAM! O#UOFJKSDFU#(OU#$U#U$OUO#(TdslsdkfjKLDjlkjfklsjielrlier!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Me back:

1) Since this is all about me, as always, this email was quite a buzzkill. Thanks a fucking bunch.

2) You are right, I am "on top of everything," if by "on top of everything" you capable of physically sitting through a 3 hour test. In that regard, I have kicked your ass. For all we know, you can't sit for three hours. Or your fingers will fall off from the info dump that is a torts exam. You won't be at my level until you prove it.

3) As an aside, I do like the last line of the email. It is great that they include Somali in the required coursework. I mean, any foreign language work in law school is kind of rare, but Somali? Great stuff. Kudos, FBomb.

4) As I told you, I'm 90% sure that a guy from my study group posted on XOXO that he was going to fail and was strongly considering dropping out. His analytic ability is definitely going to put me over the edge. What an advantage I have. Dickhead (I mean him). Touche (I mean you).

5) If you want to see self-destruction, you should see what happens when the 90 year old exam proctor gets asked whether or not to name the CD you're burning with your exam on it. (For the record, I was smart enough not to ask this question, another sure sign that I am inherently superior to you - for those of you keeping score: 1) study group full of autistic primates; 2) I know how to burn a cd).

6) 70 page outline? Christ. Did you type up the UCC?

As punishment for this shameful email and my shameful response, I am posting this correspondence on Penguins so that the world can see what law school has done to us. "

Well, I'm a man of my word at least.


Prostates on the top; scalpels on the bottom*

"Well, I mean, to some extent every man in this room has prostate cancer."

My torts prof said this. I’m still not sure I understand it. I laughed though.

That quote plus those three sentences sum up my law school experience at the Georgetown University Law Factory so far. Teachers saying things. I'm pretending to understand. Then, lots of awkward laughter followed by me staring at my crotch.

If I had to come up with a word to describe my experience so far, it would be manic-depressive. Two words you say? Piss off. MS Word says it’s one when you have a 2,000 word memo due the next morning. Hyphenation is key.

On the manic side, DC is good, I see SlackerP more than I did when I lived in NYC (can you believe she's running a marathon this weekend? Me neither, but I'll let you know if she actually does it), and I have re-entered the blissfully ignorant bubble of life on an urban-but-gated academic campus. When class gets tough I watch Tai Shan;* I might buy his t-shirt, and I fully support his nomination to the bench. When class is [really] easy, I try to picture myself as a licensed lawyer [for what it's worth at this point, before a felony convictions].

On the depressive side, learning the law is hard (if not impossible), the liquor store down the street closes at 9p and has a $10 credit card minimum, and I’ve regressed to my pre-kindergarten reading rate of 3 pages per hour.

So I argue back and forth a lot about whether I’m happy here or oppressed by the inevitable crush that GULC must face in trying to separate/rank 600 law students and then force them back through the meat grinder into respectable jobs (hopefully). I’ve even drafted posts before, but scrapped them when either a) they sound too crabby, or b) too many Viagara adds show up in the comment section after I post them.

In the end, I’m pretty lucky and happy, until I run out of whiskey.

I’ll close how I ended, with a GULC quote:

"If Roe must be aborted to end legal discrimination on the basis of sex in this nation, then hand me the scalpel."

That’s from the student newspaper. I mean, what’s not to love?

*So far, the main lesson of law school has been semi-colons


Postcards from Hell

Did you ever think that your soul could be completely crushed, pureed, eviscerated- in two months time? In two weasly months, a previously robust, thriving soul is now a limp, lifeless shell of its former self. "Dear me!" you say to yourself. "How can this be?!?!?" Indeed. How can it be?

Law school has claimed another victim. So fucking trite, I know. But I'd like to think that my pain is different. My own personal hell on earth must be unique in some way, right? Otherwise what am I? Miserable, depressed, horrified beyond belief on a daily basis... and a cliche?!? I couldn't bear it.

I wish I could say my pain were different, but I doubt it's the case. But I will say that I can't believe that anybody has ever dreaded a place as much as I dread the hallowed halls of my law school. Entering each morning I consider my options: laying down in the street and being run over by a bus, hanging myself from a streetlamp, throwing myself on the subway tracks. When i leave each evening, I cannot wipe the smile off my face. I literally FROLIC all the way home- the world is a glorious, shining, beautiful place. Each stranger on the street is my friend. The honking horns and bus farts are the sweet melody of life.

And then it's the next morning.

This is my life. Alas. Yes, I'm being dramatic. Yes, I'm being a baby. Yes, I am SURELY not making the best of my situation. BUT... I want to complain. Because pain likes this needs to be vented, otherwise I will implode.

But it's all worth it, right? Shitting away your mid-twenties is TOTALLY worth it, because then I'll get a job I hate and will live happily ever after.


E3B has suggested I become an alcoholic, numb my pain, and all will be well. I think he's right. Do you think they'd notice that I had vodka in my WestLaw nalgene bottle instead of water? Mwahahah.



Black Toenails and Bloody Nipples

This Sunday, I'm finally running the Marine Corps Marathon in DC. I'm heading down tonight.

Please send me good luck thoughts on Sunday morning. Or, better yet, a new set of kneecaps. I have a sneaking suspicion I may need 'em.

Full recap of the race to follow. I'm sure you'll love hearing about chafing and Runner's Trots.


I Touched Him

Last night I volunteered at the Red Cross ball. My job was to wear a Red Cross teeshirt and smile at rich people. And take their credit card info when they won in the auction. And resist the temptation to run cackling out of the building with said credit card, yelling "I'll show you disaster relief, biiiitcheeeees."

Clinton spoke. Bloomberg posed. A rich old man thought I was funny when I told him we accepted gold bullion.

But the highlight, by far, was Jon Stewart. He was mc'ing the evening. Now, everyone who knows me knows that I want to be the Irish corned beef in a Jon Stewart / Stephen Colbert love sandwich. Last night was my chance.

As the volunteers lined up in the hallway to get instructions for the auction, I noticed Jon off to the side, with his wee handler man. Though I was supposed to be listening to directions, I instead stared at him, and as he started to walk away, I gazed at him from on high (I'm 5'10" in flats, and I was in stellettos, and he's a little man).

Then it happened.

We locked eyes.

I tried to communicate my desire.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi...Jon," I said, displaying my rapier wit.

"Hi," he said again, waiting.

"I'm a huge fan."

"Thank you," he said.

And then he shook my hand [while his little handler dude interrupted us and was trying to get my flow, which annoyed me, and distracted Jon, and broke our moment].

But he touched me.

My right hand. My sacred hand. My hand blessed by the funny. My hand that blesses my own funny, if you know what I mean.

And I think you do.


Breaking "news"

Nick and Jessica are divorcing, and Katie is going to have Tom's baby (allegedly).

Can't you just see their publicists -- "This Miers chick has stolen the spotlight long enough. Let's get back to real news!"

Poor Harriet. You're going to have to give Condi a lesbi-lapdance if you want any attention.



Poor E3B and fbomb have heard many a diatribe about this next hot-button issue, but it's about time I let my voice ring from the electronic mountaintops. Attention all who use computers to relay communication!

Stop with the fucking emoticons.

And, while we're at it, stop with the fucking emotional experience acronyms like J/K and LOL.

"But, but, SlackerP! We *need* emoticons and acronyms! Or else someone might misunderstand my email/text message/instant message."

Here's a tip, kids - if your email requires you to denote in cutesy symbols how the person should interpret what you are saying then YOU AREN'T A VERY GOOD WRITER and perhaps you should go back to the goddamn drawing board and figure out how to communicate without pictures (case in point: would you need me to do a >:( right now to tell that I'm not exactly tickled by these things?). Sarcasm used well is a beautiful thing, and if you are writing to someone that doesn't register sarcasm or whose misinterpretation could, I don't know, offend them or cost you your job then PERHAPS YOU SHOULDN'T BE SARCASTIC in that instance.

Too often, people use emoticons as crutches. Either they are gratuitous (e.g. "Hope you have a happy day! :)") or they are just free passes for saying something not funny and stupidly insulting (e.g. "You suck :)") Rarely do I see an emoticon that serves some purpose other than bugging the shit out of me. "Hmm. I thought she was ambivalent on the subject of slapping babies, but now I see the colon followed by the parenthesis notation and I know she must be seriously frowning at the idea. Thanks, emoticon!"

Along those same lines, quit using J/K (Just kidding!) in emails. Again, if they can't tell you are kidding, then learn how to write a joke. And stop using it, like the emoticons, to excuse some shitty statement (e.g. "You aren't actually my kid. J/K!")

And now we get to my favorite - LOL. LOL supposedly means "laugh out loud" and variations include LMAO ("laughing my ass off"), ROTFL ("rolling on the floor laughing"), which then combine to make the Super Acronym ROTFLMAO ("rolling on the floor laughing my ass off"). If you use these acronyms regularly, are you actually doing these things?! Are you actually in danger of your ass detaching from your body because of some joke you just got forwarded about how men are like lint catchers? Are you really rolling around on the floor, cavorting with dust buffalo and crappy carpet, because that picture of a cat in a bucket was just so funny? If you aren't actually doing those things, why the hell are you including it?!

Now I have a dear friend, who I love, who uses LOL all the time in emails. If you took her scribblings at face value, then you would think that this girl sits at her computer cackling like a banchee to the point that she should be locked up. Like say you invite her out. She might write you back with "Thanks for the invitation LOL." Do you really think that she's guffawing when you suggest dinner?

Once, with a different friend, he wrote LLLLLOOOOOOLLLLL. What the fuck does that mean? Is this an acronym for someone who stutters?

Some of you may think I'm being irrational about this. Perhaps. But all I gots to say to that is F.U.

P.S. To those of you who use :P as representative of your current state, keep your goddamn tongue in your mouth where it belongs or else someone may mistake you for a child that needs a helmet and a seat on the short bus.


No, Seriously?

Gawker is reporting that OK! Magazine allegedly paid $2 million for this photo of "Britney Spear's baby."

So I've got a plan, kids. I'm going to dye my hair, stop showering, dress like white trash, and then carry around a gourd with some yarn on top. One of you takes a picture of me, preferably from a long distance away and while shaking the camera, and then you and I will split the check.

Screw law school.

Go Sox

I just secured two tickets to Game 1 of the playoffs in Boston on the optimistic hope that the Sox make it to the playoffs. Keep your fingers crossed. Me drunk at Fenway waving a foam finger and blending in among a group of idiots is long overdue.

In other sports news, how 'bout them Browns? Cough.

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