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.

Hee.

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.

Kisses!!!!

--Fbomb

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.