Cole’S Law Blog

When you’re about to go to law school, everyone thinks that you need advice, especially lawyers. The thing with advice is that you rarely get any that’s as good as your own. So anyway, we’re talking and I’m giving him all the head nods and keen eye placations that would indicate that I don’t want this guy to go fuck himself. Then he says to me, “remember, it’s a marathon, not a race.” I realize I’m out of shape. Way to rub it in asshole.

Law school is supposed to be an intimidating place. Everyone seems to be smarter than you, nothing you read makes any sense, and your books weigh more than your lower lumbar would ever care to support. Luckily, it seems as though I have some good, understanding professors to throw pixie dust over it all. But it’s what they’re sugar coating that I’m looking forward to with great disdain.

With the first week of law school behind me, I look ahead to the shit sandwich that will be the rest of the year. Although the week itself was not very strenuous, we all know what’s ahead of us, that it’s all going to get much worse before it gets any…less worse.

Some things I have learned include the following nuggets of truth:

1. A civil action is commenced by filing a complaint.
2. Lack of intent does not free someone from a conversion tort.
3. A Contracts book makes a very good coaster for Scotch.

Well, I’m off to the beach for the weekend to tan my white-picket chest while trying to refrain from operating any heavy machinery. The beach is a great place where no one judges you, and if they do, at least it’s to your face. It’s a place where if anything, you’re judged by the most appropriate of parameters, your drink. As I sling back drink upon drink to my liver’s glee, there’s still that voice in the back of my head, urging me to remember “it’s a marathon, not a race.” Thanks to the Scotch, I won’t.