Class Wore: Scarves v. Turtlenecks
I’m sitting in my Torts class and we are discussing some kind of negligence, don’t ask me what kind. Basically I walk into class at 8:59, turn on my computer, and try to remain hidden behind my monitor while willing the professor’s call sheet away from my name. Although I did read for today, I am largely uninterested in the topic for the day. Not to say this isn’t how I feel every day but come on; I have important stuff to do here, like read ESPN and google myself.
The next step beyond laptop screen invisibility is the looking intently at the teacher while also remaining low key and unassailable. I have found that if you put your index finger on the side of your head, the middle finger above the mouth, and the thumb below the chin, you give off all the appearances of a student who seems to be genuinely interested in the class discussion while still reading ESPN. I suppose I should show more consideration to the classroom but I’ve adopted a new definition of the term that absconds me from my non-contractual moral obligations. Besides, what’s with all this letting-girls-off-the-elevator-first business? Their priorities are out of order. When it comes to elevators, women need to be more interested in going down than they are about getting off. (This is to apply only to elevators.)
Two days later and I’m in torts again. We’re doing some such medical malpractice case about causation. Teacher told us that lawyers are the second biggest substance abusers in a profession aside from doctors. Since when is crack whore not a viable profession? My handwriting is so bad now that I could probably write a prescription to something abuse-worthy. As an aside, I swear that the kid sitting next to me is wearing the exact same white sweater as the girl sitting two rows in front of me. Shit, I think he knows that I’m talking about him. Shit, I should probably stop staring at him and judging him while talking about him. I should also probably stop saying all of this out loud.
Right now, 71% of the girls in class are wearing scarves. These meaningless rags cover up the only thing that helps me forget that I’m in law school. Turtlenecks are slightly better but still are an annoying shiv in my side. These girls are taking the Wu a little too seriously. Ladies, there are more important things to protect than your neck.
In lighter matters, exams are a month away and a few things have changed for the even worse. It’s almost November and a group of girls have aligned their menstrual cycles after continuous hours spent in the library. There is also a new faction of people that I call the shhh people. These are the people who say shhh during class when other people are talking out of place. I’m not friends with any shhh people for a reason. Aside from drivers who throw their cigarettes out of their windows and right into my windshield, girls at bars who are engaged, and scarves, there is nothing I hate more than the shhh people.
Actually, I’d like to amend this complaint as I’m now remembering that which I loathe most: the fake laughter that the class emits from lame puns and terrible jokes that the professors make throughout these lectures. We just discussed a case where a girl got raped twice on her walk home after she was forced to exit a train in the middle of nowhere. The teacher precluded the case description by calling it a “fun and interesting” case.
As for election day, I’d be a lot more excited if it was being held in China. Let us all remember to shun our consideration and that the Old English prefix of chivalry is shiv, something that you get stabbed with while starring in your very own reality rendition of The Shawshank Redemption. Shit, I can’t wait to get out of here, sit on my couch, read ESPN, and google myself while I look at girls who don’t wear scarves or turtlenecks. First though, I’m off to the pharmacy.
Going Down On Pandora’s Box
The Jewish holidays are among us and Thanksgiving is ten weeks away. A time when we will rejoin our families, eat food, and remember why we left them in the dust. Here’s a word of advice for the kids out there. If you think that your parents have emotionally damaged you, please be sure to file your complaint within three years of your legal independence at eighteen. The statute of limitations only lasts three years so you have until you are twenty-one to file a tort for intentional infliction of emotional distress for that time your mom told your prom date that she looked great but could probably stand to lose a couple pounds before the big night. So much for that $400 deposit on the limo with the waterbed. I wasted fucking three hours making that Teddy Pendergrass mixtape. But I’m over that……starting……..now.
There’s a kid in class who starts each of his questions with “this may not be important but…” or “I have a technical question that may not pertain to the thrust of the…” or “I was strangely fascinated by…” This kid sucks.[1] Please! Nobody has been “strangely fascinated” by a book over 1,000 pages in length since the one about the guy who turned a fish into blood and his body into Melba toast.[2] Law school, or at least the first year of it, is not about being “strangely fascinated.” It’s about what you know and what you don’t know; working stiff, grinding your teeth until you need a mouthpiece and a fucking blow job to get through your Contracts class.
As I have previously alluded to, it seems as though we’re regressing in age and comprehension of immediate surroundings. In addition to learning the language of legalese, everyday things are reverting back to the second grade. Every question seems to beget another one and the answers that have pertinent meaning become muddled with the rotten fecal matters of other ridiculous inquiries. It’s been six weeks now and the shit is beginning to pile up. Does anybody have a plunger?
Adding to my grade school theory, I have been on a juice box binge and have downed about eight Juicy Juice four ouncers since two sentences ago. No product has ever described itself more accurately. However, despite my rediscovered love for juice boxes[3] and already well-documented use of baby oil, I am worried about the other side effects. Although my depth perception is still intact, when I finally do handle a case, the opposing attorneys really will be able to sue the shit out of me. Although I previously mentioned that I don’t believe in things the homeless ask me for, I will probably need a change of diapers. I will then proceed to crawl on the floor and roll up in the fetal position. At least then I’ll be fascinated by what the hell I’m doing.
[1] In the interest of full disclosure, this is the same kid who wears the law school orientation shirt to class and wears the most unnecessarily large helmet when he rides his bike to school.
[2] Personally, I haven’t read it, but I hear it’s this year’s Da Vinci Code.
[3] And children’s cough syrup.
Baby Bottles Up My Brain
One thing that has been irking me lately is Civil Procedure, where I nearly puked in the middle of class the other day. It has nothing to do with the teacher, who is cool and looks and sounds exactly like Egon from Ghostbusters. No, its the kid who sits in front of me, (the same kid who was elected SGA president for promising Posturepedic chairs), eating clams casino in the middle of class. We’ve got Oysters Rockefeller over here having a grand old time shucking and sucking while I’m trying to learn about Federal Rule 11 and grounds for dismissal. Now I can’t eat in class unless a Rabbi throws up some fucking mistletoe. At least I had the good sense not to vote.
Law school is like being a baby all over again without the tits to suck on. You’re essentially learning a new way of thinking and everything sounds muddled like a Casino. The only enjoyment I am afforded is the gravy volcano that I make out of mashed potatoes and gravy between classes.
I look around at my classmates and wonder what the deal is with everybody caring about stuff. I guess some people want to tattoo their face on the ass of history. I would but Jewish cemeteries won’t give me a proper burial. Besides, there’s not much left to be claimed by the non-technological anals of history and I can’t run fast enough to break my legs. Most of the cast has been signed already by people like Washington, Churchill, and Jong Il. Music has waned since the White Album and writing has devolved into pointless blog posts and text messages with unnecessary abbreviations. If we had everyone acting on their initial brainstorms and rough drafts, maybe we’d have a social utopia[1] on our hands, instead of stagnation and the Alzheimer’s of original intent. The only rights we have are bragging and the only words we can live by are “covetous neighbors.” Let’s face it, the Renaissance is over and it’s not as bad as we thought it would be. At least there’s cable.
This city is much different from other cities I have inhabited. People in New Orleans worry about their next meal and/or beer, Miami their next lay, New York is next month’s rent, but here is next month’s administration. It’s the only place where the “I’m a lawyer/I’m in law school” line is likely to be met with “Oh my G-d me too?” More often than not though, it is met with a “So?”, a shrug of the shoulders, and a half-turn in the direction of someone more successful.
Yesterday I was in a cab on the way back from a bar that had more dogs than the fucking Iditarod. Instead of taking me directly home, the driver decided to pick up these girls on the side of the road. It was a nice part of town and they looked like they’d packed their toothbrushes and were good to go so I obliged. The girls piled in, five of us in a four person cab, and drunkenly offered me fries to which I declined. One of them asked what school I went to and I tried to tell them without sounding like a standoffish prick. Note: if law school is your second graduate school, this is impossible. I found myself bent over a barrel and dead in a ditch. The cab pulled up to my building and I went up and fell asleep on my couch and had a dream about my first wife.
I got to go now as I’m in the process of inventing an oven that blows you while you make Thanksgiving dinner. I figure that’s the only way I’ll get on the cast. Knowing me, it’ll probably be compromised and turned into an automatic gravy volcano maker. Plus, I need to go to the store. I’m out of milk. L8R MTHRFRS.
[1] Not to be confused with its vice-versa.
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