Cole’S Law Blog

Last week I was on the bus and holding my Contracts book when a cute girl sat down beside me. I nonchalantly stuck the book in her eyeline with the thought that she would see how successful I may become in 36 months and open up her…mouth for…further negotiations. I was surprised when this did not work. This brings me to the dull-bladed point of why I went to law school: chicks.

When I first entered law school, I thought that passing the bar was a euphemism that meant that when it was all over you could go into a bar and get any girl you wanted. Turns out, it’s some sort of test.

We’re at the time in the semester when I stop feeling sorry for myself and just start feeling myself. Consequentially, I have developed tendinitis in my right hand and told my doctor it was probably from typing 2,000 words per class every day. [1] I took his advice and I’m now a switch hitter.

After looking at Parker Posey’s imdb page,[2] I now realize how totally worthless I am. From what the other students are saying, it really is time to start taking all of this stuff seriously. I don’t go to the library as there is a two hour limit on the meters outside the law school. The hell if I’m going outside to put in more quarters. Besides, if I did that I’d only be studying 20 minutes every two hours. People are in the library constantly and if I was anybody but me I would probably be disconcerted. The only thing that I find more amusing than the library dwellers is the school girl crushes that have developed. Some of the girls have fostered unhealthy infatuations with our professors, eliciting widespread giggles every time they have to answer a question. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome without the missing limbs and tattered clothing.[3]

The other night I was at the bar and taking some batting practice with somebody else’s girlfriend. She said that she admired what I was doing because I was “making a difference in the world.” I quickly laughed off this notion and forgot about it completely. As one of my friends told her, if you want to make a difference join the fucking Peace Corps. But I guess it’s like the Christian Children’s Fund asks, “another day another dollar.”

To be thought of as a “difference maker” greatly strained my subconscious and recurred in my frontal lobe only after I neglected to vote in last Tuesday’s proceedings. Yes, ladies, I did not vote. Yes, I’m a bad person. Yes, I’m aware that I shirked my civic duty.  If anyone in my class found this out I’d surely be ostracized from Torts class and my student discount card would be revoked at the deli down the street.[4]

As for me, I’m just glad that all of our problems are solved. Outside my apartment door, screams and shouts of glee could be heard from my neighbors as the winner was proclaimed. It was like the end of Return of the fucking Jedi! In case you skipped over the last three sentences, I am optimistic about the situation. Recounting the Peace Corps girl I have learned that if history has taught us anything, it’s not to take anything at face value, especially if that girl is really ugly.[5]

A few weeks ago, I was out with some friends doing everything that you would expect. At the end of the night, my friend and I found ourselves locked out of our other friend’s apartment with no means of securing other accommodations. At this point, things were not looking up and, upon looking down, I found the tile floor outside the apartment door to be the only solution. After spending the night sleeping in an unheated stairwell, we were kicked out by the building’s sour-mashed superintendent who was not sympathetic to our cause. His face was alcoholic red and he had a pony-tail covered by a faded hat. I was afraid to look in the mirror if I was a miscreant to this individual but it appeared that now was the time for self-reflection. Wearing my Halloween costume at a moment like this was like having a vision quest at an Indian casino and, as I patrolled the streets of the city looking for shelter and just about any area with heat and large deposits of coffee, I realized that I had finally hit the bottom of the community pool. Also, that it might not be a good idea to reprise Risky Business as a Halloween costume in any city north of Atlanta.

I guess that what I’ve learned from all of this is that hitting bottom isn’t so bad. It’s time to roll with the rabbit punches. Let’s just hope where I’m rolling isn’t the gutter where I fear a long awaited reunion with my head. People are asking me what classes are like now and I try to respond with something obscenely profound, but usually it just ends up being obscene. Sitting through class is like playing naked twister with Ron Jeremy, either way you look at it you lose…especially if you look at it.

After the last three months, I’m tired of taking all this crap lying down. I just wish I hadn’t eaten that turkey sandwich. I’ve spun the board and I’m putting my right hand on red. Just don’t ask me where the other one is.