I got bored.
Now, if I could only write about something substantial. Until that happens, here’s a picture of a cat who just can’t with all this anymore:
That would be me, one hearsay exception away from thrusting a hot pink highlighter through my face. Also, Instagram should change “Lo-Fi” to “Instant Ginger,” because seriously. Look at me.
So. Bar study. I’ve had the “Oh God, why” moment. I’ve had the meltdown. I’m now rolling along in a cautiously optimistic state of pure denial. Apparently I’m right on track. I’m also 100% pure mess. Dedicating every waking moment (not spent taking selfies and sanity-blogging) to Every Law Ever Written and Also Texas Exceptions takes a toll.
But, it’s worth it. I’ve got the “Doctor.” It’s time for “Counselor.”
I took a whole hour (WHOLE HOUR) to eat lunch and take stock of…things.
And by “take stock of…things,” I mean, “laugh hysterically at this amazing picture”:
That’s really it, isn’t it? The inauguration. The weird inaugural poem that made everyone uncomfortable. The bar exam. My tax bill. The guy who got inaugurated thinking it’s okay for my tax bill to go up as much as it did. THE BAR EXAM. Eric Cantor’s facial expression is my everything. He’s my spirit politician.
Back to the BarBri Bankruptcy Boondoggle. Alliteration is discouraged on the Texas essays, or so I hear.
Also, hello to new friends and readers. I hope I’m not a disappointing read.
EDIT: I reserve the right to go back in and correct my bar brain-perpetuated typos. “Pregnant brain” ain’t got nothin’ on this hot southern mess. I found a t-shirt in the fridge yesterday.
Sucks sucks sucks.
It’s not the material. It’s not the memorization. It’s the time commitment. Learning all the things takes a chunk of hours out of my already-crazy days, and I can tell it’s going to take a toll by the time March 1 rolls around and I’ve nothing left to do but wait–and make sure legislation gets passed and all that.
The bar examiners are sadistic freaks. I think I’d make a great bar examiner.
My heart hurts today.
Yesterday’s brutality was scary and horrible, but today’s ambivalence and mockery is disgusting.
I’m not asking for empathy, or even compassion. Just common sense.
Your rejection of common sense is an outrage, and you shouldn’t expect me to tolerate it.
I have it, and it’s terrible.
I left Michigan at 10 o’clock at night back in June because I physically couldn’t stand to stay another minute in the home I’d grown to love. I was attached. I would have stayed.
I have a thing for lakes.
I still fall victim to my own crippling separation anxiety more than a month after the separation actually occurred. It sneaks up on me, invoked by anything from the rare cool evening breeze, to the thought of a winter without piles of snow. My perfume did it to me the other day. The memory attached to that perfume was so profound I felt a physical ache in my chest; the perfume is now in the very back of my closet, but the memory and the ache won’t go away. I’m not sure if I want it to.