Just Call Me Doctor Claw

I have spent the last few days doing a lot of writing. I had originally intended to do a full day of Exam Writing just like the real Bar exam (with the exception of three essays instead of an MPT, with 12 essay topics, it would have worked out well), but I decided that that idea was stupid. Not wholly stupid, but the reasons behind the decision were stupid. I was not doing it to test my knowledge, but rather to exercise my hand for the grueling six hours of writing.

I figured out a couple days ago that there was a better way to do my training; one that is conducive to learning (i.e. memorization). I decided to just re-write my notes. The lecture notes that is. But to make it feel like I was doing more than just re-writing my lecture notes, I pulled out the mini-review (literally) and the big outline, to cross check anything I was unsure about and find the random factoids (err, lawoids), that Kaufman neglected to mention because he was too concerned with spending 20 minutes on getting the correct exam answer for some question rather than an exhaustive survey of the law.*

This was a ridiculously long process. I started, I think on Friday (might have been Saturday, my short term memory is shot (because I have to remember all these rules and exceptions and exceptions to the exceptions)), and wrote for as long as I could. I think it was about eight hours. Then, the next day, I continued the process, but could barely write for five hours. Yeah, that was Saturday, because Sunday I took most of the day off to go buy a new computer (more on this at some point, I have a lot of bitching to do about my old computer). Sunday was not a total waste, because I outlined Family Law (such Fun! Wish I could do that again), even though my arm was still in pain and I could barely grip my Dr. Grip. (I had originally intended to use cheap pens, and by cheap I mean the box of 36 Papermates I bought at Office Max for $2.50 because I fully expect that is what will be given us for the bar exam, but that lasted about two hours. Fuck those pens, it is not just the fact that they are skinny, but also the shitty rollerball they have. A crappy pen requires more force against the paper, while my sweet Dr. Grip, despite its name, glides elegantly across the page, depositing the ideal amount of ink to form a letter with minimal effort. (not as great as a ceramic pen, but good enough that it does not bug me incessantly.))

So, to shorten this up, because yous probably have shit to do, the plan worked. I wrote for six hours today. There was not a lot of pain, just mostly a lingering a soreness, such that I am confident that I will have the ability to write for six hours without the pain bugging me.

Granted there is one problem. I decided to celebrate the finishing of the outline writing by drinking a Bud Light. However, my arm/hand is so exhausted that I could not twist off the top. I do not know if that is more pathetic or sad. At least my bottle opener still works. If I still cannot twist off a top by Sunday, I will be worried about arm fatigue.

But now I suppose I should start worrying about actually knowing the stuff that is going to be tested.


*Not a bad thing, just not how I would have taught it. I get a little leery about this approach because at least three times during BarBri, the instructor would say something like, "Then in February '07, they caught us off guard by including this fact which requires this analysis." BarBri is rightly reactionary, and they rightly focus the lectures on the most heavily tested areas (and previously tested areas), but I get all paranoid by these statements. It has gotten to the point that I am positive that there is going to be one question on the essay where I am just like, What the Fuck is that? Thankfully, I have come to grips with this, i.e. the fact there is going to be something on the exam where I have absolutely no clue what they want me to talk about. My plan is to take a deep breath, put on my bull shitting pants and start each line with these letters, no matter what:

W
H
A
T
T
H
E
F
U
C
K