A Kroger Love Story Part 1

I wrote this a long time ago, and am just posting it now, so do not judge it too harshly.

There are probably several stories from my younger days that are worth telling. However this is the one I want to tell. Just as Mike from Barely Legal Blog worked at Kroger, I did so too. However, I do not have ten stories to tell, just one (though I was wearing the polo that Mike instituted).

It was so long ago, I cannot even remember what year it was. I think it was the fall semester of my sophomore year in college, when I came to be employed by the Kroger in my college town. A friend of mine had recently begun working in the Deli there, and told me it was an easy job and they were hiring. Me needing money to pay those older than me to procure beer for me, decided that the Deli at Kroger’s was the perfect job. I quickly set about filling out an application and was hired (I think there may have been an interview, but who knows). I naively figured that this would be a good chance to hang out with a friend of mine, and getting paid to do so. This assumption turned out to be erroneous quite quickly. We both worked at night, but since we were both part-time, we were generally paired with a full-timer, and thus worked on different nights. Apparently there were some people in town who felt that working in the Deli at the Kroger was a career. After all, there were Union benefits (biting my tongue).

I generally spent my three nights a week working with Bertha. Bertha was a regular townie. She looked the part and acted the part. She was maybe a hair over five feet, but weighed a good 150 lbs. (a solid two ‘poons). She also had a nice pair of coke bottle glasses. In other words, the three-month old honey ham was more appetizing than her. While we worked together, she talked incessantly, not really to me (or so I thought), but at me. I usually grunted a reply, but because I was too nice a guy I could not tell her to shut her hole. She would yammer on, and I would say things like “yup,” “MMM-Hmmm,” “that’s interesting,” “wow,” “huh,” and “cool.”

To this day, I have no idea what she was talking about 90% of the time, but in the three months I was there, she told me one story twice; How she found her husband. From what I could decipher, one day Bertha decided she needed a husband. To accomplish this monumental task, she set up three dates. The details of the first date escape my memory, but it probably involved the guy seeing her, excusing himself from the table, and fleeing through the bathroom window. At the second date, the guy did not show up, even though Bertha was to pick him up at his home. But, as Bertha told me, she had a great time with his parents. Apparently, this guy still lived with his folks, and then skipped out to prevent meeting her, and his parents were forced to deal with her. According to Bertha, they were very nice folks (which I do not dispute, there were some folks around these parts that are salt of the earh), and she proceeded to hang out with them for a few hours.

Fortunately, on the third date Bertha struck gold. She met her soul-mate, Billy. Three dates was all it took to find love. If only that could work for us white-collars. Anyway, when Bertha met Billy sparks flew and they each knew that the other was the one. After all, Bertha worked in the Deli and Billy worked in the Meat Department, both at Kroger. It was a match made in heaven, or at least a recipe from the Kroger Bakery. After what was probably an exciting and eventful courtship, Bertha and Billy got married.

However, shortly after I began working in the Deli with Bertha, they began going through some problems. Unbelievably the marriage began to fall apart. This of course, was completely unknown to me, because I never listen to what people have to say. Had Bertha said something to me, I probably would have grunted. Of course, that may have happened, and Bertha found my grunt to be the sexiest thing ever. Because I came into work one day, and Bertha was scheduled, but no where to be seen.

With Bertha gone, a kid my age, (but not in school, though a cool guy nonetheless) named Tom was forced to stay late and work with me. As I recall, I was scheduled to come in an hour before Bertha, so after about an hour and a half of hard Deli work, the word began to trickle down. Bertha and Billy broke up. They had a huge fight the previous night, and no one knew where Bertha was. I, of course, did not care, I was more concerned about who would help me close up the Deli that night. I spent the better part of an hour convincing Tom to stay and help me close up. I talked him into staying until closing time, though not until closing procedures were completed, but that was good enough for me. Then the bombshell came.

To be continued….

Oblivious of the Past

So I am taking Tax class this semester, which is important I suppose because I will have a tax related job this summer. I was excited to take tax class. I recall one of the 3L’s telling me that [Tax Prof] is a fucking tax god. So you can see why I was excited. I had had [Tax Prof] for a differently similar class my first year, and he spent half of each class talking about the tax code, so I thought that this class would be great.

Of course, two things should have tipped me off. First, I took Federal Income Tax as an undergrad, and it nearly turned me off tax forever. There was a 90 year old guy teaching the class, who did not seem to care about anything. Tenure to the extreme. This class was also held at 8 a.m. on Wednesdays and Fridays. Yeah, this was not a good time for me. I was a sophomore living off campus, in a kick ass house (not a frat house, a normal house) in a town that delivered beer without asking for I.D. Needless to say, sophomore year was when I learned that Thursday was the first day of the weekend. Aside from skipping half of my classes, I learned that Tax did not appeal to my analytical brain.

Oh as an aside, a funny story about tax. There was a kid in my undergrad tax class, let us call him Pete, who skipped class more than I did. I happened to be in class the day that groups were assigned for our big end of the semester group project. We got to pick our groups so I got stuck with the other two kids who had no friends, well they were not that bad, but who am I to complain? Anyway, we set up a time to meet on a Saturday morning to go over the big end of the semester project, which in actuality was the preparation of a tax return according to all the rules, none us learned because the Prof’s false teeth made it difficult for him to enunciate. Anyway, the Friday night before the group meeting, I am out on the town, getting shit-faced and I run into Pete. We start talking about Tax class, and I learn that he has no group. Fucked up as I am, I tell him he should join my group. I tell him we are meeting at 10 am on Saturday, at [Address of this kid in the group]. He says thank you, and I continue on with the over-indulgence. I wake up the next morning to a throbbing in my head, that turns out to be half the hangover and half the alarm that has been going off for 45 minutes. So I throw on the clothes I wore the night before, after all they were at the foot of my bed, and head on out. I get to Steve’s apartment (the kid in my group whose apartment we agreed to meet at), and knock on the door while smoking a cigarette. He answers the door and says that I cannot smoke that inside, I understand, and fling it out into the street and enter the house (he had a little porch). I walk into Kevin’s apartment, and get an immediate sense of déjà vu. This was the first time I realized that all the apartments in the same complex looked exactly the same. Same layout, kitchen, counter, fridge, stove, carpet, and poorly laid out load bearing walls. It made me a bit disoriented, but not as disoriented as when I saw Pete sitting on the couch.

“Whoa, do you live with Kevin?” Was my first thought, that I did not say. Pete could not live with Kevin. What the hell was Pete doing here? I could not figure it out. Surely you can, because you have read this story, but my poor memory combined with enough booze to kill a midget had caused me to forget completely that I had invited him here, and without anyone else in the group even knowing. “You told me to come,” Pete said sensing my confusion. My bloodshot eyes took a glance over at Kevin (I had worked with him on a group project for another class and he knew that I was a bit of a wildcard) and he just kind of shrugged at me, as if to say, three minds are better than two, even if two of the minds are you and Pete.

So we sat around for a while, actually waiting for the fourth member of the group, who was not so much of a fuck-up as he was stupider than a pile of manure. However, it was a great excuse to put off getting started on the work. So I went out to smoke, and Kevin, not a smoker, came out too. I am not sure why Kevin came out, maybe so I would not burn his plants. But anyway, I get halfway through my smoke when the fourth member of the motley crew shows up. Realizing that it is time to get to work, I flick the half-smoked cig into the street, or at least I thought so. As we head inside, we hear this chick yell, “The Cigarette Is Burning the Shrubs.” What, I think. Who cares, there is fucking snow on the ground, and it will not burn shit. But Kevin gets a little paranoid, and heads back out the door. The girl yells out again, “It is still burning!!” Whatever I think, but look into the shrubbery to see if anything is burning. I see nothing. Suddenly a girl appears, and stamps out my cigarette as it lies in the street burning next to the sewer drain I had aimed for. I am tempted to yell out something about how she is a hippie, but alas, I am too hung-overly drunk to be witty. After all, it is tax time.

So we go through the problem, finish it, and turn it in. A few classes later, the old man hobbles up to the front of the room to let us know how we did. Every group, there was probably ten, had come up with a different answer. And only one group got the “right” answer. It was not my group. I was pissed. What the fuck kind of law is this shit where 45 different college educated students could get a different answer based on the same fact pattern? And more importantly, how could I have not gotten the right answer? To be fair, our groups Gross Income was less than the correct answer, and based on the frequency of IRS audits (<1%) I would say that my group’s answer, while not right, was the better answer.

And then I took the final, and apparently the old man did not agree with me about having a better answer than the right answer. I got a B-, the second worst grade I had ever received in my life (Once I figure out the difference between macro and micro economics I will tell you why I got a C (including an F on the midterm) for one and a B+ (because I got nothing less than a 92% on any exam, but I skipped so many classes that it drove my grade down so far that the Prof said that if I got a 95% on the final, I could get an A. I decided it was not worth it) for the other).

So if undergrad is the first reason I should I have been apprehensive, the second reason is the sheer size of the Tax class in law school. I was pretty much the last person eligible to register for any class this semester and I got into it. Needless to say, Tax is a popular class. There are 200 people in there if there is one (didn’t I learn anything about this cliché?). The sheer enormity of it makes it impossible to care. When the Prof is willing to cater to the lowest common denominator, then there is not much to do but surf the web in class.

I may have gotten a B- in undergrad tax class, but I still know the basic concepts. And Law Tax is based solely around basic concepts. Because you do not have to be an accountant to get tax law. You have to be a lawyer. All that tax class has become is a guide through the code and the regs. The only thing I am learning is where to find the particular law. It is pathetic. I was so excited about this class. I had hoped it would change my life; reinvigorate my interest in accounting (which was my major), but it has utterly failed to do so.

But on the bright side, well . . . I do not know, fuck the bright side. I am a pessimist. Once I get an A in the class I will worry about whether or not I learned anything.

Of course, the Prof is always pointing out that his accounting students never do as well as they think they will. This sounds like a challenge to me. Ahhh, if only I cared.

Back, maybe

I was debating whether or not to post here ever again. I am still in law school and still have one year left, after I finish this semester. So I should still have at least 18 months of interesting stuff to tell (at least in theory). The problem was, would I tell it? It has been almost two months since my last post. I do not know where to go with that, it is just fact. No genuine issue there. I could easily just forget about this blog and all the irrelevant things I have had to say to the people that never read this thing. So the question is, have I lost my desire to write? The answer is a resounding no. Shit, I have spent the last two months writing (and editing and revising and researching and editing and writing and checking my galleys and reading and then reading some more and then doing more research and then writing some more and then editing a little bit followed by editing some more, though it really was not much editing; my wirting is perfect as is).

But it is not just my public that has been neglected. I looked through my cell phone. My last out-call before today was to the Chinese place for food delivery on Jan. 25. Before that (minus some calls to my parents about some legal troubles (fyi my troubles), stay tuned) was a call to accept a job offer on Dec. 29. That is pretty pathetic even for me. But on the plus side, I did write a kick ass comment for law review. So I got that going for me.

So why did I start writing again? (bear in mind, this is one entry and further entries are not guaranteed). I don’t know. Call it a compulsion. Call it nothing better to do now. Call it now that I am done with my comment, I have no idea what to do with myself and I need a reason to get out of bed because going to class just ain’t cutting it anymore (though I am fond of cutting class, though they do not really call it that anymore).

I do have some trepidations though. I do not want to shut down for a few months again. It seems that ever since my third semester started, I stopped writing. There was a post here, and another one over there, but never as regularly as when I first started. So just know, I am not guaranteeing any number of posts a week, but hopefully, it will be regularly.

So, enough with the boring disclaimer, let us get to what you all came for. Stories about me being a retard. So without further ado:

You may recall my last post. I think it said something about how it was the last day of finals and debauchery would soon ensue. I have said some prophetic things in my day, but that probably takes the cake. I wrote that post just before I went out for the night (I had internet in my house then, stolen or borrowed, whatever, I had it).

So I went to this party. I am not the most social person, but when I have had a few I can interact with most people, so long as I do not have to talk to them for too long and I can take a break every now and then. So the party was going along swimmingly, there was a keg, which is nice, and then suddenly, a bunch of cop cars show up outside. There was 8 if there was a dozen (hmm, bad cliché, there was maybe five or six cop cars). They just sat there, and we continued to have a good time. And of course, good times mean loud times. Add 20 minutes and several more beers equals louder times.

From what I can gather, cops do not like noise, even though they have those sirens on their cars. Apparently, the cops stormed the porch, and people stampeded inside, leaving a few unfortunate souls outside to deal with them. I was inside at the time, and quite inebriated. I got the gist of what was going on when the host said, “Shut up and get inside everyone, the cops are here. Be Quiet!” I asked the esteemed drunken host what the hell was going on, and I can only assume that he gave me an unsatisfactory answer.

Had I received a satisfactory answer, I surely would not have done what I did next.

Pissed off that some ornery cops would ruin the good time of a bunch of law students who had just suffered through two weeks of hell (first semester of second year still means something, I suppose), I decided to figure out what the hell was going on. I first tried the front door, but it was locked from the inside, and when I unlocked it, a cop on the porch told me to go back inside. This, of course, infuriated me. Why did it infuriate me? Probably for the same reason that I felt the need to defend my fellow students who were being subjected to the tyranny of the city police. I was drunk. There is no rational reason. In retrospect, I should have stayed inside, after all, the meek will inherit the Earth. Right? No, even now I would do the same thing that I was about to do. Was it a bad idea? Sure it was. I do not deny that. Were those folks on the porch capable of standing up for themselves? Probably, but even Mike Tyson had people in his corner when he boxed in the Olympics. Can you turn a blind eye to injustice? Most of the people at that party did, but I did not (or they were not so fucked up that they did not see an injustice or conversely, they were so fucked up they did not see an injustice).

So, because I am so damn altruistic (this is not the word I want to use, I need a word that says I believe that there is good in everyone (even Darth Vader, but I do not think believing in the force helps with the vocab situation going on here), help please), I figured that once I got on the porch and explained everything to the cops, they would see that they were being unreasonable and leave us the hell alone. But the front door was blocked, so I needed an alternate route. Thankfully, I had spent much of the party wandering around the house getting to know the lay of the land (people do not bother you much when you are walking around during a party if you look like you know where you are going). From my wanderings, I knew that I could exit out the back door, head around the house, and climb up onto the porch. So I did, and with a full cup of beer. Here is what happened (as best I can recall):

ME: What is going on here?
Cop#1: We have it taken care of.
ME: No, I want to know what is going on out here.
Cop#1: Just go back inside, this does not concern you.
ME: No, look, I am just curious what is going on out here, I want to figure this out. Ok, Ok, I know, wait, let me just do this.

[I pour my beer out over the porch railing into the shrubs]

ME: Ok, can we have a dialogue here now?
Cop#1: Go. Back. Inside.

[I see a cop in an intense conversation with a law student on the porch. The student looks upset]

ME: Are you charging anyone with anything here?
Cop#2: [gives me a look of contempt] Yes, public intoxication.
ME: What?
Cop#2: Public Intox.
ME: Are you kidding me?
Cop#2: What?

[I give Cop#2 a mixed look of pity and contempt for not understanding the law]

ME: Public Intox? They are on a porch.
Cop#2: Yeah . . .
ME: This is private property.
Cop#2: See that house over there [points across the street]. They can see you. That
makes it public.
ME: Are you serious? [I have lost all composure] We are on a porch. So wait, you are telling me, that if the people across the street . . . [I point to a window bordering the porch] If the shades were up on this window, and the people across the street could see me . . .
Cop#2: [Icy cold stare]
ME: inside the house and I was drunk, that would be a public intox? That does not make sense. There are . . .

[Cop#2 springs into action. He takes two steps, spins me around, and puts my hands behind my back. Smooth to, he must have practiced. He pushes (not really pushes, I do not know how to describe it because he is leading me, but he is behind me, guides maybe?) me down the stairs. My mind starts racing, more so than before. “He has not read me my Miranda Rights, so he cannot be arresting, but he is surely restricting my free movement. Actually, he does not need to read me my rights, because if he is right and I can be publicly intoxicated on a porch, then he has all the evidence he needs, except for a breathalyzer to prove I am in fact drunk, though I know I am.”

He pushes me off the stairs and towards the direction of a cop car. He leans me against the trunk, and frisks me. “Is this a Terry stop? No it is not, he has probable cause to frisk me, so I cannot argue that in court,” I think to myself. He takes my phone and my wallet, and opens the back door of the cop car and asks me to get in. I do. “Ahhh, you cold hard plastic seats, it has been six years since I felt your cold emotionless essence on my ass. By the way, you seats are very uncomfortable,” I say to the seats after Cop#2 closes the door.

So there I am, in the back of a cop car, again. My mind starts racing through what I learned from Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure. Unfortunately, none of the cases focused on Public Intox on a porch. I think to what is “public.” Curtilage comes to mind, but I think that cops can search it if they have probable cause. Nothing like a crisis to fuck up the head. Hell, I got my second worst grade in Crim. Pro. and now here I am. Fuck Karma. Two deep breaths, I am not going anywhere for a while, make the most of it. I take out my pack of cigarettes and rip off the top. I pull out my pen, the cop did not take that, and start making notes on the cigarette box top. “Porch, Public? Look Into. Intox? No proof. Breathalyzer—not yet. Porch, not public area. § 1983, unlawful detainment. Lost Liberty. No Movement. Stuck in Cop Car for ___ min. Sue the Fuckers.”

After I finished my notes, roughly ten minutes or so after I was denied my freedom, I spied another officer walking by the car. I started to knock on the window.]

ME: [knock, knock, knock]
Cop#3: [opens the door] Do NOT pound on the window.
ME: But I was just . . .

[Cop#3 slams door shut]

ME: wondering if I was under arrest. Asshole. I will have your badge. You cannot hear me, but you know you are fucking up as we speak. You cannot arrest me for this shit. I did nothing wrong. A porch is not a public place fucker. Your actions have just confirmed that I am under arrest. You know what that means right asshole? Section 1983. My rights have been violated and they will be vindicated by a court allowing me taking your badge and shove it up your ass. You think you know what you are dealing with? Fucker you don’t have a clue. This will be the end of you. [Yes, I am a little drunk.

Now, I am stewing on the hard plastic seats. It does not seem so romantic anymore. I start investigating the cop car. There is a shotgun in the front seat, but alas, the plastic guard is closed, besides it would be a bad idea to take the gun. A very bad idea. Like you will end up dead bad idea. I check out his computer. Seriously, I have been here 20 minutes and the fucker has no screen saver? Even flying toasters would bring a smile to my face right now. I check back seat, nothing here but a receipt. That is not exciting, but makes me wonder who else has been in this back seat. Was an alleged murderer here before me? Would that receipt prove that he did not do it? I fucking hope not, because it is lost now.

Cop#2 enters the car. I try to look contrite. I am failing.]

Cop#2: I am writing you a ticket for public intoxication.
ME: Yes Sir. [“Now is not the time.”]
Cop#2: [writing, writing, writing] So what did you learn from this?
ME: [That cops are dicks. That cops do not know the law. That I will be a millionaire once I sue this fucking city] Ummmm . . .
Cop#2: Don’t butt in when the cops are dealing with a situation.
ME: Yes Sir.
Cop#2: Here you go, any questions?
ME: Is your badge number on that?
Cop#2: Yes it is. [overtly smug]
ME: Ok, great.

[Cop#2 lets me out of the car. I head back inside the house where the party was held, and find it mostly deserted. Apparently, a lot went down when I was locked up in the cop car. Not really though, most people just left. If only I was that smart.]

Coda:

So, that is pretty much the end of the interesting part of the story. The rest of it confirms my retardedness.

So you are probably wondering what happened? Did I fight the law and win? Did I file my § 1983 action and receive damages for my unlawful detainment? I am sorry to say, I did none of the above. Public Intox is a criminal misdemeanor, on par with driving without a seatbelt, and a lesser offense than driving under 20 mph over the speed limit (at least according to the fines).

So I did nothing, the ticket did not require a court appearance, though I could have appeared in court on Jan. 2. I spent my winter break in the Chicago area, and had plans after the 2nd, so it would have cost me more to go back to [law school town] to appear in court, when I would just have to head back to Chicago. I did not even take the chance to plead nolo contendre. So I paid the $70 fine by mail. And possibly fucked myself in the process.

The other kids that got tickets that night all appeared in court and plead not guilty. The prosecuting attorney dismissed (or refused to prosecute really) all the cases, saying something to the effect of “are these those damn porch cases again?”

The funny thing (at least to me), is that in my cost benefit analysis of showing in court, I researched the law in this state, and found two cases from state appellate courts explicitly stating that a porch could be a public area, as well as a United States Supreme Court decision implicitly stating that a porch could be public (I will not get into the specifics, but the state court decisions seemed pretty definitive in regards to my situation, and they were appellate decisions, not State Supreme Court, and I do not know what district I am in, so if the court had to follow those decisions is something I will never know). However, it appears that the DAs in this town do not consider a porch to be a public place. That is good to know. Or would have been good to know anyway.

So to reframe Cop#2’s question, what did I learn from this? Eh, probably nothing.

A Productive Two Weeks

Well, finals are done now. Drinking has begun. Debauchery later.

But I feel that I should share my most glorious accomplishment of the last two weeks with everyone.

Sure, I spent a lot of time studying. Yeah, I took some tests, but who cares about all that, right? None of that will help me achieve immortality.

However, I am on the verge of greatness. Gary Kasparov is quacking in his boots right now. Deep Blue has just exploded. Stephan Hawking is questioning if he should revise his brief history of the universe to include me.

Currently, as we speak, I am in the midst of a 30 game win streak at Free Cell. Yes, I know, it is unbelievable. No mortal man could accomplish this. Sure, every free cell game save one is winnable, but no one wins 30 in a row. This is unprecedented.

There is nothing else to say. I am now Great. (well, at least greater than I already was.)

Ker-Pow

I just did a Google search on "my law review comment sucks" and "my law review article sucks." Amazingly, there were no hits. Thankfully, that should change now. Apparently most law school student egg-heads are not as self-deprecating as me.

"Law review sucks" only brings back 22 hits. I find this interesting. Or maybe it is interesting because of have been working on this fucking article all weekend, and feel like I have done jack shit, other than vomit some poorly cited half truths into a Word document.

And I understand that Rome was not built in a day, and weekend worth of hard work will not a decent law review paper be written (the whole fucking thing is written like that).

Thankfully, it is only the third draft that is due tomorrow. There is still one more to go. Because Christmas Break was made for making up for my semester's worth of slacking.

I am a damn slacker. I am only at 6,000 words (nearly 200 footnotes though, I think I overkilled that a bit). But the reality is, that this sucks. I am almost embarrassed to hand it in to my editor (as soon as I bust out 50 word non-conclusory conclusion).

It comes and goes in waves. One minute I think that this thing could be great, that I want to be published, only to have a minute later the realization that this may be the most horriblest thing ever written (other than that last sentence).

So here goes, the last gasp of a desperate man. Words shall be typed, sentences formed, and out of the ashes a Phoenix of a conclusion shall arise, which will trump the utter shititude of the 24 pages that came before it. And once again, I shall fool the world.

(this is what happens when I do not get enough sleep)

Yeah, So

I was walking around campus today and saw a sign, an interesting sign. It said, "Endowed Chair Event." I thought to myself, "That chair must get more ass than a regular chair."

I then proceeded to succumb myself to a fit of hysterics, and eventually an ambulance came and took me to a better place. At least now the walls won't hurt me.

Sometimes My Arm Acts Independently of My Brain

I voluntarily participated in class today. I know, I know, what the hell was I thinking? Give me a moment to explain.

First, it is a relatively small class, maybe 18 students. With a class that size, everyone has to talk sometime right? The Prof. does randomly call on students, but lately she has been moving to a more democratic method, such that, you can participate if you want. It is not as though class participation is reflected in the grading, but with a small class, sometimes it is best to answer the questions you know, to preempt being called on for the ones you don’t.

Second, the Prof. asked the question twice. There is nothing I hate more than wasting time. Having to ask a question twice equals wasting my time. I also hate when someone says, “To put it another way . . .” when the first way was perfectly clear. To the Prof.’s credit, I think she was just killing time waiting for someone to figure out the answer, but it really was, at least to me, a relatively simple question.

As a corollary to the second, thirdly, no one else was volunteering. I think I have mentioned this before (am I repeating myself? Who cares, only two people read this, and I hope they don’t mind), but I never raise my hand if someone else wants to chime in. Why should I fill the room with my genius if someone else wants to swamp it with idiocy? Yeah, I know, there is something about talking in class that does something. I am not sure what they are all talking about, I never seem to be able to pay attention to psycho-babble. It’s not that I do not want to be wrong in front of a bunch of people, I have been wrong plenty of times, it’s just that I do not care. I cannot stress that enough. Which leads to . . .

Finally, I had trouble connecting to the internet during class. Thus, I was unable to squander my time away reading stuff about nothing (usually Deadspin, ESPN, or Dan Shanoff, all sports related crap). Had I been connected to the internet, I would not have been paying attention anyway. The Prof. was not talking directly about a case, so I should have zoned out, but with Firefox showing me that annoying “Problem loading page,” “Server not found” page. Fuck that page. I see it way, way too much. Of course, I am now numb to that page, so seeing it in class did not send me into a blind rage. Thusly, I was forced to pay attention in class. In my defense, it was not like I learned anything, after all, I was the only person in the class who knew the answer to her question.

Sleep and Syndication

These days, my life seems to revolve around two things. First, as we all know by now, is sleep, my ever elusive mistress. Thankfully, I recently discovered the virtuous Tylenol PM, which fills in nicely when alcohol and I are seeing other people. But, I still like to sleep, and I never get enough. I wonder if that makes me a sleep addict? After all, much of my time is spent plotting when I can start trying to fall asleep, as well as deciphering the latest possible time I can get out of bed. I do not think I have showered before leaving home in at least a month. Hopefully I do not stink that bad. I mean, I usually remember to put on deodorant, but sometimes in a rush to leave, I forget. Sue me.

The second thing that has been dictating my life is, sadly, nothing to do with social activities or school work. When I discovered that Scrubs is on five times a day, my life changed forever. Scrubs is one of those great shows that you watch when you realize it is on, but never know exactly when it is on. Whatever network it was on horribly mismanaged the show. And it's great! It is amazing to me that it lasted long enough to make it to syndication, considering I rarely watched it in primetime, and we all know that the world revolves around me. At least my world anyway.

So now I drop everything from 7 to 8, and again from 11:30 to 1. Five episodes of Scrubs a day. The best part is that I have not seen most of the episodes. It would be nice to be able to watch it from the beginning, so there is that continuity, but I can get over it. I can piece it back together in my head all on my own.

Now they have this interesting thing, where the shows do not wait five years before starting syndication. This explains why I wasted my entire last Sunday watching a House marathon on USA (another good show I never watch). So in addition to five Scrubs a day, I have to worry about random marathons over the weekend (at least I do not do homework on the weekends). Then there is the old stand-bys, The Daily Show and Colbert Report, Smallville, PTI, and I think that is it. But you never know when Yes Dear or King of Queens or Law & Order or Law & Order: SVU or Law & Order: Criminal Intent or Law & Order: Rules of Criminal Procedure might suck me in.

I think, maybe, getting cable was a bad idea.

The Hardest Part

Woke up, got out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up, I noticed I was late

--A Day In The Life--The Beatles

It seems to me, that the only reason I ever get out of bed is to go to class. Take today for instance. It was a Saturday, and I woke up around 9:30. I really did not want to get up this early so I forced myself to fall back asleep. I really hate getting up early, especially when there is no particular reason for it.

During the week, there is always a reason to get up early. I call this reason "Class." It is the actual physical state of being in class, not some sort of high-brow I dress better than you type of class. In the latter sense, I have no class. But in the former state, I am all about class.

The Prof. that lectures is the same one that writes the final exam. Therefore, he or she will only lecture about things that it deems relevant. Hence, going to class gives you an insight into what the teacher thinks. Or, more importantly, the arguments that the Prof. respects and those the Prof. does not respect. There are valuable things to learn by going to class. But that is not the reason that I go.

I try not to miss any classes. I want my butt in the seat. One class I missed earlier this semester, I got some feedback on. The folks I talked to said the Prof. talked for most of the fifty minutes on some obscure hypothetical, that in their opinion, was highly irrelevant. The basic concept of the hypo, which they divulged to me, seemed relatively simple, but it still would have been nice to make that class. Who knows what the exam will entail? That lecture may be the smoking gun.

But even though I take lots of notes during class, that is not why I go. I go to class because it is a break. The only time you do not have to worry about anything, is when you are in class.

For me, the majority of the learning is done outside of class. I actually do the homework, and attempt to understand it in Law School. In Undergrad, I never read shit. I suppose that Socrates would be proud of me. I learn the material, and use class to fill in the gaps. That is why when I get called on in class, I can answer the questions, unlike some people, who it is evident only skimmed the material. I rely on myself much more than I rely on the Prof's (or even worse, a students) presentation of the material.

So then why do I hate skipping classes? Because class is a break. What does that mean you must be wondering. It means that I use class to answer e-mails, read my favorite webpages, and dick around. Because there is nothing that I have to get done. I am in class, I have fulfilled my obligation for this fifty minutes of my life, and it is a good chance to do the things I never seem to have time for.

I spend my Saturdays in bed, mostly catching up on sleep (seeing as how I average five hours a night during the week), and I love it. Because it is the weekend. And there is no obligation.

The sad thing is, I pretty much do on Saturday what I do in class. Just sit there and dick around, until someone says something particularly enlightening, and I jot it down in my notes.

Ring Ring

I had a phone interview today.

Yeah, I know, I have been talking about job interviews a lot lately, but that is the major deal with my life right now. Just wait a few weeks, when all I talk about is my Comment, and you will wish for the days of the job interview posts.

I love the phone interview, for several reasons (cue the list:)

1. It is much easier to lie--I am not saying that I flat out lie in interviews, but there are situations where you have to stretch the truth. Well, I never stretch the truth, I was tell it as is, which is why I never get call backs. But, in reality, it is easier to pump yourself up to the interviewee when you can read bullet points off a piece of paper and do not have to worry about how your non-verbal communication is being judged. Yes, a good lawyer can look another into the eye and lie (this is not hypocritical, have you heard of negotiation?), and help their client in the process. A lot of negotiation is who has the biggest cajones and who blinks first. There is a reason you start the negotiation at $1.5 mil. when all you really want is $750K. Some call it negotiation, but I call it lying. And when you do not have to look at someone in the eye while doing it, it is much easier.
2. You can wear what you want--Do not get me wrong. I love a good suit. I look forward to the day when I can afford $1,000 for a perfectly tailored suit. But I am no where near that right now. My suit from the Men's Wearhouse is working out well, but I do not siphon off confidence from my suit. I much prefer wearing khakis and a hooded sweatshirt. Which is what I wore during the phone interview. I was completely comfortable, sitting in my comfy chair, wearing my comfy clothes. I wish I could go to all my interviews in a hoodie.
3. You can drink--Not alcohol of course (though you could, if that is your bag). But I am fairly certain that it is bad manners to request a drink during a regular interview, unless the pitcher is right there on the table. When I talk, my mouth dries out faster than the Sahara in June. It is nice to be able to drink without worrying about inconveniencing the interviewer.
4. Unhostile Environment--With the phone interview, you dictate where you sit. You are not in someone's office, or in the CSO's little room off to the side. I could have laid down in bed, sat in the kitchen, or sat on the couch in front of the TV. You can find the most comfortable place for yourself. That in and of itself, is worth ten confidence points.

So I like the phone interviews. And that is about all I have to say.

Sans Cable

You may be surprised to learn, that as someone who watched more TV over the summer than all but 1% of the population, I have gone the last month without cable. Hell, I did not even have network TV except for a grainy NBC (Hooray for Conan) until two days ago when I bought an antenna. My TV had actually been in storage for the first month that I was back in town, until I realized that I would have to pay another months rent ($40), and got it the hell out of there. All it cost me was a beer. Its good to know people.

Over the summer, my schedule was pretty rigid. I would wake up around 2, and get online, with something on the TV. It did not really matter, I was not paying attention. Usually it was Strongman competitions on ESPN. But, it did not matter, the first two hours of my day were spent surfing, reading a bunch of ultimately worthless shit (much like you will view this post in about two minutes). I made no attempt to keep up on the news, unless it was sports related. So after two hours reading every article on ESPN, it was time for the talking heads, Around the Horn (I know, the show sucks, but I am a glutton for punishment, besides it always made), followed by PTI (so much better). Then came syndication bi-hour (Simpsons, Seinfeld, That 70s Show). Followed by whatever sporting event was on that particular night.

Late night was The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Conan, and infomercials. Various other shows would be interspersed throughout the day and evening, but the point is, summer was spent on my ass watching TV.

And now, I do not have it. And honestly, I love it. I am no longer a slave to being home at 5:30 to watch PTI, or making sure that I watch and episode of The Simpsons for the 47th time. I really do not miss TV. I used to feel like Homer, who once opined about TV, "Teacher, mother, secret lover."

I know think of all those hours wasted watching TV and, well, I do not regret it. I am overloaded with work right now, that it is really just the distraction of TV that I do not miss. Because waking up with a hangover on Sat/Sun and not being able to lie in bed or on the couch and watch football is a little emasculating. Thankfully, the antenna has rectified that situation.

However, it is not that I have not compensated. You may or may not be aware that you can buy television shows on iTunes. And not just single episodes, you can buy entire seasons. I love technology. So one boring night, I was going through the iTunes catalog, and found what I wanted, purchased it, and let the download begin.

FYI, it takes forever to download an hour long episode (especially when you are using pilfered internet). Thankfully, it was about ten minutes less than a full length episode, so once you get the first one, you are good to go.

But I did not stop at just the first season, I bought the second season too. Unfortunately, the third season is not yet up on iTunes, but I found a loophole in the system one day during class.

With wireless internet, you can pretty much screw around on the internet the entire time that the Prof. is up on his soapbox. Games, IM, or blogs, he or she will never know, as long as you keep the sound muted. Its not like they will expend the effort to walk around class and try to interact with the students beyond asking them probing and insightful questions about the case at issue (well unless they do not have tenure yet). So during one particular unilluminating soliloquy by a Prof. (about something completely unrelated to anything, I assure you, I usually pay attention in class, but this went on for about 20 minutes), I decide to check out a site I have heard a lot about, but never, ever utilized.

Oh, behold the glory that is eBay. How have I never been there before? It has all this stuff, and you bid on it. Whatever, the thing that I have always hated about eBay was that you had to schedule yourself to be on the computer when the auction was ending so that you could bid up the price with 20 seconds left. What the hell? Why not just put high figure to start with? Of course, when I tried that in the past it never worked, but then, I never really cared. I do not need someone else's worthless crap. Until that fateful day in class.

There it was, Season 3. And the auction was ending in 9 minutes. There was still 15 minutes left in class. Oh yeah, I bid, and I won, and I did not even have to do that crappy raising your bid in the last minute to win. I was a little disappointed by that. So now I have Season 1 and 2 downloaded on my computer (does anyone have a DVR?) and Season 3 of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on DVD. Yep, Buffy. I might be a little bit of a nerd, but if I was a huge nerd, wouldn't I have all seven seasons by now? Yeah that is what I thought. Give me three months, and I will have them. Along with the five of Angel.

So the question is, do I really miss cable and am over compensating by buying Buffy (I have already watched season 1 twice, and am halfway through my second viewing of season 2), or do I really love Buffy and not need cable?

Only time will tell I guess. But what I do know is that sometimes class is boooooring.

Well, the Smallville season premiere starts momentarily, time for me to run, errr, sit.

Looks Good . . . On Paper

If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight,
If you must return it you can send it here,
But I need a break,
And I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

--Paperback Writer—The Beatles

I am the paper candidate.

I look good on paper. Well, at least when I am not writing a story about my drunken idiocy anyway. But I digress. I have fairly good credentials. I have the proper class rank, one of the two MVEC (Most Valuable Extra-Circulars), too many CALI’s, and even a scholarship (just got that one). I have two years of experience in the business world, where I supervised 20 other people. I have solved problems and fired people (sometimes solving a problem by firing someone). I even did some consulting for a small business.

All this looks nice, when it is written in my usual eloquent style, dressed up with pretty bullet points and dashes, as well as some right justification. Yeah, my resume is pretty sweet. Combine that with some bond paper, and you begin to crack at a smile at my awesomeness. Throw in a dash of cover letter and a transcript, and you may begin to drool. Add in my writing sample, and you will go into full blown Cujo mode.

It seems like every year, for at least the past five, at the beginning of the baseball season, all the beat writers are in agreement. The Yankees are the best team. On Paper. All the talent in the world. No one could ever beat them in RBI Baseball. And because of this, for the past five years, 90% of the writers pick the Yanks to be in The Series. But there is a reason they play the games. Guys get hurt. Randy Johnson suddenly looks old for the first half of the year. Giambi is on the Cream and the Clear. Sheffield too probably. A-Rod does not get along with his teammates, probably because the answers the hotel door at 1 a.m. wearing a pressed shirt, suit and tie. Mike Mussina is getting too old. They have no closer. Jeter is . . . well, Jeter (oh wait, dating Mariah Carey, I just thought of that).

You get the idea. You see your team on paper, and get excited. Then they do not come through. The Yanks have not done shit the last five years (excluding this year, where they are probably winning the division as I type). Take my team for instance, the Cubbies. I thought they would take the world by storm this year. Wood, Prior, Lee, Barrett, Walker, Murton, Pierre, Dumpster (I mean Dempster), and a couple other guys. Lee had his breakout year last year, Barrett was poised to have his this year (which he did, until he suffered internal bleeding in his scrotum. Seriously). On paper, the Cubs looked good. But right now, they are the worst team in the National League. I feel like the Cubs.

As much as I love to write (do not be fooled by the lack of updates the past week), I hate to talk. And I really hate talking about myself. Oh, I can write about myself. That is easy, maybe because I can revise things. But I have never been one to tell stories, or be the life of the party, or engage a person I have never met before. Socializing is not my bag.

Add in having to talk to people I have never met about my greatness, and make it seem like I am actually that great (which I am not), and then seem like I genuinely am interested to learn more about their firm, when all I want to say is, “Give me a fucking job, and you will not be disappointed.” I am sick of the dance. I was actually sick of it before I had my first one.

But because I am the paper candidate, I have plenty of opportunities to make a fool of myself, as I mumble along, trying to make sense of things that really do not make sense. For instance, when an interviewer asks me, “What did you do last summer?” what am I supposed to say? “I worked a shitty job for two months, before I got hammered one night and decided to quit. My goal was to read 40 books over the summer, but I only read about 20. I did drink a great deal, which lead to some pretty good posts on my blog.” Actually, I think I will say that in my interview tomorrow if they ask. But that is not what they want to hear. They want a legitimate excuse for why I had no legal job, when I clearly had the qualifications to get one. Of course, by the end of the interview, they are not wondering that anymore.

This is not a total rag on myself. I will admit that I am doing head and shoulders above what I did last year, but it still is no where near where it should be. I suppose that it is all just practice.

See, the grand confession is that I have never, ever (well, at least since I worked at a Deli in college) gotten a job that I had a face to face interview for. My job in the business world was a phone interview. The other ones, I kind of lucked into, or they were so desperate, I walked in and was hired.

Actually, tomorrow I am going to go in to my interview with my laptop and pretend that I am deaf. That way, I can just type out all of my answers. I like this plan. (Plus it adds the threat of a lawsuit.)

Note: It is not that I am fooling myself. I know that my interviewers do not look at my resume until about one minute before they meet me

The First Week In Review [Part 1]

For most law students, there is nothing less memorable than the first week in law school. I have no idea what happened my first week as a 1L. I am pretty sure that I went to all my classes, and I know for a fact I was never called on to explain a case in that first week. Regardless, the nervousness, anxiety, and general "what the fuck is going on" pervades that first ever week in law school. By Wednesday, the 1L is wondering to himself, "Who the hell is Socratic?"

I have lived through my first week as a 1L, so I can make jokes, but this is the first time I have gone through the first week of classes as a 2L. Here is what transpired:

When you take a final exam, you are expected to study for hours on end, but the most important factor in doing well on a test is getting a good night's sleep. If you have read this blog from the beginning, you know that me and a good night's sleep is like trying to stick two positively charged magnets together. It is just not going to happen. This is the perfect lead in to the two things I learned this, my first week of being a 2L.

1) Get some sleep before a job interview.

Not only was Tuesday the first day of class, but it was also my first interview for a summer associate position. Yeah, summer is 9 months away, but I guess they want to get in early while the pickings are still good. Besides, it was just an OCI, a more extensive interview is to be expected in October, assuming you do not suck in the initial interview like I do.

On Monday, I knew I Tuesday would be a big day. I had a class at 8:30 a.m., an interview, and a couple more classes. I actually had all my first day assignments done early, so I went to bed early. Really early, at least for me. I was in the sack by 10 p.m. Unfortunately being in bed does not translate to sleeping. I laid in that bed (my new mattress) for eight hours trying to fall asleep. But it was just not happening. By the time 6 a.m. rolled around (just as I had been rolling around in bed trying to fall asleep), I said fuck it, got up, took a shower, and began brewing the coffee. Caffeine was the only possible solution to the day I was about to endure.

So I went to my classes, and was successful in not being called upon (I love being non-descript). I think that it is impressive that I was able to remain non-descript even though I was one of three or four other kids in my classes (of about 70 in the largest) wearing a suit.

My interview that day was with a very blue-blooded firm that is quite prestigious within the state my law school is located. The interview was at 10 a.m. At this point I had been up for 22 straight hours. Yeah, I was a little tired. Needless to say, the interview did not go well. Her first question was, "So, what did you do this summer?"

I figured "went bowling and got drunk everynight of the week" was not the best answer, though it was the true answer, so I replied, "I enjoyed the summer. I read some books. Did a lot of nothing, and enjoyed it." OK, that is not exactly what I said, but I am pretty sure that is what she heard. She asked me two more questions and clammed up when I tried to ask her questions about the firm. It was not that her first question caught me off guard, it was just that I was so tired I did not care, and that it is really a stupid question. If I did something over the summer it would be on the resume [expletive].

But that was not the worst part of the first day. I am fairly certain that hell would have to freeze over before that firm would offer me a position (that is a dig against the firm and myself. I would never fit in there. I know this, but like a morphine addict chases the dragon, I chase the green).

The worst part was that I had a class at 2:30. Thankfully it was only the first day, where nothing important happens. I mean who cares about Copyright history? I have been there, done that (bear with me, at least until tomorrow). So when I finally got back to my house at 4 p.m. I had been up for 28 straight hours. Thank god for cherry coke. That is the only thing that kept me going throughout the schoolday.

But the return home meant that there was homework to be completed for Wednesday. Had I been smart I would have punched out all my first class assignments over the weekend. But I am not smart, so I did the best I could.

I had three classes on Wednesday, and another interview. Take a guess as to what took priority.

2) The Future Is Now

[First week conclusion on Sat. And I am not going to do this every week. The first week gets special treatment.]

Holy Shit, A Post About Law School

I was walking down the hall in the Law School building today, and I saw a flyer, that nearly made me bust a gut. The flyer looked something like this:





I could understand why this sign would grace the halls of say, Harvard, Yale, Northwestern, or all those other schools where the bottom 25% has a better chance of breaking $100,000 starting than I do, but this sign should not be at my school.

No one at my school "Aced" the LSAT. If they aced the LSAT and had a 2.0 GPA in undergrad, they still would have gone to a better school. Not that my school is that shitty, but that is the reality. A lot depends on the fucking LSAT.

My LSAT score is not something that I particularly like reflecting on, so when I finished laughing at the stupid flyer, I realized the ignominiousness of the flyer. The bastards are making fun me.

Had I taken the Kaplan course before I took the LSAT, who knows where I would be?

[hint: Law School Dropout]

The Night I Quit My Crappy Job

I have been to two tattoo parties in my life, and both were great fucking times. EagleMan threw both parties. The first was several years ago. It was a sobering event, even with the copious amount of alcohol that was drunken by all. EagleMan's father had just passed, and as a tribute to him, we threw a big party in his now empty apartment. Well, empty except for all the alcohol. It was a night for remembrance, a night for anecdotes, and a night to get so blitzed that we tried to forget why we were there. But it was still in the back of all of our minds, and we knew that the pain we felt upon entering the empty apartment would return again, along with a massive headache, in the morning. But for a few hours we could celebrate life, and take away the pain of loss, and that is what we did. Holy shit that is what we did.

The second tattoo party was only a couple weeks ago. EagleMan has thrown quite a few in his day, but I was usually out of the state when they were thrown (I made a special trip into town for the first one for obvious reasons). I was in town for this one, so of course I attended. You know my feelings on my job, and as luck would have it, I had to work the next day, which was a Sunday. This hardly pleased me, as it never does, but I vowed to myself to stop drinking and head home at 10. When I arrived, I was shoved towards the keg of Bud Light. The night went uphill from there.

So what is a tattoo party? It is a simple concept. A person throws a party. Among others, he invites a tattoo artist, not to party, but to do his thing. The artist can easily make close to a grand tattooing people in rapid succession, as the hum of house music penetrates the walls around him. Pretty damn good for a nights work. Everyone who comes to the party knows that there will be a tattoo artist there, so most of the people who attend want a tattoo. And they know that they will get a good deal. There is far more business at one tattoo party than there is during a regular day at a tattoo shop. At least per hour anyway. EagleMan always gets a tattoo during these parties, and he usually gets a huge discount, merely because he brought in a shit-load of business for the artist. [Note: this article is interesting but the tattoo artist here is a professional, and everything was extremely safe, hence the ten minutes (at least) between tattoos to change out his equipment.]

So I showed up at 8:30 with the best of intentions. Hangout for a while, drink a couple of beers, watch a couple of tattoos being done, and take off so I could get my beauty rest for my killer workday. Then, I was told about the keg. I quickly found a cup, and headed out to garage was the keg was resting. It was a glorious site. I cannot remember the last time I went to a kegger. I pumped, flipped the switch, and watched the golden liquid flow out the faucet. My dear friend Bud Light and I were about to take our relationship to the next level.

After filling my cup, I returned inside, and surveyed the scene. "I should go into Criminal Defense," I thought to myself. Of the 25 people there, there was probably an accumulated total of jail time served near my age. The tattoo artist had just gotten out of the joint, and it was not his first stint there. EagleMan's younger brother has probably spent close to three years in stir. I did not really know much about the other people there, but they did not seem to me to be straight-edge. The tattoo artist was even wearing a shirt with a picture of a guy holding a briefcase that said, "Jack Schitt, Esq." Yeah, these are my kind of people.

Nothing too terribly exciting actually happened at the party. At one point I began offering discounts on legal fees for anyone who mentioned EagleMan's name. So if the that is the highlight, it was a pretty boring party. Except for all the tattoos of course. I stationed myself close to the tattoo artist to watch him work. I love watching people draw, mainly because it is a skill that I do not have. People who can draw a straight line without sweat forming on their forehead piss me off, yet never fails to leave me amazed. The tattoo artist is pretty damn good too. He has done most of EagleMan's tats, the ones the tattoo artist has not done (because he was in jail), are clearly of inferior quality. This guy makes it look so easy, yeah, I am a little jealous.

I was not there to get a tattoo myself (I have none and do not plan on ever getting one). I went for the free beer. I certainly got my money's worth. Ten o'clock soon turned into eleven, which suddenly became midnight. Around midnight I began bitching to anyone who was next to me about how I hated my job, and I should just fucking quit it. Had I been sober, I would have realized that rationalizing things when you are hammered is not the best idea. But I was drunk, and by one I began to think that quitting was the best idea since college football.

Around 1:30 I was having trouble staying upright, and began wondering to myself why the hell I was still there. I had to get up at six for work, and the way things were going, each sip made that less and less likely. Then it hit me. I knew when I could leave. EagleMan still had not gotten his tattoo yet. "I have to stay to watch that," I drunkenly slurred to whoever was standing next to me at the time. That person quickly moved away. I went to get another beer.

By the time the tattoo artist finally began EagleMan's tattoo (on his right pec, what a stud), I was shitfaced. It is a damn good thing I only live two blocks from his house. The tattoo would take an hour to complete, and I was unable to stay for the whole thing. At 2:30, I finally had a rational thought that said, "You have to go home and go to bed RIGHT NOW!" I stumbled and swayed back to my house, spent two minutes trying to find the right key to unlock the door, wandered around for a while looking for my bed, found it, and crashed.

Lucky for me, I had the presence of mind to set my alarm clocks before I went out. And at 5:45 I was shocked awake. I flopped like a dolphin off my bed, five feet into the air if it was an inch. I reached blindly out into the dark room trying to figure out how to turn off my alarm clock, and finally succeeded. You should know that this is no ordinary alarm clock. This one does not make any noise at all.

All my life I have searched for a cartoon alarm clock, one that has a mallet come out and bash you on the head when it is time to wake up. My search has, thus far, been futile, so I settled on the next best thing. A vibrating alarm clock. It is a normal clock, but it comes with a pad that you put into your pillow case. When the alarm is tripped, your head begins shaking like it is the only part of your body in a 7.0 earthquake. And when your head starts shaking and you are still drunk, it is enough to wake you up so violently, that your heart begins beating 200 times a minute.

I got out of bed, and stood up, or tried too, I was a little wobbly. I really, really did not want to go to work, but I really only had to stick it out for two more weeks, then I would have a nice cushion of cash, such that I would not have to worry about money while waiting for my refund check from the Law School. I braced myself, and took a step. The room began to spin. I took a deep breath, and ventured to put my left foot in front of the right. I nearly vomited. I sat down on my bed, and thought about what to do.

This would not be the first time that I had driven to this job drunk. But it would be the first time I would be drunk at work and it was over 90 degrees outside. I decided that I should suck it up, and go to work. It wouldn't really be that bad. In 13 hours all this would be over. Sometime around nine, I would start to feel hungover, and the dehydration would hit, and probably last until one, and then there would only be six hours of work left.

At that last thought I said that is it. Fuck it. I could have called in sick, or called to tell them that I would not be coming in, but Fuck it. All the drinking on work nights was just me acting out my misery. Why should I continue? My drunken mind thought that to be brilliant reasoning. So I went back to bed. And slept. Until noon. It was transcendent.