sunday morning
Ramblings of a mad man.
Tales from the other side of sanity.
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Showing posts tagged law school
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bored, bored, i’m the chairman of the bored.
Sunday. Football. I wish I’d been betting on these games, because I’ve picked every damn one of them correctly (except that Seahawks-Saints fluke).
Watched Postgrad. Mildly entertaining. Not a bad movie. Not a great movie. Just something to pass the time. Passing the time, I guess that’s all I’m really doing until I start getting acceptances/rejections. I’ve more or less given up on job hunting in Denton. Forty-thousand students in a town of eighty-thousand does not bode well for someone seeking employment. I’ll take a break, let my bruised ego recover for a day or two, and then start looking in Lewisville, and if need be, Carollton.
I need to write a one page essay about why I’m a good candidate for some full scholarship thing from USC. It’s due…soon. I’ve written…nothing. The problem is, in all honesty, I don’t think I’m a very good candidate for this scholarship. My work history is shit. My volunteering hours number less than zero. I can play a sweet game of pool, and I can write the shit out of a research paper, but other than that, my accomplishments list is rather bare.
Question. How can one take regular advantage of GABA affecting substances without incurring the dreaded wrath of tolerance, dependence and addiction? I suspect it may not be possible. GABA receptors are too damned sensitive and adjust to substances too quickly for one to consistently use GABAergic substances. Fuck a duck.
If only opiates were as widely accepted as alcohol. Or hell, I don’t even care about their acceptance, so let me rephrase that. If only opiates were as available as alcohol/benzodiazepines. That would be ideal.
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I would kill for an ambien right about now.
Too anxious/tired/stressed/sad to sleep. I’m moving to Austin. I’ve moved to Austin? I have two apartments, one in Denton, one in Austin. I should be in Austin. I’m in Denton. I don’t know why I am in Denton. I’m moving to Austin to go to law school at the University of Texas and I don’t know why I’m moving to Austin to go to law school
Ghosts from last summer keep popping up in my head and they’re going ‘round and ‘round and I can’t sleep. Really, do I want to sleep? Sleeping means waking up tomorrow, Tuesday, one day closer to orientation, one day closer to school, one day closer to permanently moving with no more of this now-I’m-in-Denton now-I’m-in-Austin shit. I hate this now-I’m-in-Denton now-I’m-in-Austin shit, but I don’t want to let it go, because once I do, I’ll be saying goodbye to Denton for good.
Is there anything I want to hang on to in Denton? No, not really. Nothing comes to mind. My time here is over. The people I care about here have moved on or are in the process of moving in. The person I was here is gone, and good riddance to him, don’t let the door hit you on your way out. So what am I clinging to? Memories, I guess. Memories that are far better than the actual times that they correspond to. And hell, the actual memories themselves aren’t even that good, so the times they correspond to must have been fucking terrible. So what am I holding on to? No, that’s not the question. The question is: why am I holding on?
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I really don’t remember why I thought that I ought to go to law school.
Stressed. Tired. Cranky. Bored. Insecure. Aging prematurely.
Why did I choose this? I guess it was the best of a bunch of bad options.
If this is the best of the bunch, I shudder to think about the alternatives.
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I finished taking finals less than a week ago, and I have a week to finish my essay(s) for the law review write-on competition. 1L may be over, but, lest I celebrate too soon (or at all), it would do me well to remember that I still have two years of utter bullshit to wade through (and then the bar). Grim is the mood, my friends.
Likes
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First Draft Complete! Derivatives and Anxiety: A Phenomenology of Market Risk
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Ohh touché, Tumblr. Touché.
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“Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.”
Albert Camus
