I trudge up the stairs from my usual subway stop, lugging a giant plastic bag of boxes behind me. Who knew a bag of boxes could be so heavy?  The plastic handles are stretched into tiny ropes that cut into my skin and leave red welts.  My skin is very sensitive to "trauma."  A doctor told me that once. It's called dermographia.

My whole body is aching, my head feels stuffed full of cotton, and I'm starting to sweat and, much to my chagrin, my pants are starting to slip down past the comfortable point.  Belt, belt, belt.  I try to surreptitiously sidle my pants back up, but there's no way to do that when you're toting around a giant plastic bag the size of a U.S.P.S. Mailbox. You know, the big blue ones on the streets.

So tired.  I feel like I've pulled two all-nighters.  It's a feeling I'm familiar with, you know, from the good ol' days when I used to think it was fun to pull all-nighters in college.  In fact, the past three days I've done the best I could to get to sleep by 10 pm. 

Anyway, two Bar exams can really take it out of you. The NY Bar Exam was hectic, crowded, and stressful.  The one emotion it really provoked in me was anger.  Anger at the disorganized way it was managed, anger at the Bar Examiners for testing subjects I didn't know and ignoring subjects I'd wasted hours and hours on.  The NJ Bar Exam was a bit more efficient.  In my tired stupor, staring at the computer "Start" screen and waiting for the proctor to say the inevitable, "You may begin," I wondered if the difference in efficiency said anything about NYers v. NJans (NJians?).  And then, I began to think I'd never survive California.  I appreciate it when people go about their business with a sense of urgency and purpose.  I like the snap-to-it-tiveness of American efficiency.

I remember working for the summer in a law firm in London, where they kept all their files in a storage closet, in piles on top of chairs, on the floor, wherever there was a flat surface.  No filing system.  Or, rather, the filing system was to send the interns into the dusty closet and waste two hours looking for a file that was poorly labeled and hidden under a pile of old, closed cases.  And not that I'm saying London law firms are crap; no, no. But when my fellow American intern and I timidly suggested that perhaps we could spend some time organizing their filing system, they laughed us off and called us "obsessive compulsive Americans, always wanting to shave a minute."  Shave a minute?  How about one hundred and eighty minutes?

What was I talking about?

My mom is the sweetest.  She made me my favorite foods.  I felt bad when I had no appetite to eat any of it, but she wrapped some of it up for me so I could have it for dinner tonight.  I think I'm too tired to eat.  Read that last sentence again, folks, it's the first and last time you'll ever see it from me!

Oh yes, we started with me walking out of the subway.

And there it was.  Brooklyn, lit by the most romantic light.  The deep orange glow of a fading sunset lighting the buildings at angles and turning everything rosy.  I was struck by how much I love this place.  I really love it.  It moves and it bustles, everyone is a personality, everything has a flavor.  And then on quiet nights and early mornings, the streets suddenly become a private little neighborhood.  It's a gentle delusion of privacy and intimacy that I love. 

I keep vowing that I'm moving back here, and maybe in three months I'll write an ecstatic post about my new job and my perfect apartment within walking distance of the park.  But there's also the possibility that I won't see this neighborhood again for a few years.  Who knows where I'll end up?  I took the NJ Bar, didn't I? 

I lingered on the streets a bit, but the giant plastic bag was not helping the romantic fuzzy feelings. So I struggled to my apartment and walked into the room I just left behind yesterday morning.  I almost dry-heaved.  Everywhere, evidence of Bar misery.  Not only that, but the daunting task of packing.  Packing and cleaning and moving.  So tired.  I tried hard to convince myself I was looking forward to this mindless, physical task.  I told many people, in an effort to convince myself, that I was so ready to put aside my books and get to scrubbing the stove.  But now that I'm here, and I'm on the cusp of beginning this unpleasant task, I realize... I'm a total liar.

That's when I decided to postpone my misery for 17 minutes. The 17 minutes it took me to write this post. 

I'm serious. Turn away.  It's my own personal freak out. Do not partake. Don't sink your own ship.  Leave me! Save yourselves!!!



My brain says there's no way I can fail this. I've been studying for two solid months of 10-14 hour days. 

But as the day approaches, and things keep falling out of my head, and the practice essays keep failing me... I don't know.

I might fail. I mean.. I could really fail this thing.  It's totally possible.  People fail all the time.  It's a hard test.  So yeah.  I could fail.

If I fail, no big deal, I'll take it again in Feb.

But I might die of shame before then.

I can't help it freaking out. I keep bombing the practice essays.  I mean... if the past five practice essays were the essays on the exam, I WOULD FAIL THE BAR EXAM.

Holy god.  I'm not even strong on the multi-state section.  I'm at a total loss.

My first nightmare during this crazed period of my life was not about the bar exam; it was about BAY SCALLOPS.  I had a Red Lobstermare. The finest of its kind. Triple sat, crazy, talkative, demanding couple wouldn't let me go. No staff in the kitchen. Had to cook the bay scallops myself.  The first time, they reduced down to tiny little nubs.  Couldn't serve those.  Had to recook. Meanwhile everyone's getting antsy and wants their drinks.  Crazy couple wouldn't order normal drinks cuz they're from down south. They had to order things called brown water and super punch which just turned out to be apple juice and coke. I was getting so agitated and the GD BAY SCALLOPS wouldn't cook. No one was helping me and I kept yelling at the managers, "Who's on in the kitchen?!" and the answer was, "EVERYONE!" fuckfuckfuckityfuck Someone has to help me. Send out the drinks to my crazy table! I'll have the scallops out in a minute! I hear the manager giving away my other tables b/c they waited too long for a server to greet them--

I wake up and think, "THANK GOD."

What kind of a sick mind do I have?!  I'm here, hating my life and so angry at the bar examiners, and my mind cooks up a dream that's--what--supposed to make me remember how grateful I am that I'm not stuck at Red Lobster?!?!  LET ME BE MISERABLE!

Would also like to point out that my subconscious opinion of people from the South is apparently not very positive.  Brown water and super punch? 

Some Bar Exam humor (although it'll only be funny to those taking the Bar and reading the same fact patterns again.. and again.. and again..)

This is quoted from a Tumblr (I'm very seriously considering moving to Tumblr)

A little list of things that are pissing me off about this Barbri bullshit. I am sick to death of the following things in the fact patterns:

1. People who don’t record their deeds:

Hey. Fuck face. That’s a nice deed you got there. Went ahead and bought Stankacre, didya? That’s awesome. Owning property is a sign of real maturity. Now, why don’t you do us all a fucking favor, and go record the fucking deed.

Right. Fucking. Now.

Don’t put it in a goddamn drawer. Don’t go off to India for 20 years. Don’t leave the deed in your will for dear cousin Victorianox.

Get your fat lazy ass down to the records office, and record it before I burn your goddamn house down.

2: Wily property sellers:

Here is a suggestion to those Bill of Rights violatin’ petty thug ass clowns, the Police. How about you go down to Doucheacre, and arrest the son of a bitch who sells the same house to 15 different people, over and over. Im sick of this guy getting away every time he pulls this shit, and I’m left to sort out the fucking pieces.

3: “Known” arsonists

Here’s a little tip to all the cretins that keep hiring “known” arsonists to burn down their cheating girlfriend’s house. Why is it, do you think, that he is a known arsonist, you dipshit. He’s known because he has been fucking caught before. You don’t know who the good arsonists are, do you! Because they have their shit together.

But no, you had to go hire Dusseldorf, or Durango, or whatever D word your fuckwit moron arsonist is named, and now he’s gone and burned the wrong house, and left me with a BAR question.

4: People who back out of conspiracies

Why don’t you just stick with it and save us all some trouble.

5. Power companies that leave an electric wire live to deter copper theft

While I appreciate your effort to rid the world of thieves stupid enough to try and steal raw copper wiring that’s fucking humming and has blue arcs dancing on it, it’s just gonna bite you in the ass in the end. Just let the copper go.

6. Fertile Octogenarians

I think I speak for all of us when I say……..Burn the witch!

Burn her!

And don’t use a “known” arsonist!

7. People who use anything more complicated than Fee Simple Absolute in a will

Hey, old man. Either give Horatio your fucking interest in Scroteacre, or don’t, alright? Don’t condition it on him growing a mustache, or learning to play the calliope, or winning “Dancing with the Stars.” Don’t grant a springing executive interest to Zenobia if she manages to graduate from Ninja academy.

Stop making my life more complicated than it needs to be, you Narcissistic old twat, and stop trying to control your property from the grave in a vain attempt to make up for your feebleness in life.

8. House Painters

Just paint the fucking house yourself, Paulson.

Trust me on this one. It’s not worth it.

9. Bank Mortgages

Hi there, First National Bank of South Calizonachussettsas. I don’t mean to tell you how to run your business, but allow me to impart a bit of sage wisdom.

When someone :

1) named Defaultina McBankrupstein,
2) is taking out her 17th mortgage with you,
3) on a place called Mushacre
4) so she can buy a new hat,

….do NOT fucking come crying to me when the inevitable judicial foreclosure sale nets $34, a button, and some lint, all of which are devoured by the banks that are 20 miles ahead of you in creditor line.

And do not ask me whether you are a junior or senior mortgagor, or whether you debt is secured, or some other bullshit I don’t understand, because the answer is always the same.

D) You are Fucked. Take it like a man.

10. Wanna-be Burglars

I am sick to death of these slackjawed melon-heads deciding at 2 a.m. that they need to borrow their neighbors wrench, and are sure he “won’t mind” if they saunter on over there in the middle of the night, crowbar the garage open, smash open his tool chest, and “borrow it.” And then always the inevitable fucking:

Did he commit Larceny/Burglary/Robbery?????? Ohhhhh, no intent!

In a month and a week, I'll be back home in NJ.  I'm anticipating the change with a mixed amount of dread and eagerness. First, it'll be wonderful to be free from school and the law for some time. I plan on taking a massive month-long break where I mainly go to the beach and the movies, by myself, if need be. But I love my neighborhood here in Brooklyn. Everything is within two minutes' walking distance from me, and I'll sorely miss living in the city.  On the other hand, my brother has an XBox 360 upon which I will happily wile away hours and hours of free time. But even the image of sitting alone playing XBox 360 doesn't make me that happy. It'll be lonely and quiet.  It's disappointing that when we're finally free to party and make happy, my friends and I will be separated by unfathomable amounts of time and distance.  Well, I exaggerate (don't I always?).. but it'll seem that way, since I'll be an hour (in no traffic) away from the city. No fun times. No "come over and let's watch the Doctor Who while eating copious amounts of indian food!" No "wanna get brunch?" 

The fact that my mind has already skipped over the blank-ness of this oncoming month of July just shows how in-denial I am about this whole Bar exam tribulation. I'm already planning the novel I'm going to write in my time off, while I look for a job.  If I write that novel, I've already planned out my pen name under which it'll be published. Heh. Last night, I fell asleep pretending to be a guest on Conan O'Brien's Tonight Show.

"I never thought I'd make it here! I'm such a huge fan, Conan. Why, yes, I did write the novel right after law school. No, I never thought it'd be such a huge hit! I'm just relieved I never actually had to go through with becoming a lawyer!"  The crowd laughs.

Seriously though, once I'm a lawyer, my parents could feasibly hire me. As their attorney. And as their attorney, I'd recommend they hire a real attorney. You know, one that knows stuff and can do it.

Speaking of pipe dreams, I'm still running as often as I can (about two or three times a week) and I've actually stopped dying on the treadmill after ten minutes. Mini-wave in celebration of ME!

Also, I love Aaron Sorkin. Just started watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Too bad it didn't survive past its first year. I love that he lives in a world where men are noble, women are in charge, and bromances are more important than romances. It's so sweet. 

This is redundant, having posted it on my facebook already, but I wanted to mark the day for future reference on my xanga.

Finished!  What do I feel?  Tired.  Joyful!

I had dinner with my roomie, who has actually now moved out but I prefer to continue calling her "roomz." We had a delicious sushi dinner, an entire bottle of champagne, and some good heart-to-heart conversation.

Now, slightly slushy and woozy, I am making a to do list of life maintenance activities for tomorrow. This lists includes: Laundry, lots of it. Stamps. Buy scent-free detergent. Sleep until the cows come home.

In no particular order, I will do all those things tomorrow. And then tomorrow night, I'll be going to a Mets game to watch them trounce the Braves.

Afterwards... who's to saa--*yawn*--ay.  okgnite