Sunday, September 20, 2009

What Lola Wants

There's a little saying about law school: "First year they scare you to death, second year they work you to death, and third year they bore you to death." Well, it's only taken me a month, and I can tell you, it's absolutely true. Except with the added bonus of me being stressed out of my goddamn mind about finding a job. A HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN clerkship applications and the only response I've gotten is three "thanks, but no thanks" emails. Blah.

It's recently come to my attention that we have some new readers. To you newbies, I say "Welcome! Also, don't talk about Fight Club outside of Fight Club."

Finn is lying on the back of the couch, trying to will the remote into his hand. It's going badly.

After a day of drinking and narrowly avoiding being peed on (Nikki's words, not mine) we're walking back to V's car so we can eat and sober up for round two. A bald man bends down in front of us and flexes his "muscles." "What do you think about this?" He asks us. What does Lola think? I think he's a fucking idiot. I choose to express this by taking my wristlet of justice and thwapping him across the top of his bald head. Nikki giggles and I keep walking.

Round two, party at Bruiser's house a nap, clothing change, bowl of soup and piece of pizza later. I've coaxed some beer out of the reluctant tap and am wondering if I can get drunk again before it's time to leave. V makes a joke about me having a morally-relaxed attitude. "Haha, it's funny. Lola's a whore. You're charting some new territory there, Magellan." Looks are exchanged over the top of the keg. Ok, maybe I'm into making some bad decisions. I decide to go with it. An hour in the fitness center was not enough to make my id quiet down and shut up. I'm ushered from the party, having promised to call and engage in some more poor decision-making.

I sit in the car, realizing that I didn't get drunk. I grin. Excellent. At 2:30 a.m., I'm driving back to pick up Bruiser. Phone call. I pick up, expecting random drunk shenanigans. It was drunk, definitely, random, certainly but the calller is telling me some interesting information and all of a sudden, I'm in a towering fury. I white-knuckle my steering wheel, laugh and hang up. Luckily for the recipient of my anger, I'm picking up Bruiser and an hour delay to go beat someone's ass would have been difficult to explain. He jumps in, and apparently, my rage hasn't entirely subsided because I'm still gripping the steering wheel so hard I might actually yank it off and I'm driving fast enough for him to call me "Nascar." As I'm in the hallway fiddling with my keys in the lock and having my top unbuttoned I think, "I know a good way to work off some aggression."

I'll spare you all the details, but it was an even better idea than the fitness room. What Lola wants, Lola gets. I woke up with fewer bruises though. I think I'll wait until they fade to atempt a round 3. It's like the little blue bristles on your toothbrush. When they turn white, it's time to get a new one.

Id wants a pretzel and a slurpee at Target. I give in, even though I just did a blow-out grocery shop. It was every bit as good as I could have wanted. Id is pleased.

Finn has given up on the remote and is tying a tie over his pajamas.

I've been informed that I'm some sort of soul-sucking, lying, drama-manufacturing succubus. Shame. I guess you can't please everybody. I accidentally hit my bruised arm against the end table. Hm. Maybe I am some sort of succubus. I don't hear anyone complaining. Most often, I hear Nikki laughing on the other end of the phone.

Phone call: It's Nikki. She called to tell me that she's intoxicated. I'm waiting for V to pick me up for the downtown festivals. I'm about to tell her that I'm going to keep her hubby out of trouble for her while she's away, when she gets distracted and ends the call.

Downtown, I see my old roomate from the Hash Palace. The one with the demon cat. I pretend not to see him. I then get one of my all-time favorite voicemails:
"Lo, it's Nikki. Why you no pick up my call? Is it because you didn't want to tell me where you were going?" And then she giggles, tells me to be safe and hangs up.

Id wants beer and Mexican food. As I finish my taco, I realize that Id has some amazing ideas and vow to indulge it a little bit more.

Well, it's time for me to guilt myself into doing my work. So, I bid you adieu (except the ones I'll see tonight) and to my new readers: stay tuned.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Jailhouse Rock

This week did not start well. Computie is dying. The slow painful way. Which was really inconvenient when I needed Computie to do me a solid and help me through the slow, painful process of applying for clerkships. Instead, I battled with Adobe for hours when I should have been adding PDFs of my writing sample to my bazillion clerkships. I got this close to pitching the damn thing across a coffee shop. Unfortunately, I had most of my overpriced Kahlua and Cream latte to drink and a hundred and some odd applications to upload, so that satisfying option came to nothing.

I woke up Monday, with my back and neck completely fucked. What was Lola doing Sunday night you ask? Sleeping in her own bed. The two friends who slept on my couches? Slept perfectly, woke up raving about my comfy couches. I call shenanigans. So, I was already fairly cranky when Computie started rebelling. I was up until after 2 and then awakened by my neighbors moving shadily out of their apartment at 6 a.m. At first I thought they were burglars, and then decided that Finn was bigger and stronger and closer to the living room, so I tried to sleep. And then realized that someone was getting the hell out of Dodge. Sweet.

With no apparent cause for this neck/back evil, I have been informed that it's probably stress. Well, that makes sense. I'm like 9 months from graduation and job prospects are lookin' bleak, and all the men I know have their own kind of special weird and crazy.

Every time I think about this shit, my neck seizes up more. No fucking wonder. Law school does not lend itself to happiness. We're all dead tired, overworked, stressed, malnourished, and fighting the first battles of the war against alcoholism and substance abuse.

Sitting uncomfortably in the Law Review Office with the Kid, who has apologized to both Dan and Aaron for his behavior in the Attack of the 2Ls, but not to me, who he groped. Phone call, it's Rick. "The internet isn't working. What do I do?"
"With my Spidey senses, I see that the modem needs to be reconfigured?" How the hell should I know? My fix for everything is to restart my computer.

Sancho Panza swears there were "no signs at all" in the building where he fell. Cut to Lola, watching him walk past a sign in the surveillance video. "Oh, you mean in the main part of the building? Oh yeah, but that's not what I meant. I meant the other part of the building." And the only sentence he can repeat is, "yeah, he said 'that stupid "B," she just mopped the floor." If hear the phrase "that stupid 'B'" one more time, I am going to suck on the exposed wires from where they're renovating the elevators.

Phone call. Collect from city jail. Neck Crack has landed himself in the big house. I grin. Things are lookin' up.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Fatal Attraction

Your days of reading The Penal Gallery may be numbered dear readers (I know you're both devastated), because my days may be numbered. Finn's batshit crazy ex-girlfriend, Crazy, is coming to visit this weekend. This means two things: 1) there are people crazier than me and 2) they are coming to visit. Presumably to see the kittens, sleep with Finn, and kill me. Probably in that order. Expect to hear from me barricaded in my room Sunday night with my dresser pushed in front of my door. (Anyone want to take me out of the house on Sunday night? Anyone? Bueller?)

On a related note, don't drink and text. You ever get drunk and forget? It happened to me. I returned home from the bar(s) on Wednesday night (don't judge me) and got drunk with Finn while we discussed my imminent demise and my apparent inability to give it away. (For the record, he is amazed and saddened by my inability to close the deal. In my defense, I've been thwarted by circumstances outside my control). I sent a cryptic text message regarding my imminent demise. I never even got a "you're nuts" message back. You would think I'd learn, but if you thought that, you probably haven't been reading all that long.

For those who doubt that God likes to mess with me, reference the hour I spent lined up with 3 out of the last 5 men I've hooked up with at a school event. It was not a fair, it was a parade of all my drunken escapades. My friends laughed at me and none of them knew why. Thanks, God.

I'm rambling, which is a good way to avoid the things I should be doing. I should be finishing a memo on adverse possession. Lame. I should be redacting my writing sample so I can get a job. Tedious. I should be applying for jobs. Scary. I should be reading for class. Boring.

I have three binders worth of cite-checking assignments on the desk right now. I am staring them down, hoping that they will compile themselves if I look at them the right way. I somehow doubt this is going to happen. This post has not had the requisite amount of snark; so, I'm going to make up for that by complaining right now:

I wanted to be as clear as possible and give as much direction as I could to the incoming staff members who were anxious as a whore in church about their assignments. We had the managing department send out a spiffy checklist detailing exactly what they were to do, we held cite-checking class, I sent the world's longest, most detailed email about the particulars of the assignment and several members of the e-board donated a block of three hours to answer questions at a help session. Of course, most of the staff was freaking out anyway, like we were going to torture those who forgot to put BlueBook rules in the margins. Except for one person, who apparently knows how everything should be run anyway. I'm not sure that she knows that I was the one giving out the assignment, or maybe she thinks little things like tact are beneath her because she complains, in the office, in front of me, in this nasty condescending tone: "Yeah, this entire assignment was an exercise in confusion." Like we didn't know what we were doing and fucked up the instructional process. I'm sorry, maybe your uppity ass could have come to the three hours' worth of help time where someone could have shown you exactly what to do. Or, you could have emailed for clarification instead of taking no iniative to figure out what you were doing and then bitching that you didn't have somone holding your hand.

I kinda hope she fucks it up so badly that I have to email her and ask her why she didn't come in for help since she clearly had no idea what to do.