My imaginary friend

It's hard to stay in touch with people in law school, at least for me, especially when you don't drink, because that's what most people go out and do. People in school are sort of wrapping things up and planning to go their own separate ways by now, and it's hard to catch up with people out of school who still remember me, since I'm busy and terrified of the bar and in advanced tax until 8 and shit like that. Besides, I'm fucking cranky at the end of the day and really just want to kick back on the couch and watch "Charmed" just as often as not.
It's too bad I'm not religious, I'd hang out with church folk, they generally tend to hang out and not drink, but all that blood stuff totally creeps me out. Singing about bloody lambs and guys nailed to sticks is just not how I want to spend my Sunday mornings, God forgive me. I do go to the zen temple, but the plan there is NOT to talk, which makes it rather difficult to get to know people. I do, however, know how a lot of people breathe, if they have allergies or not and if they've memorized some chants in Japanese that, as far as we know, could actually translate to "butter, butter, chicken, monkey, butter, melon, monkey, butter, chicken, chicken, chicken butter, train, plane, pan."
Painted into a bit of a lonely corner here, I've invented an imaginary friend, caligu-buddy. Sad, right? Here's the warning if you are thinking about going to law school - it fucks everything up, including your social life, especially when you don't get fucked up, which is really rather ironic since this character and fitness stuff seems to be quite concerned with whether you have substance abuse problems. Well, I'm sober, but have lots to explain nevertheless. I imagine, among other things, I will have to take my socks off and show that I do not, in fact, have a lead foot, which is too bad, because it would explain a lot.
Well, caligu-buddy went to the store to get strawberries and tofu an hour ago and hasn't gotten back yet, so I guess I'll go call. She probably won't pick up the phone. I'm so burned out even my imaginary friends aren't reliable! Fortunately, she's replaceable, and even I can afford an imagination.


Until later,

caligulawyer and caligubuddy
your imaginative friends

how to answer an interview question

Today I interviewed for an internship for the semester. I wouldn't get paid, or course credit. Just the satisfaction of being overworked and abused. As a proper law student, this makes me happy. I fear, deep down, if I have a life then the bar will somehow find out and deny me admission. "You did what? You grocery shopped? You should have been subsisting on corn chips from the vending machine! Why do you think the building smells that way? Because everyone else knew better! Damn plum-eating, lazy ass, too-good-for-corn-chips buddhist hippie. DENIED!"

Speaking of lives, the guy today said something about assuming I'd scheduled free Friday afternoons for a reason. Then he asked what my home life was like. Interviews are strange situations. What do you say? "Well, my living room is painted bright green. I have a one-eyed cat who is also missing most of her teeth. Another one is going around with his head tilted all the time, slightly off balance, and the vet can't figure it out. We've taken to calling him "Wobbly" and "Slanty Claws", which will be funnier come Christmas. We watch a lot of "Charmed" and I haven't mowed the yard in so long there weeds so big we can tell they are mini maple trees. In fact, maybe I'll stop mowing altogether and we'll have some more shade around here. Oh, we have three fish named Stella. And I drive a 1975 Datsun that is yellow/rust on one side and grey on the other. I'm gay and practice zen meditation. " Somehow, that doesn't strike me as what I should have said.

See, there is truth and there is truth. "Uh, I've lived with someone for three years and have a little house with cats and fish and a garden" is also true; it just paints less of a picture. When I'm interviewing law students, I'll hire the one with the balls to tell me a good story. Juries are more likely to be swayed by yellow/rust/gray trucks and the Wobbly cat than pat stories about fish and gardens anyway. But until then, I have to get a job, so fish and gardens it is.

Shutup. I'm back.

Due to popular demand, which means people who want me to distract them from their miserable lives, I'm back. I don't know how much there is to say. My life has gotten stable, or should we say boring? As I write, the fish swim peacefully and my girlfriend is beside me in a thrift shop easy chair doing a cross stitch, whatever the fuck that is, and my raggedy one eyed cat is curled up at her feet. I used to spend Sunday afternoons sweating out Saturday nights and mourning the loss of my new underwear. Now my Pale Ale and panties budget is spent on plums and pencils, not to be used at the same time. OK, well sometimes when I'm really, really bored. This is what age and a good woman does for you I guess, so those of you who still buy underwear in packs and are expected at the local saloon, watch out.

I've taken to listening to a lot of Johnny Cash. I think because I'm in my third year of law school and he had a penchant for singing to prisoners. For some asinine reason the administration, who I suspect simply can't count, let in so many first year students that the third years have to grab one under each arm and use them as battlerams to get through the crowds. They don't like it but fuck them, they need a beating, it will toughen them up, and we've been through enough - or so you'd think. I'm stuck several hours a week in an 80 person classroon (where 83 people sit) with a temperature approximating the 5th circle of hell that stinks of corn chips and flop sweat. I think the first years ought to have to come in and scrub it out, then stand at each end holding fans for the second and third years stuck in there and be grateful for the privilege. Those who don't want to participate could enter the first-year-fight-it-out program where they barefist box and the loser has to go to community college to be a paralegal that the rest of us can abuse when we graduate. That ought to thin the herd a little.

In the meantime, I'll crank up the Johnny Cash and ask my girlfriend what the fuck a cross stitch is. If I like it, maybe I'll let a 1L make one for me.