Broken. Ug. Only three weeks down. Which means, what? Like 8 billion left to go this semester? I just got back from the most ridiculous class ever–Advanced Legal Research. It’s only 1 credit but required for graduation. Yet the workload is commensurate with something like 22 credits. We run all over the damn library looking up obscure references in ancient tomes that mean nothing in this age of technology. You know, just to prove it’s still possible. Some asshat saw me looking up something for my assignment and quipped, “Ever hear of the internet?” Yes, Douchey Mc Douchersons. I have. And once I am done with this 50lb. book of jury instructions, I plan on chucking it at your head to show you how useful books can really be.

To make my day truly complete, I got home tired, depleted, deflated. I almost melted onto the couch. I opened up my backpack, only to realize that my sacred binder was GONE. Absent. My binder that holds the meaning of life, along with all of my handouts, syllabi, notes, etc. Luckily, I was able to email one of my friends who was still slaving away at the library and she found it for me. But that binder became the quintessential straw for me. I feel like I could curl up in a ball and sleep until May. Easily. I hate this so hard.

A small bright spot is my internship. I basically just sit and watch paternity hearings and visitation arguments. But since the organization I intern for is a non-profit, I observe low income families instead of richie riches arguing over who should buy Sally a pony and who gets the BMW. Already, in one day, I have heard more crazy stories than I thought imaginable in a lifetime. Fathers that blow up their kids. Men that flee to the US and tell their kids that their mom is dead, then leave it to the attorney to break the news that mom’s actually alive. Husbands and wives who have threesomes, then split up so the dad can be with the threesome-woman, then the woman becomes a prostitute, then the husband leaves the prostitute-threesome-woman to go back to the wife, but he’s now jacked up on heroin and can’t find an acceptable methadone clinic, so the wife won’t take him back. You know, that kind of thing. Interesting. And a nice reminder that my life isn’t really all that bad. Yeah, law school sucks. But at least no one is tossing acid on me or whoring me out for food stamps.

And now on Tuesdays and Thursdays, John and I are taking spinning classes. Because nothing caps off an unbearable day like sweating my ass off in front of a group of 20 year old, size 2 girls whose only problems in life seem to be what frat boy to fuck next. Ug. I need a vacation.