To help combat my current bout of law-school-induced depression, I visited one of my Facebook groups, "You Might Be in Law School If..."
I almost cried at the painful accuracy of this list. And I felt slightly better.
Kris, I dedicate this post to you. Even though I have unashamedly ripped it off Facebook:
You know you're in Law School if...
You know all sorts of sneaky and creative ways to steal from clients thanks to your Professionalism and Ethics class.
You consider dropping out of law school approximately every hour, but after that first semester you realized you were already in too much debt to be anything other than a lawyer.
You aspire to one day own Blackacre.
Substance abuse becomes you.
The drama in your life now rivals that of high school.
You make adverse possession jokes.
You can name without hesitation at least three people who make you want to throw things when you see them raise their hands in class.
You think IRAC and CREAC are just code for saying the same thing over and over.
You are truly and deeply unnerved by the thought of some of your classmates becoming attorneys.
You think tequila shots are essential to ordered liberty.
You wonder if that one professor who always seems angry and irritable and treats students’ minds as his personal playground is actually a sociopath or just didn’t get enough hugs as a child.
Sometimes during disagreements you are tempted to 12(b)(6) the offending friend or family member.
You know and understand the complicated epistemological and metaphysical differences between a conspirator and an accomplice.
You know and understand the complicated epistemological and metaphysical differences between coffee and red bull.
You can’t remember if you decided to come to law school because you wanted to help people and make a difference in the world or because you hate yourself.
You think whoever first introduced the Socratic method into the law school curriculum should have his face lit on fire and then beaten out with a rake.
You can’t think of any legitimate reason why a law student would need access to certain public records, but you can think of a whole lot of illegitimate ones.
After the first semester you realized that “briefing a case” need only consist of looking it up on Lexis or Westlaw.
You’ve given yourself carpal tunnel from all the spider solitaire you play in class.
When someone is expressing their frustration or anger about something that is in any way related to the law, you can’t be sympathetic because you’re too busy figuring out in your head if they have a cause of action.
You hear about the death of an elderly friend or relative and wonder if they died intestate.
You have considered changing career paths to hot dog vendor, stilt walker, or career alcoholic.You're pretty sure the reasonable prudent man is a friendless tool who still lives with his mother.
...
You may not be surprised to know that I also joined the Facebook group, "I've Thought About Dropping Out Of Law School At Least Ten Times Today."
Friday, November 2, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Horrors of Contract Law
Y'know, whenever I watched "JAG", the wonderfully clean-shaven, square-jawed American lawyer Lieutenant Harmon Rabb never got caught up in little things like contract law cases.
He was always defending Marines under fire, or arguing on exculpatory evidence, or heightening the sexual tension over eight seasons with Colonel Mackenzie...but I don't recall him ever fussing over something like contracts.
Probably because contracts don't really make for exciting TV.
Of course, half the time I was mostly admiring how handsome he looked in his nicely starched and iron white Navy uniform, but I did pay attention to the storylines. Let's be honest- half the reason I went into law was because of that show.
Anyhow, I had my first written exam for Contracts B today and it was, hands-down, the WORST exam I've ever sat.
I knew NOTHING.
NOTHING.
Nada.
Squat.
I got to the Policy question, took one look at 'good faith in termination' and 'legitimate interest in affirmation' and almost cried right then and there.
I had a look at Question One and also almost went into hysterics.
I didn't even touch on remedies. Or damages. And that was one third of the course, as somebody on the train helpfully pointed out to me.
I'm relying heavily on the supplementary exam. Assuming there is one.
Just to make things worse, cute guy from 'X, Y, Z' happened to be sitting exactly two rows to my right and one seat up, and let's just say that was a terrible distraction. After the exam finished, he rested his head on the table, and that was pretty much how I felt at that moment.
I went into the city afterwards to meet up with my sister for dinner at the Leveson, which is famed for its Parma- it's meant to be rated #1 in Melbourne. And it was- it had actual chicken breast in it, which is a far cry from the horrors of the food court parmagianas I've encountered in my takeaway travels.
To get through the utter pain of failing Contract law, I steadily made my way through one parma, side salad, chips, lemon lime bitters, Turkish bread/dips, and a chocolate cake with white chocolate ice-cream and raspberry caramel, finished off with a cappucino (full cream...I don't know how my sis drinks that skinny stuff.)
It helped. Somewhat.
Except I've just discovered that you need 45% minimum to sit a supplementary exam.
This isn't like Chinese last semester, where they scaled the marks WAAAAY up (I wouldn't have passed otherwise). This is bad. Very, very bad.
BAD.
Had I the energy to weep, I would. But I can't be stuffed. The only good thing is that I've got a basic knowledge now, so repeating it shouldn't be as bad the first time round.
The only thing that would cheer me up right now is my square-jawed American hero, David James Elliott.
And possibly some Prozac.
He was always defending Marines under fire, or arguing on exculpatory evidence, or heightening the sexual tension over eight seasons with Colonel Mackenzie...but I don't recall him ever fussing over something like contracts.
Probably because contracts don't really make for exciting TV.
Of course, half the time I was mostly admiring how handsome he looked in his nicely starched and iron white Navy uniform, but I did pay attention to the storylines. Let's be honest- half the reason I went into law was because of that show.
Anyhow, I had my first written exam for Contracts B today and it was, hands-down, the WORST exam I've ever sat.
I knew NOTHING.
NOTHING.
Nada.
Squat.
I got to the Policy question, took one look at 'good faith in termination' and 'legitimate interest in affirmation' and almost cried right then and there.
I had a look at Question One and also almost went into hysterics.
I didn't even touch on remedies. Or damages. And that was one third of the course, as somebody on the train helpfully pointed out to me.
I'm relying heavily on the supplementary exam. Assuming there is one.
Just to make things worse, cute guy from 'X, Y, Z' happened to be sitting exactly two rows to my right and one seat up, and let's just say that was a terrible distraction. After the exam finished, he rested his head on the table, and that was pretty much how I felt at that moment.
I went into the city afterwards to meet up with my sister for dinner at the Leveson, which is famed for its Parma- it's meant to be rated #1 in Melbourne. And it was- it had actual chicken breast in it, which is a far cry from the horrors of the food court parmagianas I've encountered in my takeaway travels.
To get through the utter pain of failing Contract law, I steadily made my way through one parma, side salad, chips, lemon lime bitters, Turkish bread/dips, and a chocolate cake with white chocolate ice-cream and raspberry caramel, finished off with a cappucino (full cream...I don't know how my sis drinks that skinny stuff.)
It helped. Somewhat.
Except I've just discovered that you need 45% minimum to sit a supplementary exam.
This isn't like Chinese last semester, where they scaled the marks WAAAAY up (I wouldn't have passed otherwise). This is bad. Very, very bad.
BAD.
Had I the energy to weep, I would. But I can't be stuffed. The only good thing is that I've got a basic knowledge now, so repeating it shouldn't be as bad the first time round.
The only thing that would cheer me up right now is my square-jawed American hero, David James Elliott.
And possibly some Prozac.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Monster Mash
Thanks to Daylight Savings, I have now turned into the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster.
This transformation generally occurs by the light of the full moon...or within several days of an assignment deadline or exam.
The temper of the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster knows no bounds. It will snap at anything that comes within fifteen feet. It will stalk to the pantry and ransack what meagre vittles it finds. It hisses and snarls darkly over sheets of looseleaf and heavy textbooks, and will be likely to attack if the words 'liquidiated damages' or 'natural law' are uttered within earshot.
The Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster has a menacing appearance that is often frightening to young children. The most common form sports hideous cotton Big W pyjamas with an unkempt, unbrushed mane of hair, and is characterised by large, dark shadows that hang under the beast's puffy eyes. It has sharp, unmanicured nails and a high-pitched, klaxon-like wailing voice (which rises in pitch and frequency depending on the proximity of exams).
If you are confronted by this fearsome beast, it is better to back away slowly, avoiding eye contact. The Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster loathes bright sunshine and equally bright, happy people (however, if you smile winningly at the beast it may be stirred into a furious rage and rip your throat out.)
If you are cornered by the Monster, it may be less likely to attack if offered a strong pot of coffee (with a big dash of milk. And one heaped teaspoon of sugar.) Generally, it is simply best to avoid the beast in its natural habitat. It prefers to reside in self-imposed exile in a private room, where its terrible wailing cry cannot be heard.
If in doubt, simply offer the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster a hug.
After all, there is a human being underneath.
Somewhere.
This transformation generally occurs by the light of the full moon...or within several days of an assignment deadline or exam.
The temper of the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster knows no bounds. It will snap at anything that comes within fifteen feet. It will stalk to the pantry and ransack what meagre vittles it finds. It hisses and snarls darkly over sheets of looseleaf and heavy textbooks, and will be likely to attack if the words 'liquidiated damages' or 'natural law' are uttered within earshot.
The Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster has a menacing appearance that is often frightening to young children. The most common form sports hideous cotton Big W pyjamas with an unkempt, unbrushed mane of hair, and is characterised by large, dark shadows that hang under the beast's puffy eyes. It has sharp, unmanicured nails and a high-pitched, klaxon-like wailing voice (which rises in pitch and frequency depending on the proximity of exams).
If you are confronted by this fearsome beast, it is better to back away slowly, avoiding eye contact. The Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster loathes bright sunshine and equally bright, happy people (however, if you smile winningly at the beast it may be stirred into a furious rage and rip your throat out.)
If you are cornered by the Monster, it may be less likely to attack if offered a strong pot of coffee (with a big dash of milk. And one heaped teaspoon of sugar.) Generally, it is simply best to avoid the beast in its natural habitat. It prefers to reside in self-imposed exile in a private room, where its terrible wailing cry cannot be heard.
If in doubt, simply offer the Puffy-Eyed Sleepless Monster a hug.
After all, there is a human being underneath.
Somewhere.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The Joys of Group Interviews
Group interviews are stupid.
Stupid, but extremely amusing.
I toddled off to a group interview today for a position as a music teacher. Upon entering the waiting room and meeting some of the other candidates, I quickly realised something.
Everyone was VASTLY more qualifed than I was.
As in, half of them were actually students doing a dedicated music degree- actually devoting their life to music- or they'd taught music in the past. I felt like an imposter.
I believe that there are two types of tertiary music students. The first type tend to be creative, laidback souls who generally happen to be the most lovely people you'll ever meet. The second type tend to be poncy little elitists who you want to smack over the head with a music stand. Thankfully, there are relatively few of the latter, but when you meet them you want to...well, hit them over the head with a music stand.
Left to their own devices, these people will grow up to become those irritable old patrons who sit behind you at MSO concerts, muttering about obscure technical points and giving you death glares if you think to even whisper.
Unfortunately, there happened to be one of these poncy people in this interview group. Because it was a group interview, and group interviews happen to be ridiculous affairs with equally ridiculous team-building activities, we had to write down five things we would wish for if a genie appeared to us.
(Considering that the entire interview consisted of these ostensibly random and pointless exercises, I'm assuming that the selectors apply their uber-awesome 1337 psychoanalytic skills to examine our answers.)
Anyhow, we had to read them out, and this is what poncy-boy started out with. In an equally poncy manner:
1. "First, I would wish for every child in the world to have the same opportunities I have had."
2. "I would also eradicate world hunger."
3. "I would wish for my girlfriend to feel the kind of happiness that I feel from being around her."
(Everyone else: "Awwww....")
4. "To be the best musician and pianist and composer in the world."
I forget what his fifth answer was, but I think it was something to do with world peace.
Because I am an evil and selfish person, world peace only made it to #3 on my list. The rest were purely self-indulgent. I figured that with endless money I could probably work on eradicating world hunger anyway. My list ran as follows:
1. Yamaha Grand Concert Piano. (They can even make 'Heart and Soul' sound good.)
2. A bank account that never dries up
3. World peace
4. Good health
5. An albino pet koala (or possibly a penguin)
As you can imagine, everyone simply stared at me like I was mad when I read out the fifth request. But as Neesh will attest to, I've wanted a baby albino koala since Year 11, when I saw a picture of one in my Biology textbook.
I'm also rather fond of penguins.
Anyway...
...group interviews are also amusing because everyone chats to everyone else, but really, everyone's just trying to prove to the observers that "Yes, I can work in a team! Look, I'm communicating! Seeeeeee?!"
Also, one of the girls on my table simply walked out and didn't come back after the first exercise. She was meant to be helping us in the group exercise, but she simply said, "Excuse me for a moment," grabbed her bag and then never came back.
I seem to have that effect on people :P
Anyhow, it was an interesting break from my long hours of not-doing-anything-when-i-should-be-studying.
So, SO screwed for these exams.
Blaaaaargh.
I need a nap, a Frosty Fruit and an albino koala.
Stupid, but extremely amusing.
I toddled off to a group interview today for a position as a music teacher. Upon entering the waiting room and meeting some of the other candidates, I quickly realised something.
Everyone was VASTLY more qualifed than I was.
As in, half of them were actually students doing a dedicated music degree- actually devoting their life to music- or they'd taught music in the past. I felt like an imposter.
I believe that there are two types of tertiary music students. The first type tend to be creative, laidback souls who generally happen to be the most lovely people you'll ever meet. The second type tend to be poncy little elitists who you want to smack over the head with a music stand. Thankfully, there are relatively few of the latter, but when you meet them you want to...well, hit them over the head with a music stand.
Left to their own devices, these people will grow up to become those irritable old patrons who sit behind you at MSO concerts, muttering about obscure technical points and giving you death glares if you think to even whisper.
Unfortunately, there happened to be one of these poncy people in this interview group. Because it was a group interview, and group interviews happen to be ridiculous affairs with equally ridiculous team-building activities, we had to write down five things we would wish for if a genie appeared to us.
(Considering that the entire interview consisted of these ostensibly random and pointless exercises, I'm assuming that the selectors apply their uber-awesome 1337 psychoanalytic skills to examine our answers.)
Anyhow, we had to read them out, and this is what poncy-boy started out with. In an equally poncy manner:
1. "First, I would wish for every child in the world to have the same opportunities I have had."
2. "I would also eradicate world hunger."
3. "I would wish for my girlfriend to feel the kind of happiness that I feel from being around her."
(Everyone else: "Awwww....")
4. "To be the best musician and pianist and composer in the world."
I forget what his fifth answer was, but I think it was something to do with world peace.
Because I am an evil and selfish person, world peace only made it to #3 on my list. The rest were purely self-indulgent. I figured that with endless money I could probably work on eradicating world hunger anyway. My list ran as follows:
1. Yamaha Grand Concert Piano. (They can even make 'Heart and Soul' sound good.)
2. A bank account that never dries up
3. World peace
4. Good health
5. An albino pet koala (or possibly a penguin)
As you can imagine, everyone simply stared at me like I was mad when I read out the fifth request. But as Neesh will attest to, I've wanted a baby albino koala since Year 11, when I saw a picture of one in my Biology textbook.
I'm also rather fond of penguins.
Anyway...
...group interviews are also amusing because everyone chats to everyone else, but really, everyone's just trying to prove to the observers that "Yes, I can work in a team! Look, I'm communicating! Seeeeeee?!"
Also, one of the girls on my table simply walked out and didn't come back after the first exercise. She was meant to be helping us in the group exercise, but she simply said, "Excuse me for a moment," grabbed her bag and then never came back.
I seem to have that effect on people :P
Anyhow, it was an interesting break from my long hours of not-doing-anything-when-i-should-be-studying.
So, SO screwed for these exams.
Blaaaaargh.
I need a nap, a Frosty Fruit and an albino koala.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Stuck on You
Imagine:
You're in a clothing shop. You see a pretty dress.
You pull it off the rack.
You lock yourself inside a dressing room to try it on.
You slip it over your head.
You try to pull it off.
And it gets STUCK.
Ten points to anyone who can guess what happened to me in David Jones today...
OK. So I wander in on my lunch break looking to browse, and I see this cute little dress rimmed in baby blue. Normally, I'm a Size 8 or sometimes a Size 10. Personally, I believe that if we went by the sizings that were in vogue seven years ago, I should be a Size 10. Except this whole stupid 'vanity sizing' concept means that sizes have all gone down...so that women are meant to think, "Oooh yay, I'm a Size 8, I feel better about myself so I'll buy this!"
It doesn't work. Dressing room mirrors are cruel.
Anyhow...I somehow managed to pull this dress over my head, except I had this funny sensation in my left arm.
It felt like I'd dislocated my shoulder. But I ignored the pain.
I then realised that this Size 8 dress would, in normal circumstances, qualify as a SIZE SIX. IT WAS NOT A NORMAL SIZE EIGHT. It's a simple test: I can breathe in Size 8 clothes. The same cannot be said for Size Six items.
So I tried to get it off.
Except it was stuck. Stuck fast. Stuck stuck stuck.
Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
Okay...okay...don't panic.
Tug.
Tug.
AAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.
Breathe. Breathe.
It would not budge. I decided that the best way to get it off would be to try slipping an arm and shoulder through..then the rest would follow. However, this was easier said than done.
I sincerely hope that nobody outside was watching, as they would have seen a pair of hapless arms flailing about in terror above the changing room door.
As luck would have it, my shoulder and arm got nicely stuck. There was not one millimetre of room. I could see the circulation being cut off to my left arm- it was swelling up nicely like an angry scarlet Bratwurst- and I was beginning to feel a sense of overwhelming panic.
There was actually a point where I considered just getting a staff member to cut me out and I'd pay for the dress- it was $70- but the horror and indignity of this was just too much to bear. So I struggled in pained silence. My shoulder hurt, my arm hurt, and my fingers were beginning to go numb.
This is it, I thought. I'm going to be stuck in this dressing room until closing time and I'll miss the rest of my shift...
That thought alone made me fight even more vigorously. The Changing Room Gods must have been looking out for me today...perhaps they thought that I had struggled enough...and so somehow, miraculously, I managed to to drag it off.
I could have cried from joy.
Except my shoulder HURT.
I dumped the dress back on the counter, grabbed a bite to eat and ran back to work. Except I was still extremely stressed from my ordeal- I shudder to think about what would have happened had I not been able to extricate myself from that prison of patterned fabric- and it's quite difficult to greet people with a smile when your neck and shoulder are still an aching reminder of this.
Colleague: Hey, are you OK?
Me: What? Yes. Fine! Why?!
Colleague: You look...kind of angry.
Me: I'M NOT ANGRY.
Colleague: Oh good...cos I thought you were mad at me or something.
Me: What?! No, of course I'm not mad at you (at this point I was thinking extremely uncharitable thoughts towards THAT dress)
So...'fess up.
Have you ever gotten stuck?!
You're in a clothing shop. You see a pretty dress.
You pull it off the rack.
You lock yourself inside a dressing room to try it on.
You slip it over your head.
You try to pull it off.
And it gets STUCK.
Ten points to anyone who can guess what happened to me in David Jones today...
OK. So I wander in on my lunch break looking to browse, and I see this cute little dress rimmed in baby blue. Normally, I'm a Size 8 or sometimes a Size 10. Personally, I believe that if we went by the sizings that were in vogue seven years ago, I should be a Size 10. Except this whole stupid 'vanity sizing' concept means that sizes have all gone down...so that women are meant to think, "Oooh yay, I'm a Size 8, I feel better about myself so I'll buy this!"
It doesn't work. Dressing room mirrors are cruel.
Anyhow...I somehow managed to pull this dress over my head, except I had this funny sensation in my left arm.
It felt like I'd dislocated my shoulder. But I ignored the pain.
I then realised that this Size 8 dress would, in normal circumstances, qualify as a SIZE SIX. IT WAS NOT A NORMAL SIZE EIGHT. It's a simple test: I can breathe in Size 8 clothes. The same cannot be said for Size Six items.
So I tried to get it off.
Except it was stuck. Stuck fast. Stuck stuck stuck.
Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
Okay...okay...don't panic.
Tug.
Tug.
AAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.
Breathe. Breathe.
It would not budge. I decided that the best way to get it off would be to try slipping an arm and shoulder through..then the rest would follow. However, this was easier said than done.
I sincerely hope that nobody outside was watching, as they would have seen a pair of hapless arms flailing about in terror above the changing room door.
As luck would have it, my shoulder and arm got nicely stuck. There was not one millimetre of room. I could see the circulation being cut off to my left arm- it was swelling up nicely like an angry scarlet Bratwurst- and I was beginning to feel a sense of overwhelming panic.
There was actually a point where I considered just getting a staff member to cut me out and I'd pay for the dress- it was $70- but the horror and indignity of this was just too much to bear. So I struggled in pained silence. My shoulder hurt, my arm hurt, and my fingers were beginning to go numb.
This is it, I thought. I'm going to be stuck in this dressing room until closing time and I'll miss the rest of my shift...
That thought alone made me fight even more vigorously. The Changing Room Gods must have been looking out for me today...perhaps they thought that I had struggled enough...and so somehow, miraculously, I managed to to drag it off.
I could have cried from joy.
Except my shoulder HURT.
I dumped the dress back on the counter, grabbed a bite to eat and ran back to work. Except I was still extremely stressed from my ordeal- I shudder to think about what would have happened had I not been able to extricate myself from that prison of patterned fabric- and it's quite difficult to greet people with a smile when your neck and shoulder are still an aching reminder of this.
Colleague: Hey, are you OK?
Me: What? Yes. Fine! Why?!
Colleague: You look...kind of angry.
Me: I'M NOT ANGRY.
Colleague: Oh good...cos I thought you were mad at me or something.
Me: What?! No, of course I'm not mad at you (at this point I was thinking extremely uncharitable thoughts towards THAT dress)
So...'fess up.
Have you ever gotten stuck?!
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