Despertar

communication

During law school finals, such as the Federal Income Taxation I final I took today (which, by the way, felt something like being sodomized; I both studied AND crammed and still somehow wound up not knowing the answers to ONE SINGLE QUESTION, and so ended up citing Internal Revenue Code provisions that sometimes weren't relevant or didn't even damn well exist, and the fact that it sucked so much is the reason I'm drunk and incoherent now/this entry will probably end abruptly in mid-sentence because when I get drunk I get laid and can't be fucked with things like communicating), you are not allowed any communication with the outside world. Use of the internet, PDAs with wireless web access, cell phone use, et cetera, are barred from the time the proctor takes the stand till the last person turns in her (ALWAYS her) exam at the front of the room.

In between, you're kind of in a bubble of solitude and self-doubt. You're sitting there, staring at the unsolvable problems your tax professor has conceived, wondering, unhappily, whether this is proof that you don't matter for anything? You didn't go to trade school, you didn't earn your nursing credentials, you've hinged your entire future and your every hope and dream on the eventuality of a law degree, and if your answers to these questions are sucking as much as you think they are, which they probably are, because you're citing nonexistent IRC provisions in your answers, what good are you? You won't be a lawyer, you won't teach law, you'll never publish a two-volume treatise on modern adaptations of the tax code, so why are you here? Why are you here?

And if they allowed outside communication, if you could just IM Tina, you'd get your reassurance. You'd say, Hey dawg, I feel like shit, I have no clue what's going on here and that one class i missed back in October has proven to be the basis for pretty much ninety percent of the exam, Tina would IM you back: Whatever, law school is useless anyway, AIDS and fashion are what matter, come to New York next week and forget your troubles! And you would start making plans and forget your uselessness and the fact that in a matter of hours you'll let some boy who only thinks he loves you put his penis in you, and that he is, honestly, the only reason you haven't thrown in the towel yet.

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I turn into a no-holds-barred BASKETCASE when I can't reach Justin on the first try. I actually write down the time, four thirty-six in the afternoon, so's I have a record, so's I don't try to call him again within some neurotic time period that would justify his believing I'm a neurotic basketcase. It's sick.

Communication is a joke without love. Without mutual respect. When the whole world thinks you're crazy, everything goes south.

Ditto drunk. When you're drunk, everything you say becomes fodder for your next nightmare.