The Bar Exam

This is his third attempt. Will he succeed.

Mark Wilson stared at the fluorescent lights above the bar exam testing center and whispered to himself, “Here we go again.”

This was his third try. Third. At this point, the bar exam was less a test of legal knowledge and more a toxic relationship he couldn’t break up with.

Attempt #1 had ended in disaster when Mark misunderstood a question on torts and wrote an impassioned essay about pastries. Attempt #2? He filled out the entire multiple-choice section, realized he’d skipped Question 14, and then spent 45 minutes trying to erase the entire sheet with the side of his hand like a panicked raccoon.

But this time? This time he was ready.

He had studied for months. Watched lectures. Made flashcards. Even turned his mom’s cat into a study buddy by reading constitutional law out loud until the cat started growling at the word “habeas.”

And now, with a mechanical pencil, three pens, and an unreasonable amount of baby carrots for snacks, Mark walked in.

Question One: Define consideration in contract law.

Easy. Mark had given this answer 57 times during prep. Once while brushing his teeth. Once in the shower. Once, accidentally, to a confused barista who just asked his name.

He crushed it.

Question Two? Less great. Midway through writing about negligence, he panicked and compared it to forgetting your mom’s birthday while holding fireworks. Was it legally accurate? Absolutely not. But it was vivid.

During the lunch break, a kid next to him casually said, “This is my first try, but it’s pretty easy.”

Mark nodded and smiled, then went into the bathroom and whispered, “I hope your highlighter dries out.”

Six painful hours later, he staggered out of the test center like someone who had fought the legal system and maybe lost half a kidney in the process.

Then came the waiting. Three weeks of pure agony. Mark refreshed the results page so many times his browser asked, “Are you okay?”

And then—there it was.

Mark J. Wilson — PASS.

He screamed. His neighbors screamed back. Someone down the hall yelled, “Keep it down, man, some of us failed!”

He called his mom. She burst into tears and yelled, “Thank GOD! Now I can stop telling people you’re a freelance paralegal-slash-bar-strategist-slash-motivational blogger!”

His old roommate texted, “So… now I legally have to stop calling you ‘Esq Maybe’?”

Mark put on his suit jacket—over pajama pants—and stood in the mirror.

“Mark Wilson, Attorney at Law,” he said. Then tried again, deeper: “Mark Wilson. Esq.”

It was real.

He did it.

After three tries, two mental breakdowns, seventeen energy drinks, and one humiliating moment where he accidentally sent his bar prep tutor a crying selfie, he passed.

He was a lawyer.

And the next time someone asked him what he did for a living, he wouldn’t have to fake-cough and say, “Mostly vibes.”