a dear john letter to MBNA after an 8 year relationship

Dear MBNA,

Baby, I know we've been together since freshman year of college, and this time has been really special to me. I loved watching you grow from regular, to gold, to platinum, and I thought it was cool how your maximum balance threshold went from enough to buy a hotdog to enough to buy a private jet. You were so suave.

But honey, you've changed. We used to cuddle, and talk about our feelings, and you used to charge me 11% interest. You barely carried a balance, and I always thought we would be so happy together. Now, though, you've put on an unbelievable amount of weight, and you come home smelling like cheap wine and hookers. Every day you become more of a bastard at a predictable, calculated rate. I have nightmares about our ongoing relationship and sometimes muse about faking my own death to end this pattern of abuse.

It's like the cycle never ends. We make up for a little while, I stupidly give you some money that seems to disappear into the wind, and you shave off a few points of interest ... but then out of nowhere I get a letter from you and you're back to charging me 18% (variable, you lout) with a minimum payment that rivals the gross domestic product of a well developed nation.

I don't think we should do this anymore. The svelte adonis idling in the driveway is Bank of America. I've seen him around, and this morning he put a pretty silver card on my finger and proposed low fixed rate balance transfers for as long as we both shall live. I accepted.

It's not that you didn't try. When I would call you, your service people always smiled gently and whispered in a sweet, soothing southern drawl while they repeatedly violated me. I thought that was a nice touch and I always appreciated it in the following days when I could only sit on pillows. In the long run, though, I just don't think we're right for each other. Public interest law isn't enough to support your habits.

Sorry.

SEF

madre

My. Mom. Owns. (My dad does too.)

Happy Mother's Day Mom!

interior, Rittenberg Law Library

From behind, Sue is seen typing furiously on a rather dirty looking IBM, surrounded by statute books, highlighters and outlines. In slow motion, her left hand reaches for the cup of coffee next to her. She drinks it. A loud DING sounds; at the bottom left corner of the frame a small icon of a steaming cup of coffee flashes "100." The screen floods with psychedelic colors, and Sue is imbued with a preternatural understanding of bankruptcy law.

there has been an outbreak of catholicism

So instead of studying I went to mass with Vincent, who recently got an award for being The Man (true story; he got a standing ovation for it). In a new wrinkle in Catholic idiosyncrasy, today they had The Blessing Of The Brains and I had my brain blessed. It wasn't as invasive as it sounds.

I giggled a lot while thinking about that episode of Futurama in which giant brains attack Earth.

exceedingly compelling diet update

Have decided that 800 calories/day is insufficient both for weight loss and sustenance of mental acuity.

Have decided to multiply acceptable caloric limits by a factor of 10 to encourage flagging metabolism, foster more focused studies, and rationalize $49 dinner bill at Taco Bell.

Have decided to call 911.

is that linkin park I hear?

Lo, upon the second floor of the Rittenburg Law Library came a monstrous, oppressive wave of DESPAIR.

No I'm just kidding. I can barely focus long enough to study a single paragraph. Last two finals ever are on Tuesday and Wednesday. Originally I planned a Herculean effort as a proper sendoff from law school; then I reverted to my general disposition and decided to only do the bare minimum required to graduate on time (cf "D is for Diploma"). The final I took on Thursday had a multiple choice section. I flat out guessed at almost all of them without even a soupcon of anxiety. I took that final, that exam worth 100% of my grade, like I was filling out a user satisfaction survey at a mall food court.

That being said, I had a brief run in with The Fear this morning. He woke me up at 7 AM, a good 90 minutes before my alarm was set to go off, with a metallic clicking sound. I opened my eyes, squinted at the clock, and then saw he was perched comfortably on the edge of my dresser, scratching Vespa behind the ears with one rotten, disfigured claw, and smoking a cigarette (through a delicate ivory holder, no less) with the other. His legs were crossed at the knee, and one of my silver flip flops insultingly dangled off of his gnarled foot, attached mostly by the strands of mealy, brackish goo that oozed from him. He exhaled toward my open window, marring the already grey morning light, and grinned psychotically at me in a rainbow of black and amber.

I got to school four minutes after the library opened.

craaaap

The many excellent movies I have watched in the last week are somehow not helping me memorize the 50 single spaced pages of criminal procedure I need to know cold in 22 hours. I'm also remarkably well rested, and I spent the better part of the day discussing the merits of lesbian pornography and legalized prostitution with my fellow overachievers. The screwing to which I've subjected myself was not as delightful as my inner narcissist had hoped.

I did, however, apply to take the bar exam today. Did you know that it's cheaper than some other bar exams because many people have to take it over again due to RAMPANT FAILURE? Also, the Fresh Meadows Post Office is mostly adorned in bullet proof glass, which made me nostalgic for the exceptionally well fortified White Castle at Fordham.

In conclusion, NOT RIGHT NOW. Mommy needs her happy pills and special stingy tasting water. Go play with your intellectually stimulating, gender neutral learning toys. Guns. I mean guns.

donut ice cream sandwich

One small recipe tip from Jenny Craig before bed.

Donut Ice Cream Sandwich*

Ingredients:

Two chocolate cream-filled donuts (anything without a hole in the middle will probably do)
Ice cream of your choice

1 egg
1 cup milk
1 cup flour
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 teaspoon baking powder

Preparation:

Mold ice cream into convincing patty shape, sandwiched between donuts. Freeze the everlasting crap out of it until it's really hard.

Combine everything that isn't a donut or ice cream in a bowl, wisk until smooth.

Thoroughly coat now turbohard donut sandwich in batter and immediately deep fry until golden brown. Cover in hot fudge if desired, or Nutella if available. Eat, then nap off the sugar crash.


*Conceived while severely imparied and laughing too hard to breathe at a Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins Mecca with Gill. Recipe genius hit right before the paranoia set in and I became paralyzed with fear of the 15 year-old behind the register.

All-Dessert-And-Fruity-Drink-Diet

I'm going away somewhere warm and wonderful and bikini requiring after finals. As such, I'm on a severe crash diet (it's horrible during exams; during which I exist mostly on fried things and sugar) to open up the way for...

The all dessert and fruity drink fat fest with the MRE! Yay! That is correct - dessert and alcohol for EVERY MEAL!

It makes my chest hurt a little just thinking about it. In a good way. :)

productivity is slowing

Have four hours of library time left. Let's see how much productivity I can compromise with superfluous blog posts.

Bacon? I heart you.