Write My Life, Please... (1 Viewer)

So I remember being in law school and being wildly hungover and going to our first day of classes for our 3L year. I forget the name of the class I was supposed to take, but it had something to do with language, the law, and problems that arise when the two meet (or don't). So I was in some building going to class and all I could focus on was this woman. She was well-heeled, young (in her thirties, I'm sure, which was my age at the time) and looked lost. She had pivoted on her back foot, doing a heel turn. She looked pensive, as if she were trying to find her way around. Another heel turn. So I approached. "Excuse me," I said, "Are you Professor A+, by chance?" "Yes," she replied. "You look lost," I said, "Follow me. It's this way. I'm in your class."

It was as smooth as I described it. Keep going. Write my life, please...

I'll write the actual end to the stories after you guys have surmised and sussed out the obvious future and what it beheld...

"I really need to borrow a rack"

After having initial interest, and imagining throwing her career away by hooking her wagon to a FBG, she sees your low test scores coming in; snaps back to reality and turns her burning desires to someone with better prospects in life--the school mascot.  

According to the Bob Guccione course i just took on Masterclass, all Penthouse Letters in the legal metier must include the word "briefs".

wikkidpissah said:

According to the Bob Guccione course i just took on Masterclass, all Penthouse Letters in the legal metier must include the word "briefs".

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I’d also add that there’s nothing sexy about law school. 

Zow said:

I’d also add that there’s nothing sexy about law school. 

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what if you're a masochist?

You fix the cable?

Binky The Doormat said:

what if you're a masochist?

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Do law schools even have mascots?

Ahem. Cable was fixed and pipe laid already in my own head.

So Professor A+ and I walk to class together, separate like no sweat, mang, and she proceeds to watch the rest of the class file in. And of those that were already there, I spy Jennifer. My IL year of law school was filled with juniper and Jennifers. One spelled her name with a period. Jenn.fer. Another came and went like the breeze you're supposed to imagine over a rock steady beat. This Jennifer was one from my undergraduate years. I never really knew her all that well. But we had met up a bunch of times my IL year and would take lunch together every so often, just talking about our old undergraduate school and professors. We had taken an Economics of the Family seminar together. It was a Marxian/feminist class. Jenniferus communis. Anyway, how we met, all over again? It was at the introductory picnic, day slightly late, sun moving behind the Gothic buildings that made up our campus, once a monastery but now home to too many aspiring attorneys. 

"Excuse me," (again with the excuse mes) I said, "Did you go to C- University, by any chance?"

"Yes," came the reply.

"I thought so. Did you take Economics Of The Family?"

"Sure" she said.

"Yeah, I had that with you."

"Wow, you have a good memory. I've got to be honest -- I don't really remember you." You must be a stalker. Notice there are no quotes around that last sentence. It was unspoken.

"Yeah, I never really went."

Fast-forward to today, 3L, hungover, impression made upon professor, class take notice. "Does anyone know what the arrangement of words or order of words concerns?" the professor asked. People were quiet. Repeated her question. I had my head down, virtually on the desk, head spinning, and I blurted out "syntax." Correct. Jennifer looked over, slightly wistfully, slightly angered. Why angered? Well, the last time we'd spoken had been at the end of our IL year. After taking final exams in May, we all hitched up with each other and went out to various pubs, bars in the area. One of them happened to contain Jen. Our conversation ended up like this. "Why didn't you write me back? I mean..." Her voice was rising, increasingly agitated, so her friends, sensing this was about to go awry, sort of interrupted our conversation and ushered her inside. I was left outside of the bar, stunned. I looked at my friend P- and just said, "I ain't going in there...not for that."

"No ####."

I immediately called up a number long gone from memory and hit up the person on the other end. "Yo, SK, I said. You got any for me."

"Yep," came the reply. This was SK, Snife Killah, Ghost's would-be sidekick extraordinaire. He had mad Fishscale game going.

What you think about this. huh?
Thousand dollars on my wrist, huh?
With a four dot six what...

"Okay," I said, "I'll be up in forty."

Write my life, please...

D-Day said:

After having initial interest, and imagining throwing her career away by hooking her wagon to a FBG, she sees your low test scores coming in; snaps back to reality and turns her burning desires to someone with better prospects in life--the school mascot.  

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Frank Zappa already warned her about the huskies.

rockaction said:

Ahem. Cable was fixed and pipe laid already in my own head.

So Professor A+ and I walk to class together, separate like no sweat, mang, and she proceeds to watch the rest of the class file in. And of those that were already there, I spy Jennifer. My IL year of law school was filled with juniper and Jennifers. One spelled her name with a period. Jenn.fer. Another came and went like the breeze you're supposed to imagine over a rock steady beat. This Jennifer was one from my undergraduate years. I never really knew her all that well. But we had met up a bunch of times my IL year and would take lunch together every so often, just talking about our old undergraduate school and professors. We had taken an Economics of the Family seminar together. It was a Marxian/feminist class. Jenniferus communis. Anyway, how we met, all over again? It was at the introductory picnic, day slightly late, sun moving behind the Gothic buildings that made up our campus, once a monastery but now home to too many aspiring attorneys. 

"Excuse me," (again with the excuse mes) I said, "Did you go to C- University, by any chance?"

"Yes," came the reply.

"I thought so. Did you take Economics Of The Family?"

"Sure" she said.

"Yeah, I had that with you."

"Wow, you have a good memory. I've got to be honest -- I don't really remember you." You must be a stalker. Notice there are no quotes around that last sentence. It was unspoken.

"Yeah, I never really went."

Fast-forward to today, 3L, hungover, impression made upon professor, class take notice. "Does anyone know what the arrangement of words or order of words concerns?" the professor asked. People were quiet. Repeated her question. I had my head down, virtually on the desk, head spinning, and I blurted out "syntax." Correct. Jennifer looked over, slightly wistfully, slightly angered. Why angered? Well, the last time we'd spoken had been at the end of our IL year. After taking final exams in May, we all hitched up with each other and went out to various pubs, bars in the area. One of them happened to contain Jen. Our conversation ended up like this. "Why didn't you write me back? I mean..." Her voice was rising, increasingly agitated, so her friends, sensing this was about to go awry, sort of interrupted our conversation and ushered her inside. I was left outside of the bar, stunned. I looked at my friend P- and just said, "I ain't going in there...not for that."

"No ####."

I immediately called up a number long gone from memory and hit up the person on the other end. "Yo, SK, I said. You got any for me."

"Yep," came the reply. This was SK, Snife Killah, Ghost's would-be sidekick extraordinaire. He had mad Fishscale game going.

What you think about this. huh?
Thousand dollars on my wrist, huh?
With a four dot six what...

"Okay," I said, "I'll be up in forty."

Write my life, please...

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i dont see "briefs" in there at all. and, according to the Bob Guccione Letter Writing and Chest-hair Grooming Masterclass, you spelled "sin tax" incorrectly as well...

wikkidpissah said:

i dont see "briefs" in there at all. and, according to the Bob Guccione Letter Writing and Chest-hair Grooming Masterclass, you spelled "sin tax" incorrectly as well...

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LOLZ. I took it as a gentle suggestion the first time. Next time, we're sure to have briefs.

"So, Jennifer and I submitted our briefs for the mooting."

How's dat one? 

rockaction said:

LOLZ. I took it as a gentle suggestion the first time. Next time, we're sure to have briefs.

"So, Jennifer and I submitted our briefs for the mooting."

How's dat one? 

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moot moot!!

rockaction said:

LOLZ. I took it as a gentle suggestion the first time. Next time, we're sure to have briefs.

"So, Jennifer and I submitted our briefs for the mooting."

How's dat one? 

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Did she give ya a wedgie fer good luck?

Man of Constant Sorrow said:

Did she give ya a wedgie fer good luck?

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My link

Get yer plumbing tools, her hand gets stuck in the garbage disposal.

So there is a tony feel to our law school. Set up originally as a monastery, it has retained a look and aura of something very austere very serious. Before there were economic demands to be for the State (the State needs its rent), it was a place of enlightenment and divinity. The stone buildings make up a quad of sorts. From the initial parking lot one can see H- Hall and C- Hall and the back of the library. Huge -- and considered one of the crown jewels of the state before they read the plans wrong and built it so the foundation started sinking under the weight of all the books -- the library was a place of study, for contemplation, for group sessions discussing serious concepts and postulates. From one concern for the afterlife to the thought of being protected by language in this one, the buildings remained the same. Foreboding, beautiful. 

We now shift to a downtown street in Massachusetts, stone buildings of its own and storefronts. A pizza shop along the way on W- Street before the legitimate businesses start to undulate and creak under the pressure under the same economic demands that felled the monastery, eventually turning into something more foreboding in its own right, buildings slowly and not so obviously giving way to the mafia. And the strip clubs. And there are plenty, though their names change throughout the years. From the A to the Z, the only one that is left standing, name intact, is the crown jewel of its own existence: The Mardi Gras. Here is where one can partake of just about anything one wants, from powder cocaine in a discreet room, to the promised nudity. One night the DJ breaks into "No Sex In The Champagne Room" by Chris Rock. One of the veterans there hollers out "Bull####!" Everybody laughs because everybody there has a price. The cocktail waitresses are just a garment or two removed from a stage with an air moat to protect the table dancers and segregate from both bartender and waitress and customer, but those on the outskirts often make the puddle jump flight into oblivion. 

So I drive down W- right on by and eventually the back roads to St. James (save me now) where I meet up with SK.

"How much?"

"Hundred."

"You sure a hundred? You know you're going to want some later and I'll be busy doing other things. You might not be able to reach me..."

"Sure," I say, knowing it's bull####. He's taking me for half of the up front price because let's be honest, he's really my only connect here, and white kids wandering around lousy areas attract two things: violence upon their person, or worse, cops. They also invite gentle rip-offs among friends.

"Get away from the door!" the loudspeaker on top of a Crown Vic blares, and now me, SK, and Don are all together in cahoots to them. Thankfully, the car just passes on by in the night, leaving us alone.

"Make it two," I say, and palm grabs palm, and I drive away stuffing the white rock into the bullet-like cylindrical object as I'm about to lose myself inside a puff of smoke. By the time I get back to the Mardi Gras, I'll be about right. But a few drinks first.

Write my life, please...