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Archive for Self-Love

Oh the Life of an Academic

It’s been no secret that I’ve been applying to law schools this cycle. It’s very intimidating and stressful.

I think I’ve figured out the schools’ admission strategies thus far. So far, I’ve only been admitted into the lower tier schools. All of these schools need to know if I’ll be attending their institution by April 15th. The higher tier schools do not promise to have made a decision by that point. Plus these schools might only waitlist me and I’ll be in limbo.

This is how the lower tier schools get students. They create an unnecessary deadline so students will get worried (like me), panic, and send in a personal check for so-and-so amount to reserve their spot.

I refuse to settle. This ploy will not work! But we’ll see when April 15th rolls around. Then I’ll be panicking like crazy!

Wish me luck.

The Time Capsule

The holidays are officially upon us. Hanukkah is about to end, and like many people in December, I found myself scouring every nook and cranny of my attic for Holiday decorations. We found ornaments, and knick-knacks, and all sorts of Christmas and Santa material—so much in fact, that there was sensory overload. Shifting through these boxes took me back through the years, when, believe it or not, I was hell-bent to be on Santa’s Good List. We displayed the ceramic Christmas displays my grandmother made, which my family is particularly proud of—mostly because it’s a great memento of my grandmother that she bequeathed to us—but also partly because it is so beautiful. There were snow globes and nutcrackers, and everything else that reminds me of past great Christmases, those Christmases that will be the benchmark for successful upcoming ones.

It took a few days to set the house up and I found myself starting to get nostalgic. The Christmas movies started playing on television, the radio station I listen to started playing Christmas music just after Thanksgiving, so the hour commute added to my mindset. And if it weren’t enough, my family forced me to start a Christmas list of presents that I potentially would want.

Essentially, the holidays were in full swing.

The Cat Who Came For Christmas

When we were putting the empty boxes back into the attic, I stumbled upon a box of my belongings that anyone else would probably label “OLD SHIT.” Secretly, I’d been searching for this box. As I graduated high school, I stuffed everything I thought was childish and hastily stuffed it in storage where I didn’t have to see it everyday. I can admit that as I’m on the verge of finishing my last semester as an undergrad, I wanted a retrospective of where I’ve been, so I can accurately determine my future. I thought this box would unlock the mystery of who I really was, maybe even who I would become.

I was sadly mistaken.

In this box, I found many things. None of them tell me anything I didn’t know. For example, I kept a scrapbook. Normally, scrapbooks keep newspaper clippings about oneself—may it be the honor roll, or an achievement, what have you. Don’t get me wrong, my scrapbook did contain some of those things. However, it was also a litany of ongoing public disputes and general pop culture knowledge that is utterly useless for my quest for personal self-discovery. In hindsight, the All Star Celtic guard Reggie Lewis’ death from cocaine overdose was a great tragedy and affected me deeply. There was no plausible reason for me to cut out an article about his death (which happened to be on two pages, yet I still carefully taped them together) and paste it into my scrapbook. I also have the words “CLINTON IMPEACHED” across two pages, screaming for someone to read them, and headshots of George H.W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and Abraham Lincoln(?).

No, I don’t know why either. Honest Abe was someone I admired?

I also have a scrapbook page dedicated to Roger Clemens in a Red Sox uniform. Seeing that I now see The Rocket as the spawn of the devil, this didn’t go over very well with the present-day me.

It seems like my life revolved around sports. In the box were all my youth league trophies and my Emmitt Smith and Ken Griffey Jr. posters. The scrapbook has my press releases: me rollerblading with a friend, every soccer goal I scored, my group’s photograph from Spain. There’s also my senior year profile from the sports section where I inexplicitly mentioned that Nomar Garciaparra was my favorite athlete, when everyone I know knows that this couldn’t be further from the truth. Emmitt Smith has always been my favorite. Also, apparently, my favorite band was Jimmy Eat World.

No, I don’t know why either. Maybe I wanted to Bleed American?

I did find my high school diploma, my varsity letter, and all my important Eagle Scout things; the letters from all the politicians and my medals in the smooth velvet box were stuffed in the attic where they could have been damaged! I was such an idiot.

What I learned from perusing through my old things is that I have always been impressionable. Judging from my Christmas nostalgia, I guess some things never change.

Happy Holidays!

50% Off All Day-Old Bread

There are scratching posts that cats have. I never had a cat, but I assume that the posts are to keep the cats busy, sharpen their hunting skills, and help them keep their claws in good form.

The Claw was the villian from Inspector Gadget, who if I believe correctly, always had his evil plans thwarted by a dog, a prepubescent girl, a detective who hid in trash barrels, and a bumbling idiot who was a social misfit with the best intentions. Now what I say to you is this—when I think of scratching posts—and this is essentially imperative at this stage of my life—should I be thinking of an 80’s cartoon about a guy with a metal arm and a slightly overfed cat?

I went to the emergency room twice last week. The first time the fine gentleman said I had strep throat and prescribed me penecillin and vikodun. I was less than pleased when I had to go back and see him again. This time he said, “Yes, that is definitely mono,” (notice that he is Indian because he doesn’t use contractions), pumped two liters of intravenous fluid into me with a mix of steroids for my throat, and told me not to play soccer for a month because my spleen might explode. Why thanks Doc, not only will I not play soccer, but I probably won’t leave my couch.

And I get mono during the worst possible time to get mono; I’m not just talking about the summer, which is a major disappointment, but during the time where I find out if I’m going to London for the semester. (I can’t exactly go bug Claire when I can’t go see her.) During the time I would be going to the Karate Hall of Fame with Katie for her induction. During the time where I was in the middle of summer classes (my last classes as an undergraduate) and I had to drop out because I’m contagious!

Stupid, stupid mono. You control me now…but I will enjoy killing you off. Muahahaha. It figures I have to get the cucharacha of sicknesses. It’s like a bunch of bad senstations rushing through the body and logjamming in my poor throat. And I’m only saying “poor throat” because it’s unhealthy, the thing has had so many mentions in this entry that it could be living off royalties for years.

On the bright side, I don’t have to work. I get to watch television all day, and I can make contorted faces into the mirror and you will never know unless I write it down, which is highly unlikely because it makes me look like an idiot.

Also, I’m finally having a really gigantic burst of creativity lately—which is probably a byproduct of the vikodun—but I’m not complaining, no, not me, look at the lady over there and shake her out. I want to keep these heavenly pearls so that I may bathe them in water and pour them down my gullet forever and ever, until the time comes where I put them in my medicine cabinet and pretend that I don’t have them anymore. When I had my wisdom teeth lasered out (sharks with “lasers”) I didn’t stop bleeding for two straight days. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I was prescribed vikodun and roxacette but my dad wouldn’t let me take them. After I was healed, the pills were gone. Were they thrown out? I don’t know, maybe, maybe not. However, I hadn’t eaten in five or six days with this mono business and my throat hurt the bejesus out of me, yes the bejesus out of me, so I had my slightly girly hands around the bottle the entire time, glaring at my dad with the shifty eyes that Homer Simpson taught Mel Gibson to do. And it worked. Great Success! High Five!

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Also, I’ve been getting crazy LSD-like hallucinations from these vikodun. Crazy bright-colored, images of people that change every few seconds. And I’m pretty sure I watched a shadow act out a scene for a good ten minutes. But I wasn’t moving. I tell you, that Shadow should hit Broadway. I’ve never seen better.

This is my new blog. We now have an informal agreement that you will read more entries in the future.