The Reality

I wake up around 9:45 or 10:00 because the night before I was up late watching reruns of SportsCenter, baffled by the concept of “Who’s NOW?" and commenting to myself that someone at ESPN needs to get fired. And maybe I’m hungover, maybe from Benadryl or Wal-a-dryl or maybe from some booze, and the dog threw up on the floor because she’s secretly the canine reincarnation of Hitler. I know this because the vomit is in the form of a swastika.

I walk out into the living room and there are piles of books and papers and stacks of flashcards that will never be looked at. This depresses me and so I walk to FlightPath and get some coffee, stare at the yellow walls, and read the Onion. I am blessed with the ability to be distracted or make excuses even in the most inappropriate situations. Did I pay my credit card bill? Better go on-line and see. Now that I’m here, is there a trade rumor I should know about regarding any WNBA all-stars? As a patriotic American, I should be sure to watch the Hotdog Eating contest at least twice—even though I know who wins. I liken myself to the Kobayashi of bar reviewing, cramming statute after statute into my head until I vomit it through my nose and maybe win a trophy. I like the image, but this would require that I study. Any news on Transformers 2? What did Mundo write on Sullivan’s wall? All of these minor issues take on the most pressing weight of seriousness and I have to cross each one off the list before I can look at another statute hotdog. Cigarette? Sure. There’s gotta be something in nicotine to make me smarter. Coffee? Well of course.

At some point the guilt of not studying overcomes the urge to procrastinate, and for maybe an hour or two I am on, and I draw an elaborate picture with →→→’s and $$$$ to make sense of commercial paper. This takes forty-five minutes but it is worth it. Then it is dinner time so I look inside the care package the firm sent and I guess it’s Doritos, Twix and aspirin for dinner. A friend with a normal life calls and tells me I’m a douchebag, asks me to come have a drink, and laughs before I can answer. I mumble something about “all this work” I have to do. Outside my window a bird chirps incessantly. I tell the cat to go and kill the bird. The cat ignores me. If I could talk to animals I wouldn’t have to be taking this test. Then I cut a deal with myself. Just answer 50 multiple choice questions, and if you get 80% correct, you can watch SportsCenter. I get 68% correct and remember the 12% margin of error I forgot to include in my deal. Where’s the whisky? Did David Beckham get a hair cut today? Who's NOW?