Law School Romantic Advice
PAHOKEE, FL -- Some guy posted a question about romantic involvement and law school on the Princeton Review website. What a fucking sissy. Below is what this loser wrote, and directly after it is my reply:
His Posting
Date: May 02, 1998 03:44 AM
Author: me (shadik@sfsu.edu)
Subject: love
Ok here's my situation. I am "seeing" this girl at my undergraduate school in San Francisco at the moment. Everytime I see her, I fall more in love with her. It's way too late just to blow it off now. I told myself not to get "attached" to anyone immidiately prior to law school, but it just happened.
So what am I to do? I got dinged at Hastings and waitlisted at USF. Should I just go to NYLS and forget about her? If we had an official relationship going on then things might bedifferetn. We could always say that we will pull a long distance relationship. But at the moment, we are at this kind of "akward" stage you know? I just don't want to blow it,\ because this isthe girl of my dreams!
---------------
My Reply
Date: May 02, 1998 05:41 PM
Author: Enrico Giamondi
Subject: are you out of your goddamn mind?
First thing. Waitlisted at USF and going to NYLS? Here's my non-romantic advice: Not to insult you (well, ok to insult you, you dumbass), but if you're going to a law school with nonexistent name-pull, fire off an application to Saint Thomas School of Law (Miami, FL). Your loans are going to be up your ass forever anyhow, so go to school somewhere nice, where you'll enjoy yourself. Surf, sun, and babes abound just 5 miles down the Palmetto Expressway from the #168 law school in the nation.
Now to your real question. Stick around for honey, or follow your own path?
Are you on crack? You're going to do something like let a chick determine where you go to law school? Lemme tell you something, kid, you're looking at her right now, she just got off the plane, and slung over her cute little shoulder is a teeny carry-on tote. Wait till you get down to the claim area and check out ALL her baggage till you make decisions like that.
Does she take antidepressants? Does she hate her father? Those are two questions I ask before dating ANYONE.
Law school is three long years. You make a decision like this, to pull a long distance relationship, and during finals your first year when she hasn't seen you in weeks and when she does see you, you're all stressed out, she's going to freak the hell out. Forget it, while you're studying, she's out at the bar getting banged in the bathroom, coming home to you without even taking a shower.
Or maybe you'll try and do the long distance thing. While you're gone, she'll start working in a strip-club just after you propose to her, because she doesn't think she's getting enough attention from you, and hell, YOU left HER, right? She'll lie to you about where she's been all night when you're calling till 6 in the morning, but you'll figure it out eventually and do miserably that semester. Of course after that you'll be a callous bitter rebounding alcoholic prick, but at least you'll get laid a lot. You graduate, you get a great job, and marry some dumb, shallow, 19-year-old and live the rest of your life in a pathetic perpetual adolescence.
Ok, lets say that doesn't happen. It all holds together through law school. With her undying support, you graduate #1 in the class from school and you move in together in San Francisco. You actually got a job back in San Francisco. Your office is actually 1 block from the park where you two first met. Sometimes, at least when you first move there, she meets you there with a picnic basket for lunch. You're starting at about $100,000 per year. You work 90 hours a week to get it, but its all for her and that nice little family you want to start. You know why? Because you're just that great of a guy.
Seven years from then you make partner. You take the day off to go get drunk and celebrate. Celebrate, partner, celebrate! Wanna go out with your friends? No way! You're a great guy! Its time to go home and tell the sweetheart that your time has come! You can relax a little. Maybe you two can start having picnics in the park again.
You go home to your gorgeous palace you've bought out in some bourgeois suburb. Ooops, the wife isn't expecting you. You open the door and there she is, passed out on the floor with a bottle of gin in her hand. The pool-boy is pulling on his pants and jumping over the fence in the back yard. Your daughter, all full of "father issues" and wacked out on happy pills because daddy wasn't ever around, pulls up the circular driveway on the back of her coke-head boyfriend's motorcycle. She'll wait to tell you she's pregnant, because she sees you glaring at your son in the back of a police cruiser being followed by a tow truck, with your 911 Targa busted in half. It's his 5th DWI and he's only had his license for a year. He hates you. This is how he shows it. At least that's what that jackass psychologist told you when the court forced you to go to a counseling session with the spoiled little bastard. You told that drunk slut wife of yours that the kid needed to get a job, and she shouldn't keep spoiling him. Well, she doesn't give a shit what you say, because she calls you "Mr. I-have-a-meeting."
You're still a good guy, but 20 years of this crap has finally beaten you down. This is the fifth pool-boy you've caught her with, and you'd rather pop all your daughter and slut wife's happy pills and off yourself with a shotgun before you spend another life in this damn house the bitch made you buy. You leave the slut wife and the slut daughter and the jackass son.
But of course the wife and the pool-boy don't want to eat out of garbage cans... you get a call from some N.O.W.-avenger divorce lawyer who is all pissed off that she didn't get asked to the prom back in 1986 and after some damn regressive-life-hypno-whatever bull-crap that the ballbreaker divorce lawyer pays for, the wife claims you beat her.
Sure, you get off on that rap, because honestly, you're a sweet guy. You would never do a thing like that and you honestly didn't. You think guys who don't treat their wives well are real assholes. Isn't that funny, all this abuse and you're still a noble guy. Wow, that's cool. You're a great guy. Know what? The jury at your criminal trial is wise enough to see that.
Of course, thundernuts the divorce lawyer was behind it all and this was all just to soften you up for the divorce trial. And now the divorce proceedings begin.
You're semi-suicidal now, because hell, you're a great guy. Always did everything for your family, and it all started when you forsook your chance at the big apple (or Miami if you would have followed my advice) to stay in San Francisco, freezing your ass off all summer and getting harassed by frigging mimes on the way home from the office every day. God, don't you wish that you had, just once, bashed one of those annoying little miming pricks to death with a monkey-wrench? Yeah, you really do, huh? Now what did a mime ever do to you? Boy, you're starting to become a real asshole.
Now you know what's going to happen to you, right? Of course you do, you took "property" your first year. Yeah, look back to your notes on "marital property." Sure the slut wife gets half of everything. Of course, this is California, and by then there is some state law that the man is ALWAYS wrong and they cane your ass in front of her as she drinks martinis with the pool boy. The kids factor in and cost you half of what's left. They hate you anyhow and are happy to be bought off, and go live with mom and pool-boy #6. The pool-boy is a lot more generous with your money than you were. He doesn't give a damn if they learn the value of money or responsibility. He just wants to bang your wife and spend your money. If it costs him a few C-notes a week to keep your kids out of the house while he throws parties around your passed-out wife, what the hell?
Oh yeah, since sweetheart supported you during law school, and served as your loving housewife during your career -- she owns half of that Juris Doctor degree and gets half your future earnings for, oh hmmm lets say THE REST OF YOUR MISERABLE GODDAMN SCUM-SUCKING LIFE.
Every paycheck, after taxes, slashed in half, oh yeah, don't forget the child support, oh and alimony. Pretty soon the guys in the mailroom are bringing you unwanted clothing and canned goods. You know why? Even they feel bad for you, because you really didn't deserve all this. You were always a nice guy. You just started to become a prick a few months ago.
You return to the office one day, stinking of gin. You realize that you're burned out, and you hate your life. You try and commit suicide, but your half-assed attempt just causes you to shit in your pants for about a week.
You fire your secretary for bringing you laxatives instead of hydrocodone. You asshole, she always took care of your shit and you fire her because she essentially saved you from committing suicide. You're a real goddamn prick. First the mimes, and now this. Well, she can't really do much, can she? Yeah, she'll file a sexual harassment suit against you. You didn't do it, because you would never have done that. You're a great guy. However, not many people can remember the old you. You draw the same judge as you got at the divorce proceedings. Your secretary's husband comes and beats the shit out of you because he believes her story. So does the firm. So does the court. You lose the suit, and your shirt, and your job.
As you sit down on the street, sucking a bottle of "Old Sneaker Gin," a chipmunk takes a shit on your shoulder and mimes are sitting all around you, making fun of you for tourists' cameras. Fucking mimes. Should have killed one when you could lift a monkey wrench.
Some 10-year-old kid, in town with his sister and mother (dad had to work, but usually he comes with them since he made partner) to visit his aunt points at you and tells his 7-year-old sister -- "See, THAT's your REAL dad." He does that to her every time they pass one of the homeless. The story will make the whole family laugh years later because they always were and always will be really close, but right now the little girl shrieks and asks her gorgeous mother if it's true. The bodacious, healthy, non-drinking, non-smoking, young mother tells her, "of course not, honey", and makes the little boy apologize and tell her its not true -- You aren't her real father.
The really spooky fact is though, you might have been. Had you gone with your instincts, and gone to New York without the bitch in tow -- or listened to me and gone to Miami -- you would have met her one day while at a party out in the Hamptons (or maybe while she was on vacation on South Beach with her sister) instead of their father, and YOU would be picking them up at the airport tomorrow, instead of that bastard who used the brief moment you waffled over that slut with the pool-boy, your house, your cars, and all your money, to jump ahead of you in fate's twisted, twisted line.
Have a nice life, sucker. You were warned.
His Posting
Date: May 02, 1998 03:44 AM
Author: me (shadik@sfsu.edu)
Subject: love
Ok here's my situation. I am "seeing" this girl at my undergraduate school in San Francisco at the moment. Everytime I see her, I fall more in love with her. It's way too late just to blow it off now. I told myself not to get "attached" to anyone immidiately prior to law school, but it just happened.
So what am I to do? I got dinged at Hastings and waitlisted at USF. Should I just go to NYLS and forget about her? If we had an official relationship going on then things might bedifferetn. We could always say that we will pull a long distance relationship. But at the moment, we are at this kind of "akward" stage you know? I just don't want to blow it,\ because this isthe girl of my dreams!
---------------
My Reply
Date: May 02, 1998 05:41 PM
Author: Enrico Giamondi
Subject: are you out of your goddamn mind?
First thing. Waitlisted at USF and going to NYLS? Here's my non-romantic advice: Not to insult you (well, ok to insult you, you dumbass), but if you're going to a law school with nonexistent name-pull, fire off an application to Saint Thomas School of Law (Miami, FL). Your loans are going to be up your ass forever anyhow, so go to school somewhere nice, where you'll enjoy yourself. Surf, sun, and babes abound just 5 miles down the Palmetto Expressway from the #168 law school in the nation.
Now to your real question. Stick around for honey, or follow your own path?
Are you on crack? You're going to do something like let a chick determine where you go to law school? Lemme tell you something, kid, you're looking at her right now, she just got off the plane, and slung over her cute little shoulder is a teeny carry-on tote. Wait till you get down to the claim area and check out ALL her baggage till you make decisions like that.
Does she take antidepressants? Does she hate her father? Those are two questions I ask before dating ANYONE.
Law school is three long years. You make a decision like this, to pull a long distance relationship, and during finals your first year when she hasn't seen you in weeks and when she does see you, you're all stressed out, she's going to freak the hell out. Forget it, while you're studying, she's out at the bar getting banged in the bathroom, coming home to you without even taking a shower.
Or maybe you'll try and do the long distance thing. While you're gone, she'll start working in a strip-club just after you propose to her, because she doesn't think she's getting enough attention from you, and hell, YOU left HER, right? She'll lie to you about where she's been all night when you're calling till 6 in the morning, but you'll figure it out eventually and do miserably that semester. Of course after that you'll be a callous bitter rebounding alcoholic prick, but at least you'll get laid a lot. You graduate, you get a great job, and marry some dumb, shallow, 19-year-old and live the rest of your life in a pathetic perpetual adolescence.
Ok, lets say that doesn't happen. It all holds together through law school. With her undying support, you graduate #1 in the class from school and you move in together in San Francisco. You actually got a job back in San Francisco. Your office is actually 1 block from the park where you two first met. Sometimes, at least when you first move there, she meets you there with a picnic basket for lunch. You're starting at about $100,000 per year. You work 90 hours a week to get it, but its all for her and that nice little family you want to start. You know why? Because you're just that great of a guy.
Seven years from then you make partner. You take the day off to go get drunk and celebrate. Celebrate, partner, celebrate! Wanna go out with your friends? No way! You're a great guy! Its time to go home and tell the sweetheart that your time has come! You can relax a little. Maybe you two can start having picnics in the park again.
You go home to your gorgeous palace you've bought out in some bourgeois suburb. Ooops, the wife isn't expecting you. You open the door and there she is, passed out on the floor with a bottle of gin in her hand. The pool-boy is pulling on his pants and jumping over the fence in the back yard. Your daughter, all full of "father issues" and wacked out on happy pills because daddy wasn't ever around, pulls up the circular driveway on the back of her coke-head boyfriend's motorcycle. She'll wait to tell you she's pregnant, because she sees you glaring at your son in the back of a police cruiser being followed by a tow truck, with your 911 Targa busted in half. It's his 5th DWI and he's only had his license for a year. He hates you. This is how he shows it. At least that's what that jackass psychologist told you when the court forced you to go to a counseling session with the spoiled little bastard. You told that drunk slut wife of yours that the kid needed to get a job, and she shouldn't keep spoiling him. Well, she doesn't give a shit what you say, because she calls you "Mr. I-have-a-meeting."
You're still a good guy, but 20 years of this crap has finally beaten you down. This is the fifth pool-boy you've caught her with, and you'd rather pop all your daughter and slut wife's happy pills and off yourself with a shotgun before you spend another life in this damn house the bitch made you buy. You leave the slut wife and the slut daughter and the jackass son.
But of course the wife and the pool-boy don't want to eat out of garbage cans... you get a call from some N.O.W.-avenger divorce lawyer who is all pissed off that she didn't get asked to the prom back in 1986 and after some damn regressive-life-hypno-whatever bull-crap that the ballbreaker divorce lawyer pays for, the wife claims you beat her.
Sure, you get off on that rap, because honestly, you're a sweet guy. You would never do a thing like that and you honestly didn't. You think guys who don't treat their wives well are real assholes. Isn't that funny, all this abuse and you're still a noble guy. Wow, that's cool. You're a great guy. Know what? The jury at your criminal trial is wise enough to see that.
Of course, thundernuts the divorce lawyer was behind it all and this was all just to soften you up for the divorce trial. And now the divorce proceedings begin.
You're semi-suicidal now, because hell, you're a great guy. Always did everything for your family, and it all started when you forsook your chance at the big apple (or Miami if you would have followed my advice) to stay in San Francisco, freezing your ass off all summer and getting harassed by frigging mimes on the way home from the office every day. God, don't you wish that you had, just once, bashed one of those annoying little miming pricks to death with a monkey-wrench? Yeah, you really do, huh? Now what did a mime ever do to you? Boy, you're starting to become a real asshole.
Now you know what's going to happen to you, right? Of course you do, you took "property" your first year. Yeah, look back to your notes on "marital property." Sure the slut wife gets half of everything. Of course, this is California, and by then there is some state law that the man is ALWAYS wrong and they cane your ass in front of her as she drinks martinis with the pool boy. The kids factor in and cost you half of what's left. They hate you anyhow and are happy to be bought off, and go live with mom and pool-boy #6. The pool-boy is a lot more generous with your money than you were. He doesn't give a damn if they learn the value of money or responsibility. He just wants to bang your wife and spend your money. If it costs him a few C-notes a week to keep your kids out of the house while he throws parties around your passed-out wife, what the hell?
Oh yeah, since sweetheart supported you during law school, and served as your loving housewife during your career -- she owns half of that Juris Doctor degree and gets half your future earnings for, oh hmmm lets say THE REST OF YOUR MISERABLE GODDAMN SCUM-SUCKING LIFE.
Every paycheck, after taxes, slashed in half, oh yeah, don't forget the child support, oh and alimony. Pretty soon the guys in the mailroom are bringing you unwanted clothing and canned goods. You know why? Even they feel bad for you, because you really didn't deserve all this. You were always a nice guy. You just started to become a prick a few months ago.
You return to the office one day, stinking of gin. You realize that you're burned out, and you hate your life. You try and commit suicide, but your half-assed attempt just causes you to shit in your pants for about a week.
You fire your secretary for bringing you laxatives instead of hydrocodone. You asshole, she always took care of your shit and you fire her because she essentially saved you from committing suicide. You're a real goddamn prick. First the mimes, and now this. Well, she can't really do much, can she? Yeah, she'll file a sexual harassment suit against you. You didn't do it, because you would never have done that. You're a great guy. However, not many people can remember the old you. You draw the same judge as you got at the divorce proceedings. Your secretary's husband comes and beats the shit out of you because he believes her story. So does the firm. So does the court. You lose the suit, and your shirt, and your job.
As you sit down on the street, sucking a bottle of "Old Sneaker Gin," a chipmunk takes a shit on your shoulder and mimes are sitting all around you, making fun of you for tourists' cameras. Fucking mimes. Should have killed one when you could lift a monkey wrench.
Some 10-year-old kid, in town with his sister and mother (dad had to work, but usually he comes with them since he made partner) to visit his aunt points at you and tells his 7-year-old sister -- "See, THAT's your REAL dad." He does that to her every time they pass one of the homeless. The story will make the whole family laugh years later because they always were and always will be really close, but right now the little girl shrieks and asks her gorgeous mother if it's true. The bodacious, healthy, non-drinking, non-smoking, young mother tells her, "of course not, honey", and makes the little boy apologize and tell her its not true -- You aren't her real father.
The really spooky fact is though, you might have been. Had you gone with your instincts, and gone to New York without the bitch in tow -- or listened to me and gone to Miami -- you would have met her one day while at a party out in the Hamptons (or maybe while she was on vacation on South Beach with her sister) instead of their father, and YOU would be picking them up at the airport tomorrow, instead of that bastard who used the brief moment you waffled over that slut with the pool-boy, your house, your cars, and all your money, to jump ahead of you in fate's twisted, twisted line.
Have a nice life, sucker. You were warned.
posted by Enrico Giamondi at 5:29 AM
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