Work

I'm sure work is going swimmingly. I can only to venture to guess since I seem to have checked out mentally and only come back to life at the end of the day to read over something that someone of incredible genius authored and then conveniently stuck my name at the top so I get to hand it in, and log my hours, and go home and molt the last of two pairs of pants I can manage to squeeze into and crawl under the covers of my bed.

Winter and I do not get along. Looking at me, you'd find yourself in the presence of a (slightly chubby version) of a Nordic princess, but I think all the cold-loving genes ended up getting lost in some Viking's mattress. I hate cold.

But back to work. One of the hardest parts about being a lawyer is that you tend to be very neurotic and paranoid. Which makes working with other lawyers difficult because you know that in the same way that you are overanalyzing (and occasionally silently mocking) them, they are doing the same thing to you. This makes social situations with lawyers incredibly uncomfortable for me. Plus, we all tend to talk over each, and it's just rude, and I don't know why I keep doing it.

I think my attitude toward work is that it involves money, and unfortunately what many bright-eyed law students don't understand is that it's not that you WANT the money, you actually do NEED it. Yes, I could live without a nice car or my own condo, and actually pay my student loans off faster, but I've done the calculations and considering all the consolidations and graduated repayment plans, it's very likely Citibank will be digging up my body in 2051 up in a last-ditch effort to find some jewelry on my person with which to satisfy the remaining interest.

That would be the euphemism of the century for a first date:

Girl: So what do you do?

Boy: Oh, um I rob graves for Citibank...er, collect student loan debts from estates.

My life insurance policy (again generously granted by my employer) has been securely lodged in my sister's name, but I admit that I occasionally have fantasies of faking my own death and finding some way to collect, perhaps paying sis with a generous wiring fee. The problem is, of course, escaping the Citibanks, the Chases, the Wells Fargos and those greedy people over at the Banana Republic who keep giving me points. There has got to be a rock solid way to keep those proceeds out of their undeserving hands, and goddammit, I refuse to leave a place with a very large law library until I find the answer.

Money. Oddly enough, in the last year I've had more than I've ever had, and yet it's all I think about. It is giving me numerous grey hairs that I am still to cheap to fix. Oh my. Money.

About five years ago I lived in a loft apartment in Staromestske, smack in the center of beautiful downtown Prague. The place was 350 square feet, counting our rooftop patio. If friends came over to watch a movie, we all had to pile into bed together, which was somewhat sordid, but acceptable to twenty-something behemians. I lived there with my boyfriend and a dog. It was on the top floor of a five story building. There was no elevator. Each night, the wall right next to my bed would throb with vibrations from the night club in the basement. I wore earplugs so much, that I stopped being able to stand even ordinary noises as being too loud.

Oh, and I was totally broke. But happy. I ate cabbage soup for a month straight. But I didn't owe any money to anyone AND I was skinny.

All that to point out that sometimes things don't fall out the way you thought they would when you have to live on the bank's dime. Because it starts getting too easy. Then you find that instead of enjoying your work for its many challenges, as you did in the past, you start simply to see it as the means to an end.

That is why I don't really know what goes on between 9 and 7pm when I finally leave. I've blanked out like Amanda Knox on haschisch, except I have better skin and haven't fingered my boss for murder (yet). I need to start enjoying my life again. All of it. Even the part that pays my bills, and be goddamn grateful that I can.

(last three sentences to be read to self in mirror each morning while straddling a heater in an effort to find a will to live, or at least go outside)