Would the real Liza please come back?

Normally, during finals, I attempt to remain at least mostly cheerful. If that means I have to fake it every once in a while, that's fine with me. If it means that less cheerful people want to smack me upside the head, that's fine too. However, this latest round of finals seems to have brought out some sort of cranky, bitter, and slightly alcoholic alter ego. So, with that, I'll be back after finals are over next Tuesday, or as soon as I regain my former disposition, whichever comes first.
Cheers,
Liza

Hush

There is something strange that happens to law students near the end of the semester. People are stressed out, panicky even. They realize they're unprepared, or underprepared. It happens when your whole grade hinges on one arbitrarily graded exam. So it's no surprise that on the last day of classes for the semester, the sudden urge to make up for being a shitty student all semester is even more intense. People start asking the darndest questions...at the worst moments. I'm speaking of the end of class, the two minutes or so before we're all about to be released for the semester. The professor winds up, prepares to bask in the expected applause of a group of students who are either impressed with his teaching or just gloriously happy to leave, and suddenly, inevitably, a hand goes up. Now, what is so important that it can't wait? Generally, end of class questions are asked by gunners and thus have no real bearing on the class for the rest of us. They are better left to email, and are annoying under the best of circumstances. But when it's the last day of class, and he's about to let us leave early, DO NOT raise your hand. Leave it down. Resist the urge to show off how smart you are. The class will thank you. If you don't in fact resist, people will stare disbelievingly at the back of your head while you ramble on about the minutiae of the last four months. They will curse you under their breath. They might even be forced to sit on their hands so that they don't chuck a book at the back of your head. Really, it's better to just keep quiet and let it ride. You can always get to it later (as a serious procrastinator, I know this to be true). So mind your mothers and remember: if you don't have anything to nice (or helpful, productive, or worthy of attention) to say, just don't say anything at all.

Sluts? Or Goddesses?

Today, at the pool, this little gem of a conversation reached my ears:
Sorostitute 1: I watched History of Porn last night.
Sorostitute 2: Are you doing extra credit?
S 1: Yeah, totally. It's incredible, I get to watch porn for extra credit. We started watching Sluts and Goddesses too.
S 2: I don't know if this is true, but I heard one of them fucks a tree.
S 1: She does fuck a tree!
Sorostitute 3: Huh, maybe I'd like it.
S 1: It's like really new-age, artsy, ultra-feminist porn. You wouldn't like it.

I guess now I know what kind of person hears the words "tree fucking" and thinks "Now that's something I could get into."

I call bullshit

You know what bugs me? Movies where people accept some sort of lesser existence than what they started with. Let me just preface this by saying that I watch really bad movies, so ummm, try not to laugh. Like, the other day I watching Jersey Girl. Ben Affleck has this great job as a publicist in New York and this fabulous apartment in the city and presumably quite a bit of money, and then his wife gets pregnant and he has a little girl but the wife dies and he loses his job and, long story short, 7 or so years later he ends up blowing off a job interview that would get him back in the business and the fabulous apartment so that he can go to a school play. And then today I was watching Just My Luck (told you I watched bad movies) and the Lindsay Lohan character has a fantastic life that she gives up for some guy and turns into a walking calamity but she's in loooooove so it's all okay. And then there's The Family Man, where Nick Cage gives up his incredible apartment and his money and his girlfriend in her slinky black negligee and his Porsche (or something such fancy car) for his high school sweetheart and her bratty kids in New Jersey. And I have a problem with this, a serious problem people! No one has everything and then is somehow happy giving it all up to live with much, much less. I call bullshit. If it were me, with the fabulous job and all the money and whatnot, I'd kiss my faux Jersey family goodbye, head back to the city in my Porsche, and climb back into bed with negligee-wearing girlfriend. Seriously, next time that I turn on a movie and the lead learns some sort of ridiculous cosmic lesson and I'm supposed to swallow the idea that said character is somehow happier in the grand scheme of things, I'm gonna throw my TV out the window.

Another short post

Why did it have to be on Monday that I managed to sit in a little pool of coffee at 7:15 in the morning on my longest day of classes? Why not the day that I only have to be here for an hour and a half? Cue feeling sorry for myself.

The good life

Noon: Wake up for the second time. Realize that car is still in French Quarter. Find VIP card from strip club in purse.

It was a good night.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

I don't know what the next line of that old song is, but for me it's definitely "Back to writing a 40-70 page comment for the journal." How's that for coming back from vacation? Regardless, Spring Break was a good time. I look a bit like a lobster, but I guess that's to be expected from someone whose normal skin tone is in the pale and freckly range. On the plus side, several of my freckles seem to have connected, making it appear as though I have extra melanin somewhere under the surface. Anyway, without further ado, some Spring Break highlights:
- It would seem that BBH and I have some awesome McDonald's karma. Two meals for the price of half of one? 3000+ calories for $4? That's what I call happiness.
- On the same subject, it would seem that most girls who go to Florida for Spring Break don't eat all that much. At least, this is the only way that I can explain the reactions of our waiters to our mammoth orders. Even better though, was the range of facial expressions garnered by the fact that not only do we order eight baskets of breadsticks, but eat every single one of them. I thought our waiter that night was gonna laugh when he offered us dessert. Strangely enough, it would seem that laying on the beach and consuming my body weight in seafood is good for the figure, since I lost a couple of pounds.
- Apparently, proximity to the ocean makes me even clumsier than normal. BBH has rechristened me Zero Gravity in light of the many face-plants that I did into the sand. Strangely, I was mostly sober for most of them.
- A relative lack of drama. You know, because most times that you put eight girls into two hotel rooms, you're in store for some hair pullin'.
- The sexiest way to save water...that's for you PP.

Anyway, as you can see, Spring Break was relatively uneventful, which is just the way that I like it. Now back to my commenting, by which, of course, I mean facebooking.