fearlesstemp (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fearlesstemp) wrote2005-02-24 02:04 am
fearlesstemp) wrote2005-02-24 02:04 am
Entry tags:
staying up too late, law angst
Why am I awake? WHY? Why am I self-destructive in the least interesting of ways? My designated bedtime is passing as I type this sentence, and I still have to finish cleaning my terrifying disaster of a bedroom - and I do have to finish it, because I left it in that half-done state where stuff is EVERYWHERE, to the point that it appears to be multiplying when I look away, and the only choice now is to finish it, if only to have a place to sleep for the night.
On Tuesday I overslept and, because of that, ended up running terribly late, and, because of that, wore the most convenient shoes, and, because of that, ended up face-planting into the snow after getting out of my car just before my financial aid meeting. AWESOME. I was in full view of approximately 456708 students, faculty, and staff, and took a good long while getting up because my most convenient shoes (black zip-up boots with big heels; they were right by the front door that morning) have no traction. When I walked back to my car an hour later, I said to myself (out loud, of course, because that's the kind of person I am), "Now, will I be able to get *in* this car without falling down?" Except I didn't quite get past the "without" in that sentence because I ended up in the snow again - this time on my ass, which was a nice change of pace. A nice change of pace, but also horrifying because I soon realized that this position didn't have bad traction - it had NO traction - and so I ended up scooting through the snow on my butt until I got next to the driver's side door and was able to unlock and open the door from a seated position. I had to crawl into the front seat, clutching the steering wheel for dear life, all the while wearing a happy-go-lucky, "Ha! Isn't this funny?" expression in case anyone should see me in my predicament.
But then I shut the door behind me, took a deep breath, and kept the smile on in case there were onlookers, but now I could say the words in my heart, which were, if I remember correctly, something along the lines of, "Fuck fucking fuckers fuck fuck FUCK! Ow."
Speaking of ow! I burned my arm! I was baking (yes, you read that right - I was baking) and stupidly leaned my forearm on the pan to get the Irish Soda Bread out (which came out okay, if maybe a little funny tasting. I worry the baking soda may have been outdated), and now there's this ugly, angry red mark with gross-looking blisters that are slowly subsiding, I think. I hope. I keep surfing webMD and really, I'm VERY ANGRY that they don't have models with my precise skin tone and location of injury to model the various levels of burn-ness and appropriate treatment. The illustrations are no good! Do I cover it? Do I leave it out? My father believes in leaving it uncovered because covering it up leads to infection - which does not make sense to me but, as he often reminds me, he is a physician.
He is not a physician, of course. He has a Juris Doctor, a degree he's been using for the same corny joke for almost thirty years, and every day I spend in his office is a reminder of why I didn't just amble into law school after college to get the same degree. I almost did. Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake, and then I pitch in at his office and am reminded oh-so-forcefully of why I have spent the past three yeras doing pointless, often painfully boring clerical jobs instead of getting a J.D. I mean - he hates his job. HATES. It warrants all caps. HATES HIS JOB. Being there, I can understand why!
I came home last night all frustrated and annoyed and glad to be out of there, but also kind of guilty, wondering if I've been a selfish child by not following in his footsteps. If I became a lawyer, he could retire, or at the very least hand over a chunk of work to someone he trusts, but I haven't done that. I kind of expected to, and I think a lot of my extended family expected me to, but I didn't.
I was all angsty and tortured about it last night, but then I told my mother, and she said, "Well, my father hated his job and did I become a plumber? It didn't even cross my mind! Stop thinking about it, you're fine."
I will try to heed her advice. Right now, I should go clean. Before I do that, I would like to note the strange fact that I have been enjoying General Hospital lately. I mean, a lot of it is crap, but I actually want to watch a little bit every day! I'm kind of in love with Jason again, and I continue to believe he and Sam are the cutest ever. For the longest time I'd just been catching snippets out of habit. I had forgotten what actually wanting to watch felt like.
On Tuesday I overslept and, because of that, ended up running terribly late, and, because of that, wore the most convenient shoes, and, because of that, ended up face-planting into the snow after getting out of my car just before my financial aid meeting. AWESOME. I was in full view of approximately 456708 students, faculty, and staff, and took a good long while getting up because my most convenient shoes (black zip-up boots with big heels; they were right by the front door that morning) have no traction. When I walked back to my car an hour later, I said to myself (out loud, of course, because that's the kind of person I am), "Now, will I be able to get *in* this car without falling down?" Except I didn't quite get past the "without" in that sentence because I ended up in the snow again - this time on my ass, which was a nice change of pace. A nice change of pace, but also horrifying because I soon realized that this position didn't have bad traction - it had NO traction - and so I ended up scooting through the snow on my butt until I got next to the driver's side door and was able to unlock and open the door from a seated position. I had to crawl into the front seat, clutching the steering wheel for dear life, all the while wearing a happy-go-lucky, "Ha! Isn't this funny?" expression in case anyone should see me in my predicament.
But then I shut the door behind me, took a deep breath, and kept the smile on in case there were onlookers, but now I could say the words in my heart, which were, if I remember correctly, something along the lines of, "Fuck fucking fuckers fuck fuck FUCK! Ow."
Speaking of ow! I burned my arm! I was baking (yes, you read that right - I was baking) and stupidly leaned my forearm on the pan to get the Irish Soda Bread out (which came out okay, if maybe a little funny tasting. I worry the baking soda may have been outdated), and now there's this ugly, angry red mark with gross-looking blisters that are slowly subsiding, I think. I hope. I keep surfing webMD and really, I'm VERY ANGRY that they don't have models with my precise skin tone and location of injury to model the various levels of burn-ness and appropriate treatment. The illustrations are no good! Do I cover it? Do I leave it out? My father believes in leaving it uncovered because covering it up leads to infection - which does not make sense to me but, as he often reminds me, he is a physician.
He is not a physician, of course. He has a Juris Doctor, a degree he's been using for the same corny joke for almost thirty years, and every day I spend in his office is a reminder of why I didn't just amble into law school after college to get the same degree. I almost did. Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake, and then I pitch in at his office and am reminded oh-so-forcefully of why I have spent the past three yeras doing pointless, often painfully boring clerical jobs instead of getting a J.D. I mean - he hates his job. HATES. It warrants all caps. HATES HIS JOB. Being there, I can understand why!
I came home last night all frustrated and annoyed and glad to be out of there, but also kind of guilty, wondering if I've been a selfish child by not following in his footsteps. If I became a lawyer, he could retire, or at the very least hand over a chunk of work to someone he trusts, but I haven't done that. I kind of expected to, and I think a lot of my extended family expected me to, but I didn't.
I was all angsty and tortured about it last night, but then I told my mother, and she said, "Well, my father hated his job and did I become a plumber? It didn't even cross my mind! Stop thinking about it, you're fine."
I will try to heed her advice. Right now, I should go clean. Before I do that, I would like to note the strange fact that I have been enjoying General Hospital lately. I mean, a lot of it is crap, but I actually want to watch a little bit every day! I'm kind of in love with Jason again, and I continue to believe he and Sam are the cutest ever. For the longest time I'd just been catching snippets out of habit. I had forgotten what actually wanting to watch felt like.
no subject
If you have the cojones, you can de-roof the blister (ie, CUT IT OFF, ew, ew) in a sterile environment, smear on the Neosporin stick on the Opsite, and you will be healed much faster.
(Moist wound healing is *much* faster and less traumatic to the skin; a piece of Opsite will set you back around $1.50 and is left in place for a week).
Neurofen helps with the pain.
Good luck!
no subject
Thanks so much!