A George divided against itself cannot stand.

With this blog, I have tried to stick to the "write what you know" rule. So, I write about law school because that is ALL that I know now. So, in reality, this blog is a "write what you don't know because writing what you know is impossible to do in law school." This post is going to be a little different. While it still does relate to law school, there are some different topics underlying it.

Today, I would like to start a revolution. Or maybe a small uprising. Or maybe I would just like to justify why there is a method to my craziness. Today, I would like to introduce everyone to the Elevator Rule.

Some of you may know about the Elevator Rule; some of you may not. The Elevator Rule is a great way to live, guaranteeing preservation of a buffer zone. The Elevator Rule goes something like this: When you are alone on an elevator, you stand in the middle. When someone boards the elevator, you move to one side, and the other person stands on the opposite side. If you are on a crowded elevator, and it is necessary to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, that's fine. But if that elevator clears and it's just you and one other person, you better move to opposite ends.

The great thing about this rule: it doesn't apply to just elevator situations. When there are several empty tables at Starbucks, don't sit at a table next to the only other patron in the shop. When there are six open computers in a computer lab, don't sit at the computer right next to me. If we're standing talking, don't stand right next to me. Stand facing me (with some distance between us, please). If we're waiting in a single file line, please don't stand so close that you can tell me what type of shampoo I use. Obviously, there are exceptions. If there are only two empty tables/computers/etc., and you choose to sit next to me, that's is totally fine.

Studying Spanish in college gave me great insight into the differences between Spanish and American cultures. Spanish people tend to be very affectionate, very touchy, very close. Americans have a zone of personal space (a buffer zone), and we are VERY aware when it has been violated. Sometimes I debated on wearing a giant hula hoop around my hips so people would be forced to not crowd me.

I said this was law school-related, and it is. For those of you who know me, you know that I reside in the library. I consider my apartment my home away from home. In the library, I have a zone I like to sit in, and more than that, I have a specific table that I like.

This is your warning. I like my space. It's weird and very American, but I have a buffer zone that I don't like being violated. So the next time you're near me, here is a way to know that you should exercise the Elevator Rule:

1) If all the tables in the library are full, and you sit at mine, that's fine. Completely understandable. I didn't fail the sharing portion of kindergarten. But if other tables open up in the immediate vicinity, MOVE. Don't expect me to move. I've got a laptop, four textbooks, seven hornbooks, 52,783 papers strewn around me, and have been sitting at this table since 7:30 a.m.

If you fail to recognize the Elevator Rule, I reserve the right to turn the volume WAY up on my iPod and blast "Party in the U.S.A.," "Ice Ice Baby," and "Don't Stop Believin'" until you cry or go insane.

Consider yourself warned.

Harry, you've got that crazy look in your eye!

Get ready to call me crazy.

For what you're about to read is perhaps the most insane thing I have said all year, and trust me, I have said some pretty insane things during Con Law. Actually, the things I said were more stupid than crazy. But this post, this post is the one that will have the local hospital measuring me for a straitjacket. Are you ready for this?

"I am going to miss being a 1L."

Don't get me wrong, there is not enough money in the world to tempt me to repeat this experience. I realized just how much of a toll this year has taken on me when I looked in the mirror before I went to church yesterday evening (I tiptoed in, eyelids squeezed shut, fingers crossed that I wouldn't be smited...smoted? smitten? smoten?). I was straightening my hair for the third time this entire year, and I thought, "Sweet! My hair is turning super blond in the front!"...Wait for it...Wait for it... "Oh man, those are gray hairs." Gray hairs. At the ripe old age of 23.

Aside from the premature graying, this year has been a rollercoaster. I've alternated between laughing, crying, pulling out my hair, feeling smart 5% of the time, feeling stupid 95% of the time, doubting myself, trusting myself, pulling all-nighters, sleeping through three alarms (seriously, I missed Contracts one day because of that), and finding out that my family and friends will be my legs when I can't physically, mentally, or emotionally support myself anymore. I could not have made it through the year without my family, my pre-law-school friends, and my law school friends. I've had more mental breakdowns than the entire cast did in the movie Girl, Interrupted, and they were all there for me through every single one.

Although there are times when I think I would have rather been in a mental institution, I loved being a 1L. Again, don't misinterpret that. I didn't love the bipolar-ness of the year, but it is a year I will definitely never forget. You learn who you are as a person, as a student, and as a future professional. You learn what you'll tolerate and what you won't. You'll learn where you stand on certain issues that you never even thought about before law school. You'll quote cases in debates with your mother ("US v. Butler, Mom, US v. Butler"). But most importantly, you learn just how much you can take, and you learn what your breaking point is. You learn how strong you are. 

It's been a year of self-discovery and realizing that there are 600 people who are Type A control freaks just like me (I sometimes wish they could all come to my high school reunion so that I can show my old classmates I'm not the only one). Next year will be another year of adjustment. Here's the list of things to get used to for next year:

1) Not being a "stupid 1L" (direct quote).
2) Not running around the library like a chicken with my head cut off because I only have five minutes left on my practical exam, and I still have to get two pinpoint cites from Lexis.
3) Not crying over Legal Writing assignments because I'm one page short of the minimum page length.
4) Adjusting to being the middle child of the law school world.

Of course, if I fail my finals, that list will be scrapped. And just in case that happens, I've got my straitjacket already ordered on Amazon.

The first step in the excommunication process.

Some of you may not know this, but I am Catholic. I was born and raised Catholic, and I attended Catholic school K-12. While my current religious beliefs are based on the movie Dogma and David Bowie's "Starman," I do still consider myself Catholic for the following reasons: I am terrified of religious icons, feel Catholic guilt every day of my life, started drinking wine at age 8, have worked bingo concessions on Tuesday and Friday nights, and even though I haven't attended church in years, can recite the Nicene Creed at the drop of a hat. And part of being a Catholic school alumna is the ability to recite 70% of the Commandments without assistance.

This blog post is inevitably the first step in my excommunication process (hey, Pope Benny, if you're reading this, e-mail is the best way to contact me). While sitting at home (and by home, I mean the library), I realized that I have broken the mother of all commandments. Let me paint you a picture of how this confession would go if I actually attended confession:

Priest: "Go ahead, my child."
Me: (thinking: "Dude, I'm not related to you") (saying) "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been oh-Lord-you-don't-want-to-know-how-long since my last confession."
Priest: "That seems to be the average time between confessions for most Catholics aged 18-30. Go ahead."
Me: "Father, I have broken the first commandment. I have worshiped an idol."
Father: "What is this idol, my child?"
Me: (Bro, seriously. I know who my parents are, and you're not one of them). "I have worshiped the god Hewlett Packard."
Father: "The computer?"
Me: "Yeah...the computer."

For those of you who aren't Catholic, the First Commandment goes something like this: "I am the Lord your God who brought you out of slavery. Worship no gods but Me." If you learned the Commandments from a Charlton Heston movie, sorry if that's not how you remember it.

In the library this evening, my computer wouldn't start. In between the tears, wanting to throw it out the window, and screaming to myself, "NO! MY OUTLINES AND MEDIATION STATEMENT ARE ON THERE!," I realized that my computer has become an object of worship for me. I praise it when it turns on, plead with it when it makes funny noises, and curse it when it does something I don't want it to do. This is how the majority of the Catholics I have met treat God. Praise Him/Her when things are going good, beg Him/Her when things are uncertain, and take His/Her name in vain when you-know-what is hitting the fan.

As a law student, our laptops become part of us. They are extensions of our fingers, and without my laptop in front of me, life just seems bare. Every law student has heard the story of what other law students have done to protect their laptops. If you haven't heard, let me fill you in. A robber broke into a law student's apartment with a baseball bat. The student woke up, realized what was happening, and said something to the effect of, "Take what you want." (I mean come on, the guy's got a baseball bat, and your worst weapon is your Con Law book. It doesn't take Einstein to figure out who's going to win that one). The robber begins taking things, and then goes for the student's laptop. The student says, "Please don't take my laptop. My case outlines are on there." The robber, doing what robbers do best and stealing something you don't want them to steal (otherwise they wouldn't be called robbers, just crazy people who break in and look at your stuff), takes the laptop anyway. The student attacks the robber, gets the baseball bat from him, and proceeds to beat the robber with the weapon the robber brought to beat him (I love good irony).

While those of you who aren't law students may be thinking, "Wow, that's crazy!," those of us who are law students are saying "BINGO." That's exactly how it's going to go down if you try to take our laptops. The $5,000 student loan check on my desk? Yours. My grandmother's antique, one-of-a-kind ring? It'll look great on you. My laptop? I'm going Tonya Harding on your ass.

And that's why I'm most likely going to be excommunicated. Because if The Almighty comes down to earth and gives me a choice between my laptop and eternal life, my answer is inevitably going to be:

"Can I take a minute to think about this one?"

Maybe because she knows you're going to jail.

My heart pounds. I walk down the hallway to my doom. People give me sad, sympathetic smiles as I pass; they know that every step I take is one step closer to the end. There is a weight in my stomach, and something is pressing down on my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. I reach the room and open the door. It is time.

It's amazing how the walk to a law school final sounds a lot like a death row inmate's march to the execution chamber. When you think about it, there's not much difference. Well, except that law students are still alive after their final...for the most part.

We have begun the last mile of the marathon. I go back and forth between wanting to sprint it and wanting to crawl it. The weight of what I still don't understand in my classes crashes down on me every minute of every day, and we've still got four weeks until finals. That feeling makes me want to crawl it. Knowing that I can have a drink after it's all over makes me want to sprint it.

For me, this is where the doubt comes storming in like the Kool-Aid man through a wall. Did they make a mistake when they admitted me to law school? Did I miss something important my professor said? I bet when I was writing down that definition that won't even be on the final, the professors unleashed the secret of how to get an A on the exam.

There's an interesting mood in the law school right before finals. The mood goes from stressful to something they haven't even come up with a word for. In the library, don't talk. At all. Learn sign language; it's extremely useful. And for your own safety, put a silencer on your backpack zipper. Learn how to chew silently. Learn how to write silently. Learn how to make every single breath you take, every single move you make, and every single step you take silent (couldn't pass that reference up). Because if an overworked, sleep-deprived, day-before-the-final law student attacks you because you had the audacity to breathe through your mouth, I can't think of one judge or jury out there who would convict.

There is a light, I think. It's hard to tell. My Con Law final is blocking it.

Someone check my pulse after finals are done. Make sure it's still there.

What day is it?...October?

In my Con Law class last week, our professor offered an interesting theory. While discussing something I can't remember (which may prove this theory), he explained what is happening to our law school knowledge. "Law students' brains are like a bathtub," he states. "For a semester, the bathtub fills up with water (knowledge) until it's brimming, about to overflow. Then you take your final." He goes on to add (with some added comments from me), "Somewhere between the door to the final and the exit of the law school, someone pulls the plug from the bathtub drain, and all the water goes swirling down the drain as quickly as it can. What's left is a ring that no one wants to touch." He then went on to point out examples, such as consideration from Contracts (to which I asked, "We took Contracts?"), and other things...I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention (I'm kidding...that's my urge to quote nineties movies rearing its grungy head).

I was laughing during class, but now I have realized that I disagree with this theory. Law students retain all sorts of knowledge. I have attempted to distill some of these tidbits of knowledge into this post.

1) I know not to say in Con Law that I think Scalia doesn't have a sense of humor...because apparently I'm wrong.

2) I know that a professor at the law school likes a Lady Gaga song.

3) I know that another professor at the law school hates the State Farm commercials.

4) I know that it is possible to sleep in the library chairs.

5) I know that I can sleep through two alarms, one of them being from the '80s and extremely annoying.

6) I know that the only thing I will remember from my law school assignments is the Honor Code.

7) I know that I will never eat peanut butter...ever again.

8) I know that Legal Writing assignments will make you hate the English language.

9) I know that "free time" is a laughable concept.

And last, but certainly not least:

10) I know that there is not enough coffee in the world to keep a student awake during Legal Research.

The bathtub theory is hereby debunked.

Now can someone tell me what FRCP stands for?

Dave, Sherby doesn't think the Navy hangs people from yardarms anymore.

I haven't posted in awhile. That is the direct consequence of dedicating the last two weeks of my life to the bane of every 1L's existence: the Appellate Brief.

For those of you lucky enough to have avoided the insanity of law school, the Appellate Brief is the major spring semester writing assignment that every 1L must somehow survive. The process is filled with all-nighters (I'm at three so far), caffeine-induced shakes, and breakdowns in front of your TA because you're at twenty-two pages, and the minimum requirement is twenty-three (yes, yes. That was me). It's editing, more editing, editing your first edits, editing your second edits, on and on until the word "edit" becomes the only word in your vocabulary.

Then, just when you think you're done, you have to get it bound, and the assignment that you thought couldn't possibly get any more stressful all of a sudden hits a 10 on the Richter law school scale. The binding process itself is not stressful because someone else binds it for you. What's stressful is the handing over of 45% of your grade to someone else, and trusting them with it. I've felt more comfortable trusting people with my life.

During the Appellate Brief writing process, you find yourself giving the characters life. I found myself reprimanding my fictional client because of all the times for a junior high girl to keep her mouth shut, she chose the wrong one. I yelled at the fictional boy who skipped the day in kindergarten when they taught us "to keep our hands to ourselves." I found myself responding to the fictional statements of the fictional depositions.

This immersion into the Appellate Brief (which I think is what psychiatrists call "a psychotic break"...what do they know?) highlighted one very real truth. As law students, we live in a different reality. We live in a reality that when someone says the word "night," our first question is immediately, "Which night do you mean? Dusk? Eight p.m.? Midnight?" Our reality becomes filled with battery, negligence, fee simples, and the difference between strict scrutiny, intermediate scrutiny, and rational basis tests. Our literatutre consists of cases, depositions, affidavits, interrogatories, law review articles, etc. The highlight of our week(end) is when we can finish our Legal Research assignments in under three hours. When we pass a fender bender on the road, we start assessing the possible negligence claims.

Maybe I formed this alternate reality because it's all I know now. Maybe this reality always existed, and I'm just now realizing that I live in it. But one day, it will be worth it. The J.D. behind our names, finally getting to apply the knowledge we acquired during our three years of endless stress, and the first paycheck will make us glad we went through it. Ok, maybe not glad, but maybe we will be able to look back without cringing. Or maybe, just maybe, the new world I live in has made me so optimistic that I'm toeing the line between optimism and psychosis.

For me, it will all be worth it when I get to quote A Few Good Men in court.

Dream big, kids. Dream big.

Where we're going, we don't need roads.

Sometimes I hold grudges. I'm not sure why; I just do. The funny thing is, though, I don't hold grudges against people I know. I hold grudges against people I have never met and will never meet. Michael Vick, for one. He is forever off of my Christmas card list. Bill Belichick is another one. He knows why.

Then I came to law school. And now I'm holding the biggest grudge of my life. And the lucky target is:

King Henry VIII.

Hanks 1-7, I'm cool with you. But this is between me and Hank #8.

If you stopped reading at this point (and you probably have), you would think that this post is going to be a feminist rant, calling him pompous and tyrannical, and quite possibly, the biggest grudge holder of all time. He chopped off chicas' heads because they wouldn't give him a son or whatever. But this is not a feminist rant, and my grudge against Henry VIII has nothing to do with his interesting take on marriage and women.

My grudge against Henry VIII is purely because of the law of Property. Law students struggle with Fee Simples, Executory Interests, and Vested Remainders Subject to Open, and we wonder, "When will this misery end?" And then it gets worse. The Rule Against Perpetuities. The Rule Against Perpetuities was Hank #8's way of ensuring that he would get to laugh at first year law students almost 500 years after his death.

I am determined to master the Rule Against Perpetuities and not let Henry VIII win. We threw off England's tyranny once before, let's do it again! We'll rebel against the law of Property, and then we'll go down in history. They'll call it the Second Revolutionary War...or something more creative. It can't miss.

Until the history books are rewritten to reflect our victory over the Rule Against Perpetuities and the law of Property, I say we find some plutonium, buy a DeLorean, gun it to 1536, and slap Henry VIII in the face.

And then we run like hell.