So fuck everyone, I’m starting in the middle.
You have to assume something is wrong with your life when you find yourself having a mental breakdown in front of an Applebee’s at 3:30 on a Monday. Mascara was running down my face and onto the cover of my Contracts textbook. My nose was also running down my face, from a combination of freezing Boston air and my hysterical crying. Normally I would wait to have an incoherent outburst in the sanctity and comfort of my bug infested, pre-revolutionary war apartment, but the events of the day (and really the past three months) had led to my bawling on a bench outside the chain restaurant in Brookline, Wilson Phillips’ “Hold On” blaring from the speakers, in full view of the Boston College hockey team. I’m sure they were trying to be polite when they shuffled past the crazy lady without uttering a single comment.
People walking out just stared, conflicted over whether they should help or just act like I didn’t exist. Eventually a manager came out, asking if he could help or if I needed to call anyone. I blubbered some incoherent response as he cleaned the pyramid of tissues at my feet. I had made a fool of myself for at least an hour, and decided it was finally time to go back to my place, and complete the usual Monday night ritual of homework, Real Housewives, and two whole packages of Milanos.
You’re thinking this is stupid. People have nuclear meltdowns all the time, and in worse locations than an Applebee’s. Hell, that jackass from Invisible Children ran around San Fran naked. Anything less these days and people aren’t impressed. Usually I’d agree with you; you’re absolutely right that under normal circumstances I was being ridiculous and melodramatic. However, there’s something you need to know to fully comprehend my slow descent into insanity:
My name is Kristen, and I went to law school.
If the weight of that admission doesn’t make you understand the depths of my despair, please read on. This is a cautionary tale of an optimistic, cheerful girl with a glimmer in her eye and a song in her heart who was struck down in her prime. I write this in the hopes that readers will take heed of my warnings and think before you act. But mostly I’m submitting my horrible life choices for your enjoyment and ridicule.I do this with the full and complete understanding that publishing my life history and thoughts online may be detrimental to any sort of professional future employment I may seek. I’m not yet sure if I give a shit.
(I apologize profusely to my former Civ. Pro. professor for the rampant cursing throughout my blog; my sailor mouth, much like my civil procedure skills, cannot be helped.)
Funny thing is, every website, every person, every book I ever read before setting foot in a law school classroom warned me about this. I paid no attention to Atticus Falcon’s pessimism in Planet Law School, and completely ignored the sorrow-laden confessions of friends that had already suffered a beat down from legal education. I failed to take heed of Tucker Max’s warnings about going to law school, instead relying on visions of courtroom triumphs and dream paychecks. I was awesome. I was different. I wasn’t going to be like those other losers who couldn’t hack it and drove themselves insane.
August 24th, 2011 was when I moved to Boston to attend Boston College Law School on a scholarship. Today is March 21, 2012, well into the second semester and I am sitting on the couch in my parents’ living room. I Make Bad Decisions is a chronicle of my journey from Jersey to law school and back again.
I Make Bad Decisions is a misnomer of sorts. I’m a college graduate. I’ve never done drugs and I’ve never endangered the lives of others. I’m not as “cool” as Tucker Max and I’m surely not as funny as Jenna Marbles. What I am is absolutely, unequivocally normal. I’m the paragon example of a member of the lost generation- acting mature during the day and acting out at night. I defined success in dollars like everyone else, until I realized that maybe every single Lifetime movie ever made got it right.
I apologize in advance for jumping all over the place; I’m too spastic to put my entries in any type of chronological order. They’re all here, though- all of my life experiences on the way to defining exactly what the hell success means to me, and what the fuck I’m doing with my life. If you have an idea of who you are and what you stand for, well aren’t you special. Congratulations. For the other 98% of the population, welcome aboard. Shit’s about to get real.