Worst. Senioritis. Ever.

I'm dying. I can't do work for more than five minutes. I simply don't care. I have two thirty page papers due, I need to learn Tax, and I need to learn Comparative Law, I need to apply for the Bar, and I need to find a job. What am I doing about this?

Nothing.

Do I care? No.

Why couldn't it be 1993 again, when apathy was all-the-rage. I'd grow my hair long, let my beard grow, wear flannel, move to Seattle, and spend my time smoking cigarettes, and allowing my rampant depression to go untreated.

Anyhoo, I saw something funny this morning. Well, not funny, funny Ha-ha, but funny-funny "that sucks for you." As I tripped out of Stephen's house at 7:53 a.m. on my way to work, as I rounded the corner, I saw two little nuggets of milk-chocolate colored dog shit. And then I saw a long, slidey looking smear. And then another smear. And another smear. And I thought to myself, "HAHAHAHAHA! Someone probably almost busted their ass in the dogshit this morning, and then had to scrape it off their shoe! And I'll bet they didn't get all of it off! Tee-hee!" Of course, this uproarious soliloquy took place in my head. I neither cracked a smile, nor let any sign of my inner hilarity peek out from my miserable-looking veneer. Then, I saw Eric Halsey walking his little dog Dot.

I try not to have any expression on my face when I'm alone in public. I don't know why that is. Or, if I do have any expression, my brow is furrowed with consternation or anger. Maybe it's because I hate seeing people floating down the streets with a dreamy expression on their face. People like that make me want to kick them in their vulvas. I've resisted the urge up to now, but Heaven only knows when I may snap, and go on a vulva-kicking rampage.

However. That vulva-kicking rampage will probably not take place in Miami. It would have to be somewhere with a higher hippy-quotient; preferably I would exact my vengeance on all the granola kids from Mifflin Street and West Gorham and Bassett Street. Madison would be awash with dreamy-faced girls hiding bruised vulvas under their peasant skirts.

Okay. I guess I should get back to learning ethics. See? Schoolwork makes me violent.