Saturday Mornings on the LSAT pill

As I type this, sixteen Princeton Review students sit before me, brows furrowed over their practice LSAT tests. I signed up to do this because I had one of my frequent panic attacks about my short money supply. At least the room has internet access. These students will probably complain to my boss about me and my lack of proper proctor decorum. LSAT students tend to complain a lot.

So these are the future lawyers of America or so we at the Princeton Review have promised them. But then, let's be realistic: some of these students don't stand a chance. Either the LSAT will get them, or they'll be found lacking under close scrutiny by admissions officials. Which one of you will make it, and how far will you go in your law careers?

How about you, Mr. Shakey? Your habit of leg-flapping while reading is a bit off-putting. It makes you look like an overzealous Thigh Master enthusiast. Are you trying to lose some of your considerable weight, or do you just have to go to the bathroom? Yeah, you look pretty hot, sweating in your ill-fitting wool sweater. Go ahead and take it off if you're too warm. But let me ask you this, "How are you ever going to make a convincing closing argument if you can't take the heat?"!!

And what about you, Mr. Backwards baseball cap and hooded sweatshirt? Law school isn't going to be the beer-chugging party you so enjoy now. I called time's up thirty seconds ago, yet you continue to mark your answer sheet, pencil clasped between your meaty fingers. Are you going to take cribs sheets with you into the bar exam?

Oho! And what do we have here, Miss Pretty thing in the back row? Going to play Ally McBeal when you grow up? I've got some bad news for you, Princess: most real lawyers' lips don't move while they're reading.

At least it's the LSAT. If it were the MCAT I were proctoring, I'd really be worried.

The same thoughts recur every time I search for a four-leaf clover on my way to work

First, I'm always surprised to see something so mundane in La Jolla:
Wow, clovers!

Then comes my limited knowledge gleaned (between naps) from Statistics 121:
There're a million of 'em! I've gotta be able to find at least ten.

The justification for stopping:
I'll give one to Megan.

The real reason:
Four leaf clovers are cool.

The unsuccessful hunt begins to frustrate:
Those people sitting in their cars behind me are probably watching.

Then comes my limited knowledge gleaned (between videogames) from four years of biology and various other sciences:
The four-leaf clover is a genetic anomaly.

Time passes:
I'm late.

Memories begin drifting through my head:
I think my sister kept a four-leaf clover on her bulletin board. That was pretty cool.

More memories surface:
I once ate some clovers when I was about four. They were sour yet refreshing. Horses eat clover. Are they the same thing?

And then, for some reason:
There was that episode of Ghostbusters: The Animated Series where Winston had to find a four-leaf clover to fight that Irish dog-ghost.

Wait for it:

...

......

.........

Good thing that dog's not after me.


I'm late.

Jenga!

Actually, now I'm kinda glad they're highwaters...

When's the last time you stepped in vomit?

Oral B-yotch!

I'm getting older and more mature. I know that I'm aging by the myriad little signs that I see everyday: more gray hairs, slower metabolism, indigestion from greasy foods. Unfortunately I have to look a bit harder to see evidence of maturity -- I still watch the Cartoon Network, and I am easily distracted by things like yo-yo's at the checkout line. But the signs are there, hidden within the mundane activities of my everyday life. The latest one? I've become a regular flosser.

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I've never been much of a flosser. I blame my lack of enthusiasm on several scarring experiences at the dentist's office, where, lying helpless on the chair, blinded by the weirdo spaceship light, I was the victim of a sadistic dental hygienist and her waxy garrot wire. I've never understood why all those mean spirited assistants couldn't be bothered to ease the floss down between my molars. Instead, they always seemed to relish snapping it like a bowstring in my mouth. And then, the telltale wincing, bleeding and swelling followed by, "Have you been flossing regularly?". Oh the shame! Is it not enough that you maim me? Must you judge me as well?

Well, now that I've conditioned my gums nightly for the past several months, I think I'm ready to face a dentist again. Hell, I'm more than ready -- I'm excited! I look forward to staring deep into my toturer's eyes as she (are all dental hygienists women?) tries her damndest to break me. I bet it'll ruin her day when I just lay there gape-mouthed, uncrying, and triumphant. Or maybe she'll give me a wink and induct me into the secret society of straight-A dental patients, where all that's wrong with your teeth can be fixed immediately with a magical toothbrush. Yeah, that'll be fucking great.

Oh wait, I forgot about the pointy plaque-scraping hook of death. Goddamn I hate dentists!