[Be warned: emotional stress-filled garble coming up.]
You know that feeling when you want nothing more in the world than to get up from your desk and run away (probably to Target to Canada), but are almost literally simultaneously chained to said desk because you also feel like you must spend every waking moment studying, because the test that your entire career hinges on is in seventeen short days?
Yeah, me too.
I would say, on a scale of “three-day weekend binging on Netflix” to “getting married”, Bar prep has got me at about a nine. That little test coming up in seventeen days, coupled with the fear of not being able to find a place to live in the next six weeks, has got me in this state beyond stressed: I’m actually losing my mind. And here’s how I know:
1. I eat 3-4 of those ice cream bars (pictured above) per day, starting at 9:30 a.m. and not finishing until I’m in bed. But wait, there’s more…
2. While I usually get heartburn/all kinds of stomach nonsense when I’m stressed, my body has moved beyond this stage,and instead granted me an inexplicable (though most likely stress-induced) hideous rash of eczema or a cousin thereof on the top of my right foot for the last ten days.
3. Every piece of tupperware and every scrap of lettuce that falls on the ground is an inexcusable disaster, and causes me to scold said inanimate object for cowardly falling prey to gravity, yet again!
4. Among the intangible things that have also been scolded are computer programs with low levels of contrast and phone menus that ask you to give your request out loud. By 8:45 this morning, I had attempted to contact the Minute Clinic three times to procure their available hours to examine said rash on my foot, and hung up all three times on the insufferable “I’m sorry, I don’t understand” from the computer-voice on the other side.
5. My boss says I’ve “completely changed” and implied that someone had stolen my brain. He is almost certainly right, but that’s not the worst part: I actually contemplated lying to him and telling him I was pregnant so that he would excuse my absent-mindedness (as if I needed an excuse). I’m a horrible person.
6. My typing skills are a complete joke, and I have used the word “whichh” 761 times in my Bar notes, with increasing frequency over the last three weeks. Other new words in my vocabulary include: “specal”, “timly”, and “jurisdication”.
7. By the time Massimo comes home at the end of the day, I have been alone for 8-13 hours with just my Bar lecturers and Leslie Knope, and thus I oscillate rapidly between Indiana-inspired, friendly, complete nonsense and aggressive legal jargon that is also, generally, complete nonsense.
8. I can’t think of an eighth reason, but I know I need one because even numbers are prettier, and I know one exists because it’s obvious. But I can’t.
9. Aha! I have started sentences hoping I’ll remember what I was going to say by the end of them, but I don’t remember and just stop talking.
10. My acceptance of quasi-annoying social behaviors is at a zero. The next time someone goes out of turn at a four-way-stop sign, or attempts to start a debate about some complex social/legal/moral issue in the comments section of INSTAGRAM, I’m going to pull down the blue from the sky, and make that person color every single inch of it red to match the color of my boiling blood with a broken crayon.
OFFICIAL DIAGNOSIS: she’s lost her mind.