CLLCalamity

What a morning. I say to myself hey, this day's not going to be half-bad. I got one legal opinion outta four left to write, I got a shift 9-2 with good people at work. Let's do this thing.

Granted, the night before I thought I had three of my legal opinions written, but it turns out in one of them I made up more legal precedent than a California district court so it was back to the drawing board on the dissent. Not only that, but I ended up using the term "super-prostitute," not only for the first time ever, but in an academic paper for an Honors law class. Strangely, though, I'm not sure if it makes more sense or less sense that of all things, I used such a term in final project for an Honors class. One of my friends can one-up me though. He cited himself as a source in an English essay (Here you go, Jeff, your fifteen minutes of blog-fame... cherish it. Che-rish...! [shaking fist menacingly]). What a subject... you can't misplace a modifier, but Jeff Whitehead can cite himself as a source.

Anyhow, questionable academic work aside, I was stoked when I arrived at work and not one of the dozens of people who are higher than me on the food chain was there. Ordinarily, such a lack of supervision would result in... well, nothing insidious (officially), but nonetheless it was good because I now I had two opinions to yarf out before 5:00PM today and I don't need anyone looking over my shoulder when I'm writing about sodomy cases. The reason no one is there is because once again, the office I'm working in is moving. Only this time, unlike the Town Hall, I don't have to haul shit out of a dusty attic and break windows trying to kill bees. All the shit-hauling is done by contractors. Odd that my hometown had the fucking fiscal sense to hire poor athletes like me to move things around and the university decided to bring in "professionals." Astounding.

Where was I going with all this? Right, I was upstairs because one of the downstairs workstations was dead. Not surprising considering the amount of Spyware and Spermamax advert emails that flow through those computers every day. Have you ever run Spybot on a computer and had more than 2000 hits? I have. Imagine. How much Czech lesbian porn do you have do "accidentally look at" to get 2000 pieces of spyware on your computer? How many attachments from Dr. King Abdullah Farqawi Muhammad al-Shitfuck do you need to download before you realize that he will not be wiring you the immense sums gleaned from his guano business! 2000. Simply astounding.

So I was upstairs, and I found myself staring blankly at my half-finished legal opinion, wondering why I was squinting and why my eyes were tearing up looking at a simple computer screen. Also, I felt that the smell of the spicy-fruity scented disinfectant my boss uses was particularly strong that day. Little did I know that our graduate assistant, we'll call her "Lily," had put a veritable scented oil mass dispersion unit in the power strip under the desk. So I reach down to unplug that shit and keep myself from smelling like peaches and cinnamon all day. It's leaking! Because Lily has plugged a wall unit into a power strip laying on the floor! Now I might as well be excreting the damn spicy peach smell out of my palms because I've got a month's worth of Glade oil smeared all up in my business. Fuck! Now not only am I writing about prostitutes but I smell like one... one who foolishly tried to mess with a Glade plug-in.

After announcing this travesty to my coworkers, I was quickly shut up by Alicia, who had brought me back a bagel and chocolate milk from Dunkin Donuts (I have been known to drink chocolate milk "like a fuckin' prairie dog," according to my old roommate -- interpret that one for yourselves, folks...). I figure I may smell like a trailer park block party but I'll be damned if that prevents me from enjoying my chocolate milk. So I take a biiiig gulp...

SOUR! MOST DEFINITELY SOUR! This milk is as spoiled as the gallon of bacteria stewing in the fridge awaiting some creating inspiration on my part. Wait, no, that's a biohazard, this milk was just foul. Anyhow, what the fuck. So after running around earlier declaring my new bodily scent to be such a huge injustice, God gave me a big smack in the face and said "shut uppa you face" in the form of some chocolate milk more suited to hurling out the window onto some Gypsies than to human consumption.

Then later on I go to log into my Gmail (which is the shit by the way -- if you want to know more IM me or something). I don't bother to look at the already-read messages in the inbox or anything, I just click on the two new messages I have because I'm compulsive like that. It's an email from Julia B talking about some sort of trip to a store I will ostensibly be taking with her tonight at 6:45. Weird. I check the "to" like to make sure I haven't received this in error, and it says "me," as Gmail does, so I'm like eh, weird. I write "Umm... what?" and then realize that I have inadvertantly sent a message from my co-worker's Gmail account, who is also on the ultimate team so her emails didn't look at all weird to me. My response: "SHIT. Sorry, this is House, I thought this was my Gmail, and I was thoroughly confused -- it's cool though, we're coworkers." I left work confused and irritable, but having eaten some Lindy's to make it all better.

Needless to say, with a cup of Lawrence v. Texas, a teaspoon of Romer v. Evans, a cup of Planned Parenthood v. Casey and a whole lot of rational basis later, I was running to the Honors office at 4:55 to submit my essay by five. I spiked my paper on the Honors secretary and signified "goal" with both hands.