I'm almost sad, really, that it's over. I feel as if I could write three more property exams, tackle seven more crim hypos, and contemplate ConLaw-induced suicide at least once more. But alas, 'tis done.
While most of my compatriots spent last night at the bars, scantily-clad, drinking SBA-subsidized shots, no doubt dancing in hideously inappropriate ways that would inevitably lead to sloppy walks to sloppy apartments for equally sloppy semi-conscious encounters, I thought that I might stay at home and have a quiet evening of Me Time.
It was great, really. Bought some nice, soft cheeses, a bottle of Merlot, some Swiss truffles. I started out the night in the bath, with scented candles, Sarah McLachlan's new album dripping out the window, oodles of moisturizing bath beads, and a copy of The Notebook, by Nicholas Sparks. ( I know what you're thinking, and yes, I'd already read it, but can you really ever experience feelings like that too many times? I didn't think so.) After that, it was into my robe and onto the couch for my yearly Meg-a-Thon: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and The Presidio. I normally follow that up with some journal writing exercises where I pretend that Meg is speaking through me and I ask her questions and just let the answers, which are consistently enlightening and surprising, come out through my pen. But this time I chose instead to devote a few hours to solitary prayer, and I think it did me a lot of good. Just before bed, I read aloud from my Emily Dickinson anthology, wept a bit, then fell asleep feeling comforted than amidst all the insanity of law school, I still managed to find time to remember my spirit.
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