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Wedding Bell Blues
Reasons why I did not want to, and should not have, attend(ed) this godawful wedding this weekend:
1. The bride is someone I'm not close to, and in fact, I don't even like her.
2. She corralled poor Laurie into making her wedding invitations. And her place cards. And her wedding favors. And her ceremony program. ALL FOR FREE.
3. She registered for a $500 Dyson vacuum and she is not Liza Minelli, although her (now) spouse is perhaps a little David Gest-like (i.e., repulsive).
4. I am 200 pages behind in Con Law (this has become something of a refrain, no?).
5. It was in motherfucking La Habra.
6. NO ALCOHOL.
7. 2:00 p.m. Which means your entire day is gone for NO ALCOHOL.
8. My old boss and two (2!) of my old boss' bosses were going to be there.
9. My only wedding-appropriate attire didn't really, um, fit, so I ended up resorting to a push-up bra to make it, um, fit better, which made me way too boobalicious for God's house.
10. I kind of think marriage is a crock of shit.
Ways I got subtle revenge for having to attend this travesty:
1. Wore really, really bad underwear. I'm in finals hell, people - no way am I wasting perfectly good panties!
2. Pitched in for a fabulous gift of one.... dust ruffle! Serves you right for registering for a $75 dust ruffle!
3. Spent the entire wedding ceremony writing mean and blasphemous notes to Laurie on the back of the wedding program she designed. Ah, the irony. Plus, I am soooo going to hell. I do feel guilty, truly. But sometimes you gotta do whatcha gotta do. And I comfort myself with the fact that no one saw me. Oh. Um, 'cept God. Oops!
4. Didn't sign the wedding photo. This was purely by accident and due to arriving 7 minutes before the ceremony started (MOTHERFUCKING La Habra), but in retrospect, yay!
5. Left early.
Only reasons I made it through the day:
Haha. She totally has a paper towel in her blouse to protect it from the V-8. And if you think there's just V-8 in that bottle, I've got a bridge to sell you.
Checking her eye make-up after crying laughing over the fact that Amber has a paper towel in her blouse and we're photographing it on the way to MOTHERFUCKING LA HABRA.
3. Getting to pick up my voodoo supplies at Laurie's, and trying them out at home later:
Keep your fingers crossed for me! 200 pages behind in Con Law ya know!
4. Finding out that Carolyn was not lying -- Ashton Kutcher does have webbed toes!
Just ignore that "NOT Normal" caption.
...And Another One
I got confirmation today that I cannot, under any circumstances, become a litigator. Because, well, apparently I CRY IN COURT. As part of this school volunteer clinic, a team of us is helping a woman obtain asylum in the US. And as she is telling her horrific story to the immigration judge, she starts crying. And maybe it was my lack of sleep, or the stress of impending finals, or the pain of the courtroom pews against my ass bones, but I totally cried along with her. THANK GOD no one saw (I hope. Hard to furtively survey the courtroom with watery, blurry vision.).
Moreover, my major contributions to this case, aside from a little preliminary research, have been:
- Bring our client a Harper's Bazaar to read in the waiting room
- Provide her nervously parched mouth with a supply of water
- Tell her and my team members they're doing a good job
Somehow, I'm not sure "team cheerleader" and "proficient caretaker" are qualities that would get me anywhere in the litigation world.
Another Door Closes
Thanks, everyone, for your support on my new career as a (high class) call girl! I'm totally going to be Babs in Nuts, minus the nuts part. Sort of. But you wanna know what career path I can't walk down (haha)? Foot model. Wanna know why? Because I HAVE WEBBED TOES. For serious:
Just two of 'em, but still. I was reminded of my, um, irregularity this evening because I decided that my feet are really just too damn pale to be sporting the gold I've been wearing -- mainly it just looks putrid. So I was thinking, isn't a mani/pedi like the best way to celebrate my last day of classes as a 1L? Then I remembered. The toes.
I mean, I know I have the cutest feet EVER -- I won the semi-annual pretty feet contest just last May with my high school girlfriends in Vegas, despite the fact that Katie tries to disqualify me on grounds of deformity every time, that jealous beeyatch. Still, it's always a gamble at the nail salon. Will they notice? Will they burst into giggles at the sight of my toes (has happened)? Will they get annoyed because that squishy in between the toes thing doesn't work and they have to improvise?
So I decided that, being jobless, 200 pages behind in Con Law and apparently still very, very pale, perhaps now is not the best time to expose myself to potential ridicule.
Instead, I painted 'em myself and headed to Kristen's birthday dinner at the Cheesecake Factory! Check out the pics:
p.s. Know what I just realized? My deformity even limits my (high class) call girl career! Can't have any foot fetishists among my clientele. Which you know eliminates, like, HALF of LA.
The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Kitty Kats
I'm pretty sure Fred has cancer. Every time I microwave anything, Fred is there. INSPECTING. Like, whatcha got goin' on in there? Is it something I can eat? Look at the tray go round, wee! Rub, rub, rub, on the microwave door. Oh, did I just push the door out into your hip bone? Oops! I don't care 'cuz I'm a cat!
Ursula's little Ernie just broke his leg and it was FOURTEEN-HUNDRED DOLLARS. Must get pet insurance this summer with, you know, the money I'll get from my non-existent job. Do you think there's a question on the insurance form, like, how often does your cat make unprotected love to the microwave? 'Cuz if so I am screwwwwed.
p.s. How much do you think strippers make an hour?
How I Got 200 Pages Behind in Con Law This Semester
1. Con Law professor, while cool, also Totally Certifiable for thinking that 7 hours of reading PER CLASS is reasonable.
2. Acquired a blog-reading habit so severe that the only reason I completed my main paper for the semester is because I removed to my dining table sans internet connection.
3. LA: GORGEOUS this time of year.
5. Lulled into false sense of security by doing decently last semester.
6. Father had complications during heart surgery, which made reading for class seem a bit... irrelevant.
7. Spent many fruitless, fruitless hours attempting to find me a law-related job this summer. My likely lot: mind-numbing temping work (which, sadly enough, sounds so divine right about now).
8. Got out more. By which I mean I had something vaguely resembling a social life this semester.
9. Don't care about the dormant commerce clause! No, really! Couldn't care less, couldn't give a shit, couldn't be less interested! Leave me alone!
10. Am lazy. AND the worst kind of procrastinator. AND going to hell for not taking responsibility for my own actions but instead blaming them on externalities. But isn't that, like, the Amercian way?
All I can say is, THANK THE LORD Laurie and Amber went to the million-dollar pharmaceria yesterday and bought all this voodoo success stuff for me. It is THE ONLY WAY I will make it through the next three weeks without totally losing it.
Tag, You're It
Laurie tagged me for one of those blog Q&As, and at first I was really excited. I mean, this totally gives me cred as a real blogger. You can't get, like, get tagged if you're not a True For Real Blogger, can you? Right?
This may, however, be the most boring entry I've ever written. By which I do not mean the most boring entry for anyone to read, because God knows which one that might be, pick a day, any day. But by which I mean the most boring entry for me to write. Mainly because I had to count all the books in my apartment, totally robbing me of my blogging mojo. I guess I could have just estimated, but goddammit, this is my first blog tag and I'm certainly not going to proffer inaccurate responses!
1) Total number of books in your house.
365. 3/4 of which are stored in the dining area because that's where books go.
2) Last book you bought was:
Rough Guides to Moscow and Poland, where Laurie and I had planned to go on spring break. This didn't work out because a) I'm po' and b) my dad was recovering from heart surgery. BUT I refuse to make it through the summer without traveling SOMEWHERE, and there's always Moscow for Christmas:
I wish I had the credit for this photo, which really looks like a painting, but it was on nytimes.com one day and has been my desktop ever since.
3) What was the last book you read before this?
That would be any of my lovely, lovely school books. Which weigh in at 30 lbs. Which means I carry a fair percentage of my body weight (I'm shorter than a ficus tree) in books to class some days. Luckily, in a former life I was a sherpa and/or martyr because few things in life make me happier than when I'm carrying something so ridiculously awkward and large that someone asks, "Oh my God, do you need help with that?" and I can smile and say, "No, no, I'm fine, thanks!"
4) Write down 5 or 6 books you often read or that mean a lot to you.
1. Joan Didion's Slouching Toward Bethlehem. Made me believe I could be a writer, made me want to move to New York to be one. I moved to NY, but a writer I am not. Still, when I read it, she was a Northern California girl (like me) more than a little neurotic (like me), who left home and forged an interesting life.
2. William Boyd's Blue Afternoon. Never thought about moving to LA until I read it.
3. Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. While I no longer espouse her theories, it's still an amazing story of human potential.
4. Gene Stratton-Porter's A Girl of the Limberlost. It's hard to be good, really good. A good person, who builds a life of friends and family and accomplishes things that better the world. Sure, Elnora the Limberlost girl might seem a little priggish and there's certainly some glories to the Almighty in there. But the book was originally published in 1909, and somehow Elnora still makes me want to be good, really good.
5. Clifford Geertz' Interpretation of Cultures. Because it changed the way I read EVERYTHING.
5) Who are you going to pass this stick to (three people) and why?
1. Ursula. Because she breathes books.
2. Neeta. Because I really want to know what books that kooky girl has read.
3. My sibs, Penny and Jeff, because I love them.
ST ENDS Forever
Tonight Laurie and I were threatening to buy one another those Best Friend necklaces popular with the pre-pubescent set. And of course the cool girl is always BE FRI, and me and Laurie, we were always ST ENDS. You know, the girls whose house you told your parents you were staying over at when really you were out boozin', bumpin' and grindin'. And whose paper you cheated off of.
But you know, I'm happy to be a ST ENDS. And to have stends in my life. Stends are my kind of people. Stends forgive you when you accidentally forward non-flattering e-mails they wrote to other department members. Stends write you encouraging comments on your blog. Stends like to hear about your new haircut in painstaking detail. BFF, stends!
OK, this will be the last installment of my pity party, BUT:
1. Today I drove halfway to school, realized I'd be late and felt like shit and drove home, where I napped and read for most of the day.
2. I have no food in my house, so I consumed only Cheez-Its, Teddy Grahams and 5 Cokes. Really only 3.3 Cokes since I have this horrible habit of only consuming 2/3 of one (did you notice - I totally did math! Accurately! In my head!* 5 x .66 = 3.3, yay for me!) before I decide it's not cold enough and move onto the next. This used to drive my mother nuts, since I usually signalled my movement onto the next Coke by leaving the previous one de-carbonating quietly on a shelf or counter somewhere in the house for her to discover later. I don't do this anymore, but still, this Coke-binging has to stop.
3. The fire alarm in my building went off for 45 minutes tonight. A shrill, fast-pitched bleating that had both cats under the bed.
4. I am now only 5 days away from truly ugly underwear. If Saturday comes and I'm no better off, I'm taking Crystal's advice and heading to Target.
5. One of my classmates is FIFTEEN YEARS OLD. Seriously, people. Fifteen! Like, 15, as in, she'll be REPRESENTING CLIENTS WHEN SHE'S 18. Normally, I would cut the girl some slack. At 15, I was totally sneakin' out of the house, paintin' my nails purple, lovin' on Depeche Mode and hatin' on my parents. I was not, however, bein' a TOTAL RAGING BITCH.
We're on racially-restrictive covenants in Property right now, and our professor pulled out his deed for his old Studio City home, which included the lovely restriction that any occupants be white. Except for servants. And he mentions how theoretically he could be sued for enforcement because his wife is Chinese-American. At which point said 15-year old waves her pale little hand in the air and asks, "Doesn't that depend on how strictly you construe servant?"
Oh. My. God. And this is what I deal with every day! Every day she says something I assume (more like PRAY TO GOD) she thinks is a joke, and every day I want to club her over the head like a baby seal. And soon SHE WILL BE REPRESENTING SOMEONE. Like, in court. Or in important legal matters. God help us.
Still, last installment of the pity party. I've got a dinner, mock trial, dinner party, bar review and post-modern version of a Tupperware party to attend in the next few days. Oh, and you know, 228 pages of Con Law to read. Again, God help us.
*Well, I did it in my head but then had to check my work on the computer calculator. But that kind of counts, no?
Pain by Numbers
|Pages of Contracts and Property read this weekend:
|Cokes consumed in process:
|Pages still behind in Property:
|Pages behind in Constitutional Law:
|New flip-flops purchased this weekend in Target trip with Laurie:
|New flip-flops I got to wear today:
||0. It was 60°, which in LA = freezing
|Hours spent reading today:
|Cinnamon Teddy Grahams consumed:
|Watermelon Sour Straws enjoyed:
|Dirty dishes in sink:
||I don't know. I refuse to look in there.
|Days before I'm wearing really ugly underwear:
|Inches away from precipice of insanity :
* Yes, my teeth are rotting out of my head.
**That's right. That's not a typo. No, no, 228 pages. That's 200. And. 28. Disaster is imminent.
I couldn't take it any more. Laurie had comments (like 987 kazillion because she is one funny mofo), Vers L'Absurde told me I needed to get comments, and even Ursula and Logan, new bloggers, had comments. Well, now, so do I! I figured out how to do it my very own self. Of course, this means they will probably not work. But, um, feel free to test them out. Show me some comment love!
My site is in desparate need of some retooling. In the last week, my sister has told me she likes reading it because I am a DORK, and my brother has said it's a source of amusement because I am CRAZY. I need an injection of hip, stat. Oh wait, I know just the thing: KARAOKE PHOTOS!!
This week our law school bar review was a karaoke tsunami relief party at Boardwalk 11 in West LA. It was one of the more bizarre bar reviews I have attended. A group of very, very drunk self-professed single mothers held dominion over the stage, with only Cindy & Sean, two USC law students, an octegenarian, and our classmate Sergio fresh from his mock trial (hence the suit) and a few others getting a chance.
The Higher the Seats, the Lower the Blows
WARNING: If you are a Dodgers fan, stop reading now. I am one of those annoying people who shows up to Dodgers/Giants games in a Giants t-shirt and claps (albeit quietly) when we score.
At the Dodgers v. Giants game tonight, my sister Penny and I ended up in the reserve level seats instead of our favorite first-base line field level seats. WORST IDEA EVER. Having had our asses kicked last night, we knew it wasn't going to be pretty. I was ready for the chants of "fuera, fuera" and "Giants suck." HOWEVER. I was NOT prepared for my 5'0" sister to be told, "Fuck the giants" by some old fart on her way to the bathroom. Or for some TWELVE YEAR OLD to tell me to, "Suck the blue." Or for this man behind me to start yelling, "Go kiss your boyfriend," to the SF players. WTF??
Down in the field level seats, it's a whole different world. The Giants fans show up with their coffee thermoses full of wine and their tupperware full of pesto, and we meet nice older Dodgers fans whose kids go to school with my sister and laugh at what an aggro Giants fan she is. MOREOVER, we do not have to LEAVE IN THE 6TH INNING for fear of a beat down. And, FURTHERMORE, at field level, it's, "Giants suck," not "Giants sucks." Let's try a little verb-noun agreement here, people.
I guess, to give the reserve seats a little credit, these skanky (can you still use that word in polite society?) Giants fans were the inciters of a lot of the animosity going round. There were these four girls wearing handmade "Dodgers hella suck" t-shirts and doing some hollerin' and bump 'n grindin' in their chairs. Below is a shot of when the bravest (read: drunkest) of them went over to a crowd of cute boy Giants fans to say hi, a.k.a. talk a lot about her handmade shirt in an attempt to highlight her breasts. (uh, I am totally going to hell and maybe to jail for taking this photo.)
Still. I am NEVER EVER sitting in the reserve seats again. Call me a princess, call me a pussy (I'm pretty sure someone tried that tonight but I have to check with Laurie, who knows more Spanish than I do). I'll take my goat-cheese-eating, gramatically-correct-chanting, NON-HOMOPHOBIC field level compatriots any day.
p.s. These Dodgers fans, these insanely loyal giants-sucks bunch, where were they at 7:10 when the game actually started? Huh? Huh?
One of the best things about going to law school in LA is of course the fact that it's a sunny, gorgeous 76 on May 12. One of the worst things about going to law school in LA is course the fact that it's a sunny, gorgeous 76 on May 12 and you have to spend the entire freakin' day studying because you are 250 pages behind and WILL PROBABLY FAIL. In an effort to ameliorate my mood, I decided to try studying on my patio.
Step 1: Create comfortable, beach-like feel so you can pretend that a) you aren't reading about the equal protection clause and its application to alienage, and b) you are physically capable of getting a tan:
Step 2: Part I - Erect a half-assed barrier so your cats can't get outside and make a break for it. Part II - Look proudly on as Fred masters the art of opening the screen door with his claws.
Step 3: Train an eagle eye on Fred to make sure he doesn't try to escape to the neighbor's yard again. This is the closest that hose has been to getting any action since I bought it.
Step 4: Realize that in watching Fred like a hawk, haven't noticed Ethel is out and about.
Step 5: Laugh because Fred is suddenly covered in cobwebs, then stop when realize you are both a horrible person and a lax groundskeeper.
Step 6: Pack it up because your sun has diminished to a tiny, tiny patch, and because you've realized you've spent the last 20 minutes photographing your cats because YOU ARE CRAZY.
Teenage Elizabethan Basketball
So two of my friends decided nearly simultaneously to get into the game and start their own blogs. Ursula and Logan. What is interesting about their foray into blogging is that after only a couple entries, these two, who already bicker like brother and sister (I say this with love, you two), are in a blogging war. The only comments on their sites ('cuz they just started) are mean comments from one another. Moreover, in Ursula's links, she's got Logan as "Basketball Diaries," when his blog is really Volitional Errors. And in Logan's links you see "Meanderings of a Teenage Elizabethan," which is actually Ursula's blog, Hybrid Tea Rose. I tell you. I'm going to have to go post some intervention comments so this doesn't devolve into out-and-out blog armageddon. First come snarky comments, next come site hijackings and Photshopped nude photos and they're both fired and homeless.
In Which Laurie Makes Us Some Meatcake
On Saturday night I headed over to Laurie's for some dee-licious meatloaf, or "meatcake," as they call it in her family, and a little Shirley Valentine (favorite quote: "Sex is like supermarkets. You know, overrated. Just a lot of pushing and shoving and you still come out with very little in the end."). I love that we knitted (well, Laurie did) and watched a total chick flick while eating meatloaf and drinking Bud, very manly sustenance.
Check out the photographic evidence.
p.s. You would never guess from the pic that I have a ginormous zit on my cheek, thank you one small application of sunblock. But thank you, Photoshop!
I Have SAHD
Socially Awkward Hugging Disorder. I'm pretty sure it's in the DSM-IV. Recent episodes:
1. Last night at The Well, I tried to hug my poor classmate Megan and basically ended up in this weird hold around her torso like "but i don't wanna stay at grandma's - her collection of plaster of paris terriers is scary and she uses weird strawberry jelly with seeds in it and only has ginger ale."
2. Last week at Bar Copa, I tried to hug my classmate and aspiring actor Louis and ended up ramming my forehead into his nose. He managed an, "Ow," and then avoided me for the rest of the evening. I'm sure he was cursing me for potentially ruining his chances to be the next Billy Zane (seriously, the resemblance is uncanny) until he realized I might have actually improved his chances as the next Owen Wilson.
3. Over Christmas I tried to hug Naomi's boyfried Cyril and ended up head-butting him. He was like, "Wow, drive-by hug." I could have died.
I don't know what to do about it. I mean, you can't stop hugging people, can you? And it doesn't stop there! I also can't effectively give people a kiss on the cheek, and if confronted with someone who does the double-cheek kiss, I mean, well, it's all over. I might as well JUST FRENCH THEM NOW because it's probably less awkward than what I'll end up doing. Pbbblt.
Can I Be Your Vessel Today, Sir?
Today in Constitutional Law we covered California's old statutory rape law, under which only males were prosecuted. A male student who shall remain nameless (but not because he deserves anonymity, that ass) proferred the opinion that the law made sense BECAUSE MEN ARE MORE POWERFUL SEXUALLY. Suddenly he started making odd poking gestures and talking about swords. I think the sight of him poking into the air combined with his use of the word "phallic" several times in succession sent me into a mild coma because when I awoke I had my hand raised and was saying, "I think it's ironic that a statute ostensibly designed to prevent women from being burdened by pregnancy in fact burdens them with the status of irrelevant participants in a sexual act because THEY ARE ONLY VESSELS FOR SOMEONE'S SWORD." Ack.
Obsessive Compulsive Get-Rid-Of-Er
I like a good spring cleaning as much as the next Martha. My mother, however, takes it to the next level. Every time I am home that woman makes me take a whole bunch of somethin' she's unearthed that she MUST GET RID OF because GOD KNOWS WE CANNOT HAVE THINGS AROUND THE HOUSE THAT WE DO NOT USE ON A BI-WEEKLY BASIS. Actually, if she makes me take something home I am lucky. This means she hasn't unilaterally decided that I don't really need those old wedge sandals and espadrilles from 1993 that are just coming back into style, thank you for playing.
Last time I was home, she had quite a stash prepared for me to go through, some of which, I'll admit, I do not and never will need. These items included:
1. One Puffalump.
2. FOUR sets of unused Christmas cards. This does not bode well for #84 on my list of 100 Things To Do Before I Die.
3. One Franklin Covey day planner from 1998 with only the first 1/3 of the year used.
4. One Cynthia Rowley sheath with pears on it. Why did I buy this? Am I a lady who lunches? Maybe I can wear it to a tea? Do I go to teas? Maybe a bridal shower? But the base color is white? Why did I buy this???
5. One RED HOTT NUMBER circa 1990 that I wore to my 9th grade Valentine's Day dance. I was an ugly duckling, people. With too much lipstick and frosted white nails. Do not judge. *Sniff, sniff.* That is my junior high best friend Melissa Smith (now von Lutzow) who I spent every possible moment with. We used to tan in her bedroom using some weird sun lamp her dad got her (had he never heard of skin cancer??) and prank call boys we liked. Behind us is an odd silk (it's the new, Klassier version of "live") tree my mother had in the foyer.
6. Two half-filled journals.
7. A tin full of buttons and extra thread, I'm sure none of which corresponds to any clothing I own now (you know, BECAUSE MY MOM THREW IT ALL OUT).
8. A framed diploma from some piano playing thing I did.
9. A letter I wrote my grandma in SECOND GRADE!!! OMG, you have to click on it and read it because what did Michael Jackson say when his hair caught on fire? HAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHAH.
p.s. Do you see how I spelled my name "fennifer?" And what's up with that weird square font I was working? I was totally digital, all the way baby, even then!!
10. Two crumbling hardback versions of A Girl of the Limberlost and Freckles that my grandma gave me. A Girl of the Limberlost is my absolute most favorite young adult book I ever read. I re-read in fact when home over Christmas and it is still priceless.
11. The pearls my mother gave me when I graduated from college, because you know, every girl needs a set of pearls. I don't think I believed this until recently.
12. A Hard Rock Café pin my dad got my when he was at a conference somewhere (he loves the shredded pork sandwich at that place, reminds him of Tennessee).
Sadly enough, I brought almost all of it back up to LA with me. Minus the day planner, frame, and the Puffalump. OK, well, I made my mom keep the Puffalump. But at least I got rid of the framed piano, thing, right? I almost took it because it, hey, free frame, but I restrained myself. Hmm. Maybe I am not the streamlined Martha master I thought I was. Maybe I'm just a sentimental fool. In any case, if you've got some kind of event you'd like to invite me to that requires either a) a burgundy faux velvet off-the-shoulder Zum-Zum number, or b) a tie-string Cynthia Rowley white sheath WITH PEARS ON IT, lemme know. I'm ready!
Scarfin' It Up
In which Laurie made me a scarf! And then made me model it!
A Samantha Moment, OR, The Joke's on Me
So this boy had been calling me but for some reason I hadn't yet committed to going out with him. I wasn't quite sure why, considering there's not much else going on in the romance department, but now I know it was intuition telling me TO RUN THE OTHER WAY AS FAST AS I COULD. Like any good millenium-era dater, I googled my psuedo-suitor. It started out as the usual. Trade publication cites, a wedding (someone else's) album. The seventh link down, though, was his high school reunion recap, and I discovered he went to the same damn high school in the same damn class as someone I dated back in 1997 ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COUNTRY. Egads.
I tell Laurie this, and because she was already a glass of wine into her evening, she offers the honest, if less-than-sugercoated reply of, "Whoa, it's like you're having a Samantha moment. Remember, when she realizes she's already slept with some guy before?" Again, egads. OK, first this is different because I'm not accidentally re-dating the same exact person. Also, I haven't dated very many people, certainly not enough to send me twice around the U.S. (minus flyover states) without realizing. HOWEVER. Am I accidentally choosing the same people over and over? Or slight variations thereof? How did I end up (almost) dating someone else from the same tiny, elite high school hundreds of miles from me? The karma just isn't right here, people. Somehow, the joke's on me.