Finally, my friendship with the Fucking Weavers pays some dividends.  Last week, after the bar exam, I was lucky enough to land a job with a products liability and workers compensation law firm in the Birmingham area.  Because I graduated 146 out of 147 in my class at Alabama, interviews were few and far between.  I couldn’t even get a job cleaning floors at most firms around town.  Luckily, the Weavers’ have a cousin who is a partner at this firm.  While I await my bar results, I am now officially employed.  On the downside, a Weaver is now my boss.  I will now give myself a papercut on my tongue.

I wanted to prove my ambition, so rather than arrive at 8:00 as required, I rolled in a smooth 7:58.  My arrival was the smoothest part of my day.  Immediately, I was asked to draft a complaint.  Which, no doubt, is pretty basic.  To anyone who didn’t finish 146 out of 147 in their class, that is.  Let me just say it did not inspire confidence when I asked, “What’s a complaint?”  I tried to cover it by nervously laughing, but I’m pretty sure they knew I was serious when my boss walked by my computer and I was googling “complaint” with “how to con paralegal into writing.” (Incidentally, this search yielded no result. “World’s Best Search Engine” my ass.  No wonder their stock is dropping like a hot rock.  Thanks for the bailout, dickheads).

Glancing at my watch, the cold reality of 8:29 set in.  I was now employed as an attorney (pending bar results), and I had exactly no practical experience.  Most law students accept clerkships or externships while they are in law school, in order to avoid this type of catastrophe.  I, however, spent my summers scoring oxycontin and washing it down with Aristocrat.  Clearly, I got the better end of this deal.  Other than the rehab, delayed bar exam, huge credit card debt, and the pity/scorn of my peers, I really don’t have any regrets.  Hindsight is 20/20, you judgemental fucks. 

After struggling through drafting a complaint, my first day at The Firm was complete.  It took me eight hours to draft a relatively simple legal document.  Badly.  I don’t think there’s any reason to get there early tomorrow, though.  I don’t want to seem pretentious. 

I Decided it was time to unwind and maybe rent a movie from my local Blockbuster tonight.  Considering Blockbuster has my picture behind the counter with a “Mace and Detain This Man on Sight” caption, I decided to go to Movie Gallery instead.  (Incidentally, isn’t Movie Gallery everyone’s Plan B?  Looking around that store, I realized all the customers had been exiled from the choice store due to late fees or sex offender registries.  No one goes to Movie Gallery that has a choice.  I won’t even argue about this.)  Movie Gallery has about fifty unrented copies of “My Date With Drew” and virtually no porn. No porn? And this is supposed to be a legit rental place?  I’m supposed to abuse myself to “Elizabethtown?”  Thanks for nothing, Movie Gallery.  If I could afford $832.45 in late fees, I’d totally never go back there. 

Perusing the small selection, I ran into an old friend of mine from high school.  We talked for a good twenty minutes, exchanging news on people we’d lost touch with.  As we talk, I notice other people glancing over with various degrees of interest.  We agree to go to lunch later this week, and give him my cell number.  Other people are openly gawking at the number exchange.  The thing is, my friend from high school is gay.  Blatantly, glaringly gay.  He rocks the outfit, the lisp, the whole nine yards of gayness.  But because I’ve known him so long, his gayness doesn’t even faze me.  I don’t even think about it.  But, to the onlookers, they just witnessed a flaming homosexual number exchange, with ensuing promise of a lunch date.  Awesome.  That’s just the cherry on my day. 

“I….I’m not really gay,” I say as I place In Her Shoes upon the counter (making a strong case for heterosexuality.)  The clerk and customers are pretending not to hear me.  I know what they’re doing, and I don’t like it.  Condescending bastards.  They’d never treat a man like this at Blockbuster.  Now I’m wishing more than ever I hadn’t decided to keep Home Alone for nine years.  Damn you, Macauly Culkin. Damn your insistence on delivering precocious comeuppance to ne’er do-well theives. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to figure out how to hide from my boss, select an ensemble for my lunch date next week, and find a way to masturbate to Elizabethtown.  Is there no rest for the weary?