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Confessions of a Failed Lawyer Part II

I didn't go to law school to be a lawyer.

That was my first mistake.

Or was it?

My main goal was to get those two letters added to my resume for better job prospects. It is too early to tell if I have been successful on that front, since I have only ever applied to actual "lawyer" jobs thus far and nothing outside of that.

Despite not having any interest in becoming a lawyer, I succumbed at some point, without realizing, to the heavy pressure in law school to hit all the bench marks indicating success. Things like trying out for moot court, law review, trial team, "big law" jobs, bar exam. I failed at all of them. I also have attempted "lawyerly" jobs twice, and failed at those, too. There comes a point where one has to realize that perhaps this whole "lawyer" thing is just not one's thing.

Unlike so many of my classmates I encountered through law school, I am not one of those people who have always succeeded in whatever I do. In fact, I would say I have failed more than I have succeeded.

Yet, I am still here. I am alive. I have (some) money. I have support. I have people that love me. I am healthy. I still have a secondary job as a server. Despite everything that has happened, I continue living. I continue learning. I have lived such a full life already. I am happy within myself.

What is your definition of success?

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Confessions of a Failed Lawyer

Well, I got fired.

It was entirely my fault. I was constantly tardy to everything and just was not really paying attention. I also would disappear in the middle of the work day hours on end, often running errands or going to job interviews. My heart wasn't really in it. And because of that, I let my employers down. It was such an easy job, but I just could not show up on time. It was the right decision for them. It was a complete blow on my confidence and sense of self for me. I don't blame them.

And as for me, I am resisting the urge to hate on myself. I have been chronically late all 30 or so years of my life. It has consistently caused issues before, and now it has had a concrete affect on my livelihood. I am holding myself responsible to the consequences of my actions. Still, I don't think holding myself accountable means hating and shaming and blaming myself. I think it means learning from this experience.

Now, what should I be taking away from this? Before, I would promise myself to never be late to anything again. To change my alarms, change my sleeping pattern, change the way I look at when to leave for anything. But at this point, I have lost count as to how many times I have tried to do that. And I have lost count as to how many times I inevitably revert back.

So now what do I do? Wasn't it Einstein who said the definition of insanity is to try the same things over and over again expecting different results?

Perhaps now it is time to try something different.

Perhaps it is time to practice radical self-acceptance.

To me, radical self-acceptance means accepting and loving myself as I am. And figuring out how to move through life that will set me up for the most success.

Radical self-acceptance does not mean lack of accountability. It does not mean making excuses.

Perhaps to some, these things are contradictory. But to me, it feels right.

At this point, perhaps I can accept I am going to be a person that is late to things. Perhaps I can also accept I cannot wake up consistently in the morning to save my life. That means either I find a job that has flexible start times, or have jobs that start later in the day.

Working in court is not compatible with this characteristic. It inherently requires punctuality and strict adherence to a set schedule. I have tried. I have failed.

I have had other jobs in the past that tardiness was not such a complete deal breaker. I also know there are things I actually am naturally good at and have excelled at. This helps buffer my confidence to some degree. I am not a completely hopeless case.

So, what do I do now in a society that equates a person's job with their worth? What does it mean that I got fired from a job and now have very little income to rely on? Well, naturally it must mean I am a failure. Except, I am not. Except I have always found a way to continue living, breathing, thriving. I have failed but I am not a failure. I have experienced the worst that can happen. And yet, despite the shame and the guilt and the embarrassment, here I still am. I am still alive. I am OK. Sometimes, that is all I can ask for.

Sometimes when everything feels like it is closing in and I feel trapped and without direction and hopeless, I do get dark thoughts. I think, I don't deserve to be alive.

But I do.

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Candyland Murders

1 Everything was always sweet. Being eaten was considered the ultimate achievement. The worst shame is to be left--uneaten--your purpose having been entirely wasted. But lately, there has been a new fear gripping the city of Candyland. Lately, candies have been found unwrapped and dried out. At first, everyone thought it was just the usual manufacturing error that happens every once in awhile. It was sad but an expected part of life--candy that died before they could ever live. But after news got out about the unwrapped candy, the investigators quickly realized this was not a normal case. This candy had a life beforehand. He had a wife. He had a job. He had friends. He was not a freshly born candy that got stripped of its wrap in error. That was how the Candyland murders first entered Detective Hershey's radar.

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Listen

"I am five minutes away" "OK - I am half way there!" He is sitting in the back of an Uber looking at his phone. The Uber driver is talking away and he was barely listening. It didn't matter - all he needed to do was throw in an "uh-huh" and "right" and "oh interesting!" every couple minutes and that seemed to be enough to keep the driver talking. He was on his way back to his place to meet up with his girlfriend. He leaned back onto the seat of the car and breathed a sign of relief. They had an intense talk earlier but he thought they were in a good place now. Anyway, if she wanted to keep talking, he wasn't sure if he could be coherent enough after all the drinks he's had that day. But she said she had been drinking too. Nah - she's fine. Probably. He sighed again and closed his eyes. He was enjoying the warmth permeating his body from the alcohol. Even the driver's chatter in the background was starting to feel pleasant. "Sir." "Sir!" He suddenly jolted up. The driver was looking back at him now. He realized the car had stopped. They were parked right in front of his building. Fuck. When did he doze off? "Sorry, man! Thanks so much." He said quickly without looking at the driver again and opened the car door. "No problem, sir. Have a good night." He heard the driver's voice as he shut the car door behind him. He rubbed the sleep away from his eyes and punched in the code to the building. He absentmindedly checked his phone to see if he received any messages while he was dozed off. Oh, a message from his girlfriend. He opened up the message as he walked up the stairs towards his apartment. "Hel" That's all the message said. It looked like she sent it before she could finish whatever it was she was trying to write. That's weird. As he approached his apartment, he realized the door was ajar. He frowned. His mind started to come up from its drunken cloud. He slowly pushed the door to his apartment open and peered inside. The apartment was completely dark and silent. The only sound was a slow dripping. He was gripping his phone hard in one hand while his other hand felt for the light switch on his wall. He immediately flicked the light on as soon as he found the switch. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he saw that his girlfriend was sitting on the couch with her back to him. "Oh! Hey, why are you sitting there in the dark!?" He could feel himself start to calm down from the initial feeling of suspense that was building when he first found the door to his apartment opened and the lights off. He walked towards his girlfriend when he suddenly stepped into something wet. He stopped and looked down, puzzled. Red. There was so much red. He realized as he looked down, there was red all over the floor. He looked back and saw that he was tracking red from the moment he stepped into the apartment. The feeling of terror was slowly buiilding up. He could hear his heart thumping in his head. He looked back to his girlfriend, his eyes widening. The red was coming from her. He ran up to the couch where she sat. More red. Pools of red spreading every direction. He realized with creeping horror where the dripping sound was coming from. On the couch, his girlfriend sat - eyes gone, ears missing, mouth overstretched. Just gaping holes and deep cuts on her once beautiful face. The couch painted deep scarlet red. Blood dripping down her long legs and slender arms. He didn't realize that he was screaming until the cops were right next to him, calmly repeating "what happened?" "son, what happened?" "hey shhh it's ok. Tell us what happened?" He couldn't remember anything that happened after he read the note that was pinned on his girlfriend's butchered body. "Next time, learn to actually listen and pay attention when someone is talking to you. I thought this would be the only way for you to finally hear what I was trying to tell you the whole ride."

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“It’s literally impossible to be a woman.

You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don't think you're good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow, we're always doing it wrong?

You have to be thin, but not too thin, and you can never say you wanna be thin. You have to say you wanna be healthy, but also, you have to BE THIN.

You have to have money, but you can't ask for money because that's crass.

You have to be a boss, but you can't be mean.

You have to lead, but you can't squash other people's ideas.

You're supposed to love being a mother, but don't talk about your kids all the damn time.

You have to be a career woman, but also, always be looking out for other people.

You have to answer for men's bad behavior, which is INSANE, but if you point that out, you're accused of complaining!

You're supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you're supposed to be a part of the sisterhood, but ALWAYS STAND OUT and ALWAYS BE GRATEFUL. But never forget that the system is rigged, so find a way to acknowledge that but ALSO, always be grateful!

You have to never get old. Never be rude. Never show off. Never be selfish. Never fall down. Never fail. Never show fear. Never get OUT OF LINE. It's too hard! It's too contradictory, and nobody gives you a medal or says 'thank you!' And it turns out, in fact, that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also, everything is your fault.

I'm just so tired of watching myself, and every single other woman tie herself into knots, so that people will like us.

And if all of that, is also true for a doll just representing a woman, then I don't even know." -Gloria the barbie movie

this is it. this is exactly it oh my god.

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On Identity

My identity was complicated from the moment I was born.

Or rather, I was made to realize it was complicated.

What forms one's identity? Gender, politics, religion, ethnicity, place of origin, language, sexuality, style and aesthetic, the list is never ending.

Being a mixed-race foreign-born-and-raised American emigrating to live in the United States after spending most of my life in a foreign country. Not moving around like a military kid would, but staying rooted in one city for nineteen years. In that country, I wasn't "Asian." I really was considered as another category altogether--the "loog krueng." I spoke English at home, but the native language at school. So even in the country where I was born and raised, I was considered outside of the norm.

I am also queer, though that word and even its concept did not exist within the area of the universe in which I found myself. I was born female, but I was often told I did not act like one. Everyone around me seemed to naturally have "it," yet I was forever chasing after it, perpetually just out of my reach. My mom and teachers would often admonish me to act more politely or demurely or more feminine. No matter what I did, though, it just never felt like it was enough.

It is impossible to write about all the nuances involved when contemplating the impossible question that is my identity. But I would like to use this space to try to parcel out my thoughts.

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Chainsaw Man.

*Spoilers ahead*

I found myself getting sucked into the manga and stayed awake reading until 5am. The story follows a kid who was left orphaned and homeless after being forced to kill his dad in self-defense. Denji ends up meeting and befriending a little devil called Pochita. At one point, he was lured to his death by the yakuza he was working for to clear his debt. It was after being chopped into pieces and dumped in a dumpster, in the throes of death and mourning for the normal happy life he never got to live, that he inadvertently formed a contract with Pochita. Then, he became Chainsaw Man. One of the most feared Devils in Hell.

What sucked me in about Chainsaw Man were many things. I liked the concept of Devils that are born out of human’s fears. This created a never-ending supply of interesting characters and plot points. The possibilities were endless. The writer did a good job of injecting humor into an otherwise bleak and dark story. The main character—Denji—is a main character unique in his own right. He is ultimately a simple dude just trying to live a happy normal life, to have all the regular life experiences everyone has—like going to school, having friends, getting a girlfriend, eating well, having a bed, and a well paying job, to name a few. Many times, his stated motivations for fighting—or for doing anything for that matter—comes down to something to do with girls; he wants his identity to be revealed as Chainsaw Man so that he could get all the girls, he fights incredibly powerful foes so that he could do different things with Makima—his original crush, the examples go on. Often, characters in the story make fun of or look down on Denji for his simple and somewhat perverted goals. I found Denji's response to this criticism to be surprisingly poignant in its simplicity: he didn’t have the luxury of having cool lofty goals like other characters because for so long all he dreamed of was to just survive and have a normal life.

The story and its logic makes sense and also does not. How is Chainsaw Man somehow the hero of Hell, stronger even than Bomb, Gun, Hell, Control, Doll, Angel, War Devils, etc., the list goes on? How is it that Chainsaw Man is the one with the power to eat and thus completely absorb and erase from existence any Devil he consumes? To a certain extent, I guess it’s not supposed to make sense. The characters—Chainsaw Man and Denji himself—is chaotic and unpredictable. That is arguably his main power.

The most powerful aspect of this manga is its character and plot development. Its slow and steady reveal that Makima was in fact the main antagonist all along was beautifully executed. The story first makes the readers admire her and think of her as the main love interest for Denji. Then her true nature slowly gets unraveled until the readers discover at the same time as Denji that Makima was in fact the one orchestrating everything all along. The most salient scene was when Denji sought out Makima after killing Aki and asked to be her obedient dog so he didn’t need to think anymore. It was then that she laughed hysterically to Denji’s complete confusion and finally revealed that everything Denji had experienced up to that point, including his close relationships and strong emotions, had been deliberately manipulated by Makima from the very beginning. She then demonstrates her total control over Denji by ordering him to open the door to Makima’s apartment so she could then kill Power right in front of him. She did all this with the intention of breaking Denji’s spirit so his contract with Pochita could also by extension be broken. She intentionally set out to make Denji lose his will to live. Why? Because she is a fan of Chainsaw Man, and his ability to erase out of existence any devil he eats. She wants a world in which problems like hunger, death, suffering doesn’t exist. Her stated goal was so simple, and yet built on an insurmountable sea of pain and lives lost. It did beg the question: what goal would ever be enough to justify creating that much suffering?

All the world building and character development was done so well, you find yourself having visceral emotional reactions as well to the many twisted turns and losses at the end. Denji represented not only an emotional mirror but amplifier for the readers in the story.

I can’t remember the last time a manga made me go through so many emotional rollercoasters. From sad, devastated, surprised, annoyed, angry, to hysterically laughing and smiling. As long as you can focus more on the general story and the characters, and look over some minor logical leaps, hugely recommend!!! 10/10.

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A [White] Cyborg’s Manifesto by Julia R. DeCook

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Source

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what is hole theory?

the hole is proof of presence by its absence. lack presupposes existence. ‘if I show you a piece of paper with a puncture stabbed through you’re not going to be thinking of the paper, all you’ll imagine is what could have done the stabbing’ - @brownbearemoji. anne carosn said '[…] the desirability of the love object derives, in part, from its lack. to whom is it lacking? to the lover. if we follow the trajectory [of desire] we consistently find it tracing out this same route: it moves out from the lover toward the beloved, then ricochets back to the lover himself and the hole in him, unnoticed before. who is the subject of most love poems? not the beloved. it is that hole.' a footprint (hole) cannot exist in a reality devoid of feet and tangentially every hunger (hole) and every desire (hole) proof their own satisfaction by the lack of the same. human bodies simply have too many holes in them. to achieve equipartition we must strive to fill them - breath to fill the hole of the lung, eat to fill the hole of the stomach and don’t even get me started on wombs. it’s also why toddlers stuff toys up their nose and cain ate able in this essay I will show how the mirror image is the ontological and semiotic opposite of the hole.

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lack implies existence

negative space

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Morality and diseases should have nothing to do with each other, and yet arguably no category of diseases have been more afflicted than sexually transmitted diseases.

This causes shame, guilt, and secrecy, when transparency is so important to prevent its spread.

I started thinking about this because I have unfortunately contracted an HPV. I don't know which of my partners passed it on to me but now I am forever afflicted. As a result, I have been forced to contend with the many negative connotations that come with having a sexually transmitted disease. I want to use this space to parcel out all the thoughts and emotions that come with having one. And even though putting this out into the cyber universe is terrifying and shame/anxiety-inducing, I want to be part of separating a disease from any moral or character judgment. I want to normalize talking about one's sexual health with one's partner and others with no shame.

I am no researcher or academic. I am not here to cite statistics or studies. My purpose is to share personal thoughts and experiences as someone who lives with an HPV, in order to work through the shame and guilt and stress and anxiety that comes with having something that is purportedly so common yet never talked about.

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“That’s not writing, it’s typing” Capote describing Jack Kerouac’s work.

There are many forms of writing.

Quotes like Capote’s creates an unnecessary hierarchy of writers. As most of us who have ever sat down to write can attest, even typing can be quite the challenge, especially when attempting to “type” a whole book out of thin air. Whether you agree or disagree with Capote, Karouac’s “typing” has remained as relevant as ever in the public conscience for over 60 years.

I can appreciate the structures in place to standardize certain categories of writing, like for an academic paper, a news article, or a law brief. However, beyond writing for professional settings, there should be no rules, no “right” or “wrong” way of writing. Writing as an art form should have no rules other than using letters and words to express ideas. At school, at work, yes, teach all the things. But let us not forget to cultivate writing as a free form of expression, as liberation from constraints, as beautiful and agonizing as life itself.

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Perhaps this explains why I am terrible at remembering names of authors/filmmakers/artists, ad infinitum.

“As a child I paid very little attention to authors’ names; they were irrelevant; I did not believe in authors. To be perfectly candid, this is still true. I do not believe in authors. A book exists, it’s there. The author isn’t there — some grown-up you never met — may even be dead. The book is what is real. You read it, you and it form a relationship, perhaps a trivial one, perhaps a deep and lasting one. As you read it word by word and page by page, you participate in its creation, just as a cellist playing a Bach suite participates, note by note, in the creation, the coming-to-be, the existence, of the music. And, as you read and reread, the book of course participates in the creation of you, your thoughts and feelings, the size and temper of your soul. Where, in all this, does the author come in? Like the God of the eighteenth-century deists, only at the beginning. Long ago, before you and the book met each other. The author’s work is done, complete; the ongoing work, the present act of creation, is a collaboration by the words that stand on the page and the eyes that read them.”

- Ursula K. Le Guin, from “Books Remembered,” Children’s Book Council Calendar xxxvi:2 (November 1977)

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I went to law school because I wanted to be taken seriously.

I started with activism and spoke the language of passion and ideals. It was a different language from which the system speaks and thus a lost in translation occurred and no real change came to pass.

Law school taught me the language and gave me access to the institutions and its knowledge. I felt like a spy, hiding in plain sight among the wolves.

I disagree with how the world works in many ways, yet I also acknowledge the necessity of conformity in order to survive. Even thrive.

Law school opened more doors, bestowed more status, bumped the potential earnings, and gave me a new language. This is not to say it is right, just that it is.

Yet, now I am lost once again.

I have chosen (or it has chosen me--up for debate) the path of law related to the criminal justice system. By my participation, however, my representations and actions are now limited in my personal private life as well. Invisible constraints now limit my liberty. What is worse is it is of my own choosing. I have chosen to go down this path, and I have accepted the consequence that is censorship. In exchange, I now have access to the underbelly hidden from most public view. And what a fascinating view it is.

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Cyberfiminism as an anti-capitalist tool. Breaking down the ivy tower of the status quo, transmuting each brick into collective knowledge.