Scarred for Life.

I should have named this blog "Scarred for Life." God, this sucks out loud. Why do public libraries not allow food or drink? I am not studying at school because I don't want to see anyone I know, God forbid I run into Jackass or some other shithead that is convinced they will pass the first time. So, I am studying at the local public library.

How the hell am I supposed to spend all day there, 8 or 9 hours, without having so much as a bottle of water with me? I could end up in a diabetic coma for God's sake. I bring a lunch, but there is no place to eat it other than the tables outside and it is freezing, so I end up eating lunch in my car with the heater on. Nothing says LOSER like trying to sneak a Diet Coke in the library at this stage of my life.

Public libraries suck and here's why: kids. They are there all the time. Even in the areas that say "Study Area - Please Be Quiet." They just don't care. They are all screaming banshees. Unequivocally. Although, I will say that it's much better studying there now, in the winter, than when I was studying there in the summer. Here is a fun little anecdote from July...

As I have said before, studying for the July bar exam ruined my life. I was a crazed, wild-eyed lunatic looking for a quiet place to study. An overdose of Rocky Road and Diet Coke was only days away. It was 106 degrees outside. Literally. At this particular library, there were about 6,000 activities and play groups for children of all ages, at any given time throughout the day. I was almost accustomed to the dull roar of all the crumb-snatchers, when one day there was a stray child wandering around near the periodical section where I was seated quietly in my study carroll. My study carroll, coincidentally, was as far away from the children's section as I could get. If I was any further I would be in the bathroom.

So, then this stray child starts singing that song about the monkeys jumping on the bed and then falling off the bed. You know, one falls down and bumps his head. She is singing out loud. Very loud. She is so loud, in fact, that I am certain she is completely unfamiliar with the term "inside voice." She is singing this loud in the periodical section. Right near me, on a day I had chosen to take on the study of mortgages and equitable servitude's and the like. I had forgotten there were so many damn monkeys jumping on that bed. Where is her mother??? There are still 4 monkeys jumping on the bed, I am sitting there without a Diet Coke, and I can feel my blood pressure rising. I am looking around for her mother, pissed off, and I am the type of person not afraid to shoot a nasty look at a mother of a child that is acting inappropriate in public.

I cannot see anyone who looks like they would claim this banshee. Now, I am not stupid, I do not want to approach this child for several reasons. One, I don't want to be banned from his library. It is only July 10th, and I need to be here for about 3 more weeks. Two, I may snap and throw her through the stained glass window. So, in a caffeine-deprived, manic rage, I fly toward the clerk at the front desk, flashcards and all, and ask her if she can hear the child singing about the monkeys. I kid you not, she looks at me and asks, "What monkeys?" Mother of God, woman, I am about to have an aneurysm. And the banshee is still singing. Only 2 fucking monkeys left now. I tell the clerk at the desk, in a low, controlled voice befitting a serial killer, that she needs to tell the child to stop singing or that she has to go outside because there are people studying. She looks at me and says, "What child?" So, as my face turned red, I screeched, "LOOK!!! THERE IS A CHILD SINGING THE MONKEY SONG BACK THERE!! MAKE HER STOP!! THE SONG ENDS BADLY; ALL THE MONKEYS END UP ON THE DAMN FLOOR WITH CONCUSSIONS AND THEY SUE THE PROPERTY OWNER FOR DAMAGES! I NEED IT TO BE QUIET!!"

Just then, a woman floats by in what appears to be a Valium-induced haze, since she is completely unfazed at the shocking lack of restraint this child is exhibiting, and in her Stepford uniform of Juicy Couture sweats and Louis Vuitton bag, she calmly collects the banshee and heads out the front door. And I am standing there at the front desk looking like a child-hating demon from hell. One of the low points of July 2006 bar review.

NOTE: I love Juicy Couture sweats and my perfect husband bought me a really cute pink pair, but thanks to the July bar exam, my fat ass doesn't fit into them. Hence, the slightly bitter tone.