Almost getting run over by the doctor who helped deliver you is one of those things that can only happen when you move back to the land of your birth.

Today was a five on a one to ten scale. I woke up at 8:30 a.m. as I am prone to do and had nothing to do. Law school has ceased tormenting me for three months and the law firm where I will work this summer will not begin tormenting me until next week. I ate oatmeal and drank coffee and read the Omaha World Herald and did the crossword. After I had my morning bowel movement, I decided to go for a run. That’s when Dr. Itkin approached the stop sign too fast with no sign of slowing down. I could tell he couldn’t see me. A normal driver would have seen me, but I could tell, by the boat-like nature of his sedan, that this driver was an old guy with bad eyes. I thought I’d saunter out into the street. I wanted him to almost hit me so that he would temper his giddy-up and future runners and pedestrians whose arrival at this intersection coincides with his would be protected. Then I recognized him and sort of wished he had hit me, just because it would make a great story. I also wanted him to hit me, because then, provided that the run-in didn’t actually kill me, I could add this incident to my list of things that I point to when I am second-guessing and regretting my decision to move back here. (Other items on the list include the speeding ticket I recently got, allergy flare-up this past pollen season, difficulty in dealing with cingular to change my phone number to a 402 area code number, and weight gain.)

I know I am the captain of my own ship, but sometimes I blame my mother for my recent, totally voluntary relocation back to the Midwest. She made me feel guilty for being so far away and for having so much fun. She didn’t do it on purpose. She is Catholic and her mother probably made her feel the same way. Nonetheless, I find it necessary to keep a list of reasons why I never should have moved back here so that one day the list will be so long or there will be something on there worthy of 72pt font and then I can take the list to her and say, “Mother, I tried, I really tried, I wanted to be here. I wanted to get settled here so that I could help my siblings take care of you when you are an old nut, but the universe seems to be pushing me out. I don’t want to have to buy plane tickets to come see you or to have to dial three extra numbers when calling you, but things just aren’t working out for me here. I think I would be better off elsewhere.” Then she would take a look at my list and say, “Oh my, you poor thing, my child. I appreciate your efforts, but please, do what you must.”

This will not happen. I will not show her my list. I would never act on this resentment, which I didn’t realize I harbored until I wrote that last paragraph. I hope instead that the next year of my life will be better than the last. I hope to find contentment here in this place where I grew up. I hope that in ten years (hopefully five) I can look back on this decision to move back here and see why it was a good move. Maybe I will meet someone. Maybe I will start writing again. Maybe I will actually like my job this summer. Maybe in five or ten years I will be one of those assholes walking around saying that I have no regrets, but I will never get to that point if I spend my time frantically scribbling down my list.

I am not an asshole. I am not an asshole. I am not an asshole.

I have an asshole, but I am not one.

People talk about having voices on their shoulders. One is the devil saying, “Do it. It feels good. Go for it.” And then there is an angel on the other side saying, “Don’t do it. What would your mother think?” I don’t have this so much as one very heavy voice that is constantly telling me that I am an asshole. I live by this voice. I build my days and my life around appeasing this voice, so that one day it might say, “Oh, okay, I guess you’re not such an asshole.”

I don’t know where this voice came from or when it took up residency on my shoulders. No one has ever told me I’m an asshole. Most people who know me would say I am nice, conscientious, decent, funny, etc., and yet, here I am, certain that they are mistaken and that underneath I am a vile prick and one day everyone will know it.

Actually, I have a pretty good suspicion of where this voice came from. I’ve led a pretty fucking privileged life. I am white. I went to private schools. I have a wonderful family and had a pretty blissful childhood. Worst of all, I currently find myself in law school.

At law school, I am surrounded by many people who are similarly situated. Some of these people are bona fide assholes, and yet they don’t seem to have even a trace of anything like this voice. I know I shouldn’t resent them and their unwarranted self-assuredness because who knows what kinds of demons they have on their shoulders, but I do resent them.

I know that I am not an asshole. Although I provided the reasons why I am a likely candidate for being an asshole, there’s no need for me to provide the reasons why I am not an asshole. I just am not. I am flicking this voice off my shoulder. And in doing so, I am freeing myself from the fear and I am going to start living more fully, cultivating peace and joy within and without, god damnit.

Patterns

The purpose of today’s post is two fold:
1. To avoid reading criminal law.
2. To maintain a regular habit of positing.

That’s it. Haven’t got too much too say right now. Went for a fantastic run this morning. It was rather gray out, but the air was cool and owls were still making their sound that they make. It reminded me of camping and waking up in the morning. I also saw two squirrels wrestling. And they were jumping and flipping around in a ball together. I know it sounds unbelievable. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing. I was wishing I had my camera so that you would believe me.

I am noticing patterns today. Patterns in my life and patterns in the architecture around me. That’s one thing that is nice about the more time that you spend in the world. You can find yourself in situations and say, ah yes, I have been faced with this before. Let me go back and see how I previously worked this out and see if there’s anything I might learn. Unfortunately, that thought process usually occurs too late, if at all. Or worse, when you do realize the pattern, you realize that you navigated the situation way better the first time around and that you have botched it this time and then you wonder if that is an indication of your general regression. This is the situation I currently find myself in. I would go into it and give you some context, but I am pretty sure the conclusion will be: Yep. You botched it. And, yes, honey, you are regressing.

Regarding patterns in architecture, there is a square pattern in the iron railing leading up to the room with big windows in which I currently find myself. And the pattern also occurs in the windows. At first it seemed like the kind of nice subtle pattern that you can pat yourself on the back for recognizing, but now I look around more and I realize everything is squares and it’s obnoxious. Even the air vents seem to have been specially made to be square-shape. Now it’s upsetting, which means that it’s time for me to move on to something else, which regrettably has to be reading criminal law.

Meeting of the Board of Directors

Please join us for the first ever Strategic Planning Session of the Board of Directors for the life of Melba Toast to be held at the Radisson Hotel at San Sebastian.* You will join other members of the Board including such notable figures as Melba Toast’s dead father, her female predecessors who she never got to know, past roommates and playmates, childhood teachers and college professors, early loves, writers who she admires (Kurt Vonnegut, Charlotte Bronte, Betty Smith, and George Saunders), her mother and six select siblings, and any of her preferred contemporaries who may be on break from their own existential crises. Together, we will address the vexing issues facing our sole constituent at this time, including, but not limited to:

• Was law school a colossal mistake?
• Can she salvage things with God? Should she?
• Should she just give in to the one who loves her and go with him?
• Is she getting enough calcium?

Your attendance is crucial as we attempt to set the path for the next five pivotal years until we meet in Bora Bora* in 2013.

*Contingent upon funding. Locations may be changed to the Conference Center at Mahoney State Park, located on the scenic Platte River halfway between Lincoln and Omaha in Nebraska.

Caprice

After a morning of work I sat down to a bowl of soup and settled into a magazine article. Then a fly broke the silence and continued to so. I hated it. Then it went to the light. The buzzing became louder and then desperate. It will fry itself to silence. I need only wait it out, I thought. Then I realized my cruelty and knew that with the simple switch of the light, I could save a life. Never was it more easy to bestow mercy on another living creature. I did so and then the buzzing resumed, but I did not hate it as I did before since this time I was the Savior.

That evening, I was sitting in bed with my laptop when a fly landed on the screen. Whether it was the same one from the morning, I cannot say. It was big and slow and surprisingly sedentary. I quashed it with a Kleenex and felt very triumphant. Curious.

First Blog

I am starting a blog today. My friend Cat suggested it, so she better read it religiously. My brother Scott is always telling me to write, so this is also for him. I am hesitant to become a blogger because the only blogs that I know of are written by professors who are already overly comfortable with the idea that people should care about what they have to say or by people who are traveling through China or volunteering in Africa. I live in Lincoln, NE, and I go to law school. I myself am bored to death by it all, but I invite you to join me and check back often for updates. I cannot yet tell you what to expect because I myself do not know.