It’s week three of post-bar depression. And I’m this close of hurling myself off the deck with the amount of review material I’ve yet to eat in haste.
Yes, Virginia, I was not on that list. I was on the other one, which my dear sister, to her avid consolation, has dubbed the “normal” people list (whatever that means).
At times like these, we all need juicy fruit gum ---- and unconditional ( and unsolicited) pep talk and a generous swig of toxin. It’s coke floats for me. What did you think?
I’ve taken to blogging this point in my life purely for self-serving reasons-- to keep myself in check and throw that perpetual existential question to the void, in the hopes of being answered with a shinning beam of light. Why? Why? Why?!?
I’ve resigned to the truth that I may never know exactly why. The bar exam is not only a question of intellectual fodder -- how much you know, how much you don’t know -- but an agreeable nod from the cosmos, which hapless examinees have a penchant of calling Destiny. The only thing that has kept me from believing still is that adamant quote for everyone’s one-man crusade --- “its not your time yet“. Needless to say, this sucks colossal ass. I've become a statistic.
Despite the wave of self-doubt and self-deprecation, however, I’m still slightly optimistic. This will not kill me. I still keep to heart that line from everyday philosopher Paolo Coelho. He puts, “when somebody wants something, the whole Universe conspires in their favor.” Maybe this time around, ey?
Moments like these, I wish I had taken that different route and pledged my life to the circus.
