I was recently accepted into a part time program at a nearby law school.

But I’m not THAT thrilled about it.

One of the reasons why is because I still haven’t made up my mind about law school. Regardless, this presents a far better opportunity than I had before. I won’t have to quit my job or move to another state, I’ll have the luxury of giving it a try for one semester, and if things don’t work out, or I decide it was a mistake, I can withdraw without suffering severe losses.

But man do I hate this school. It just oozes liberalism from every core, and there’s no doubt the professors will be leftist retreads who will probably spend half the time lecturing us on how Bush stole the election in 2000, ad the other half lecturing us on how Bush is the sole reason for global warming. My patience with libtards has reached its limit, so I doubt I’d be able to thrive in such an environment unless I can somehow zone out from my commie surroundings and go to a happy place in my head (which usually involves rolling around in the hay with Jessica Alba).

For virtually that reason alone, I had opted to attend a more conservative school in another state so I could myself in a community where people were at least close to the same wavelengths I was on. And let’s not forget the babes. A college atmosphere that draws a more conservative crowd would provide the kind of dating mill that I was desperately searching for. If I stay here, the girls may still be hot, but they’ll also most likely be vicious, man hating freaks with a favorite pasttime of conducting public castrations. Finding a pure and gentle cuddly soul amongst a lot like that might prove to be a bigger undertaking than building a space shuttle using nothing more than plastic straws and toothpicks.

Then there’s the matter of the cost. Even part time, tuition is still expected to cost me roughly 25 grand a year. Right now I’m currently on pace to pay off all my debts (from car payments to my old college loan) in another year or so. The thought of being completely debt free in a relatively short period of time is an extremely enticing one for me, but it would be something I would have to forgo pretty much for the rest of life should I decide to attend law school. The cost benefit analysis here tells me this crap just isn’t worth it.

But then there’s the matter of whether I was born to eventually enter this profession. I haven’t read anything remotely legally related in a while, and over time my interest in the law has waned. Whether that’s an indication that being an attorney just isn’t for me, I dunno, but it’s not an encouraging sign. I SHOULD have a notable amount of passion for pursuing this endeavor, but I just don’t. But then again, I don’t seem to have a passion for much of anything these days, except kicking back on my easy chair and watching syndicated reruns of Scrubs.

The good thing is that I still have 3 months before making a final decision. And even if I should decide against attending law school, things might easily change given enough time, and maybe I’ll make another run at it after a few years have gone by (or when I inherit a 10 million dollar trust fund).

A recent posting by the Ignoble Experiment got me thinking about a Disney favorite of mine, Beauty and the Beast. Back in the days when Disney was still making animated films that were actually good, they churned out this beauty (no pun intended), a story that centered around redemption and true love. I was too young to fully appreciate the movie when it first came out, but in subsequent years, I began to see myself in the Beast. The years had made me bitter and angry, harboring a quiet rage against a world that I felt did me serious wrong, just like the Beast. Some of it I brought on myself though, I admit, just as the Beast was in no small part responsible for his own misery. And yet part of that rage had to have no doubt been fueled by the despair that he would never be freed from his curse, as each petal that dropped from the flower brought him ever closer to his doom. It took the love of a caring, gentle soul to bring him back, a woman who taught him how to love again, despite his imperfections and grotesque appearance.

A gentle, caring girl, willing to get past looks and appearances so she can see the wounded man behind the beastly image? Yep, quite obviously a fairy tale. If you think this does indeed happen in the real world, then you my friend live in a fairy tale of your own.

This is one of my pet peeves about women too. They complain about guys being shallow and dating on looks alone, and then claim the higher ground by insisting that they NEVER do that. Nope, it’s a guy’s inner qualities that attracts them. It’s the damnedest, most hypocritical crap I’ve ever heard come out of their filthy, lying mouths.

Honestly, the mass of women today have proven themselves to be the shallowest, calculating, back stabbing, most judgmental heartless gobs of human flesh to have ever graced this planet. They will pass eternal judgment on you based on nothing more than the color shoes you’re wearing. They stare right through you as if you were nothing but a ghostly apparition they can barely see, refuse to say thank you when you hold the door for them, and only feign interest in you when they want something. God may have created Adam, but it was Satan who created Eve.

This mass of self interested, self indulgent whores of Babylon have made finding that gem of a woman who really is a cut above the rest virtually impossible. There’s little doubt even if I could find one, she would be taken aback at my beastly rage. Would she be able to get past that? Past the imperfections, the open wounds that cause me such most perpetual pain and grief? Will she be the Belle to my Beast?

Who am I kidding, she obviously doesn’t exist. And unlike the Beast, who found redemption and a happy ending, I can feel the last petal beginning to slip through my fingers, as a lifetime of unredeemable rage awaits me. Alas, in real life, there will be no Belle to save me.

Last weekend my town had a Columbus Day festival, which culminated in a fireworks celebration Sunday night. I happened to get a good view of the fireworks from my apartment, so I watched for a few minutes… by myself of course. I could hear the faint sound of the cheers of delight in the distance by the spectators. I could have gone to the festival myself, but I’ve been in this town for a long time, and in that time I’ve made very few friends, while the rest were people I’d just as soon not see again if I could help it. I suspected some of those people were at the festival too. Ironically enough, the very first time they started the Columbus festival, I was a freshman in high school and played in the marching band for the Columbus Day parade. My love for the town’s fair (and for the town itself) has since waned over the years.

As I watched the fireworks, all I could think about was that I was watching it alone. I was a single rocket, firing off into a lonely sky. And yet, I used to love fireworks, especially as an adolescent. Today, it brings me nothing but pain. The pain of knowing I have spent so many years going to festivals, watching fireworks, hitting the movie theaters, visiting parks and beaches, and yet, doing it all alone, unable to share those experiences with that special someone.

So I couldn’t enjoy it anymore. Instead of taking in the dazzling display, my mind wandered to all those people at the festival, many of who no doubt were holding hands and playing suck face while the rockets soared. I burned with envy and hatred as hot as the fireworks that were currently going off, which soon gave way to a deep despair. There may have been a time when I enjoyed being single, but I realized that time has now come and gone, and now all I’m left with is a sense of melancholy that precludes me from being able to enjoy any of life’s recreations. In short, I’ve stopped living. I can’t go out and enjoy life anymore, because I know I have to do it alone. I’m tired of having to say “table for one” every time I have dinner somewhere, or take in a movie and be unable to discuss it afterwards. I was tired of going on vacation and doing romantic things such as taking a steamboat cruise, or walking down the beach, and yet having to do it all without “her.”

In years past, the despair I would feel at being alone was usually buffered with a sense of hope that soon, someday soon, my suffering would at long last come to an end, and I would finally meet the woman of my dreams. But as one year gave way to another, my hope began to wither and die. It’s no wonder I exhibit so little effort to take care of myself. The loss of hope has given me a loss of will to carry on. It’s like a slow way to commit suicide. I won’t do it outright, so by letting my health deteriorate, this is a round about way for me to accomplish the same goal. The world succeeded in crushing my spirit, and it seems I’ll never be able to recover from the devastation.

All that is left is to hope for either a miracle, or a death that will come sooner, rather than later.